Archive of Our Own ^beta

Crowley has no idea how Aziraphale managed to talk him into this. He doesn’t know. He’s been around since before the Beginning, he’s a demon of the Pit who’s stood down both Heaven and Hell simultaneously. He should have been able to ignore the way the angel was looking at him and tell him where he could shove his books. 

But Crowley is weak, because he didn’t tell Aziraphale where to shove his books and Aziraphale smiled and now here he is, hoping that William Shakespeare’s afterlife sucks balls. 

Yeah, that’s right. He’s in a book club with Aziraphale and they’re reading Shakespeare. Eugh.  

Even if he doesn’t know how Aziraphale managed to talk him into this, Crowley knows how it started. 

He also hopes that Jane Austen is having a miserable afterlife, because this whole predicament he’s in is her fault, too. 

They were at the Ritz, like every Sunday night since the end of the world. Crowley was on his third glass of wine and Aziraphale was halfway done with his entree. 

“— completely agree,” Aziraphale was saying, “Why, with the preservatives they put in bread these days, it’s a wonder that humans— oh!” He put down his fork abruptly. “I completely forgot— you don’t happen to be free tomorrow, Crowley, do you?” 

“I suppose I can clear my schedule,” Crowley said. They both knew that Crowley had no schedule to clear. Not since the Apocalypse-That-Wasn’t. “Why?” 

“I have a shipment of first editions being delivered to the shop tomorrow,” Aziraphale said. “Jane Austens. But I’m also scheduled to have an appointment with a book dealer in Nice— he thinks he has one of Nostredamus’ manuscripts, you see—“ 

“Jane Austen?” Crowley interrupted incredulously. “The brandy smuggler?” 

“Oh— yes,” Aziraphale said. “Well, she did that, and was the brains behind the 1810 Clerkenwell Diamond Robbery, but she also wrote novels.” 

Jane Austen? Really? He’d met her, back in… what was it, 1811? 1812? Couldn’t quite picture it. Her, a writer? “Are we talking about the same Jane Austen?” 

“One and the same,” Aziraphale confirmed. “Bit of a dark horse novelist.” 

“I’ll say,” Crowley said. “Must’ve been a hell of a book.” 

“Books, plural.” Before Crowley could think about that, Aziraphale was already moving on. “So, do you think you could watch the shop for me for a bit tomorrow, my dear?”

And that was how it started. It continued with Crowely putzing around the bookshop the next day. He shelved some of the piles that had accumulated on the floor and miracled away the dust covering everything and fought the urge to rearrange the shelves in the stupidest and most incomprehensible way possible. When the package came, he was amusing himself by miracling people’s shoes to come untied on the sidewalk outside the eastern window so he could watch them trip and flail spectacularly. The delivery man was the only shoelace-having person to escape this fate. 

Crowley abandoned his little game in favor of opening the door. 

“Busy this time of day, eh?” the man said, shifting the cardboard box he was holding. “Had to park all the way down the street.” 

“Yep.” Crowley signed the paper he was presented with before taking the box. “Anything else?” 

“Not a thing. Have a good one, Mister.” The man turned with a smile and began off in the direction he’d parked his truck. 

Crowley ducked back inside the shop, depositing the box on a side table. It took only the smallest miracle to remove the seal and he opened the box’s flaps, pulling out the volume on top. Pride and Prejudice, the gold lettering on the cover read, Jane Austen. He flipped it over and groaned. 

Of course Jane Austen had never heard of a back cover synopsis, she’d been too busy organizing rebellions (never mind that it wasn’t the style at the time). The title Pride and Prejudice told him absolutely nothing about what she’d written. Whatever had launched her literary career would just have to be one of life’s unsolved mysteries, he supposed, which was incredibly annoying, because Crowley didn’t like not knowing things. 

He turned the book over in his hands, muttering, “Jane Austen. What a piece of work,” as the bookshop door opened. 

“We’re closed,” Crowley said bluntly, “unless you want to experience a very painful death.” 

“Well,” Aziraphale said, “that seems a little… extreme. Crowley, have you been greeting everyone like that?” 

“It’s very effective,” Crowley said, looking up. “You like effective.” 

“Yes, but it doesn’t hurt to— are those the books?” Aziraphale noticed the box. He hurried over, pulling Sense and Sensibility from it. “Oh, aren’t these splendid?” 

Crowley watched him go though the box, pulling out the titles with something akin to reverence. “Northanger Abbey, Emma, ooh, I almost forgot about Persuasion— and is that Pride and Prejudice you have?”  

“Wha— oh, right.” Crowley plopped it on top of the stack accumulating in Aziraphale’s hands. “Quick question,” he said, because the book’s lack of a back cover synopsis was still bugging him, “What on earth is it about?” 

 “Well, it’s about love, really— you see, there’s Elizabeth and Mr. Darcy, and she despises him, really, but they dance and get to know each other better, and she realizes that she was in love with him all along, and— I didn’t know you were interested in it. Really, it’s quite an excellent book.” Aziraphale was looking at him, eyes bright and expectant. 

Everything about that sounded horrible. All social commentary and nineteenth century humor. And Crowley doesn’t have a problem with romance, per say— as a matter of fact, he rather enjoys a good romantic comedy, if only because he gets to berate the characters shamelessly— but this sounded utterly boring. 

He opened his mouth to say all of that out loud, and there was Aziraphale, so very excited that Crowley was interested in something he liked. 

“I mean— nhgk.” Crowley gave a disjointed shrug. “Sounds like a book. Like a… great… bookish… book.” And step aside Jane Austen, because Crowley was such an excellent wordsmith. 

Aziraphale was making a valiant, if unsuccessful attempt to mask his excitement. He was almost bouncing on the balls of his feet. His mouth twitched upwards. “I could let you borrow it,” he said and Crowley stared, “if you wanted. Not— not this copy, it’s a first edition— but I have a rather nice second edition lying around.” 

Aziraphale did not lend people books. That was simply not what he did. Instead, he hoarded them, and often looked like he was going to combust if someone so much as dusted them wrong. The books stayed in the bookshop, and that was how it had always been. 

And now, Aziraphale wanted Crowley to borrow a book. He’d never offered to let anyone do that before. 

“I— you said borrow?” Crowley repeated. 

“Borrow, and return in prime condition,” Aziraphale said primly. “So no stains, no torn pages, no light arson.” 

Crowley nodded. “Right. Because that— hrk— yeah. Arson and books, not a great combination.” 

“Not at all,” Aziraphale agreed. “So?” 

And how was Crowley supposed to say no? Aziraphale wanted to lend him a book— a stupid book, granted but a book that he liked. A second edition. This was the equivalent of Aziraphale trusting Crowley with his life, and that had Crowley’s heart twisting not unpleasantly in his chest. He wasn’t about to reject that kind of offering. 

“Sure!” he said, feigning cheerfulness (it was easier than expected when he focused on the fact that Aziraphale trusted him with his books). “Why not? Love a good book, me.” 

Aziraphale practically beamed at him. “Oh, wonderful! I’ll find that for you right away…” He set his books down gingerly before moving towards the shelves. “We could do a book club,” he said, whirling around giddily. “With themed foods and dancing… and costumes.”

Crowley really hoped that alcohol was included. He didn’t mention that. Instead he protested, “We don’t dance.” 

“Well. I do.” 

“Well, I don’t. And do Emily and Duncy do the gavotte?” 

“Elizabeth and Darcy. And—“ Aziraphale’s face pinched, “— no. But they could!”

Oh, no. What had Crowley gotten himself into? “I really don’t think it’s necessary—“ 

Too late. Aziraphale had already disappeared into the stacks. A couple minutes later, he came back with the second edition, as promised, and that is how Crowley ended up in this particularly loathsome situation. 

He read the book. They did the book club (he successfully talked Aziraphale out of the costumes. The dancing was another story completely). And then Aziraphale suggested that they do another book since he had a couple copies of Dorian Gray. And they finished Dorian Gray and now they’re on Romeo and Juliet because Crowley can’t say no and he thinks he deserves a medal for sticking to the Thou-Shalt-Not-Commit-Arson-On-Aziraphale’s-Books rule. 

Crowley hates Shakespeare with a burning passion. He doesn’t even have a good reason, he just does. It’s long and wordy, and it’s almost impressive how he’s able to despise every single character the man ever came up with. 

Aziraphale, on the other hand, thinks Shakespeare is wonderful and timeless and is rather fond of both Romeo and Juliet. 

“They were quite brave, don’t you think?” he says now. “Going against everything they knew so they had even the slightest chance of being with each other.” 

“I suppose,” Crowley says, fighting the urge to call them stupid. 

Aziraphale sees right through him. “Really?” 

“Well, ngk— they certainly went for it,” he says. 

“And?” Aziraphale prompts. 

“And now they’re dead,” Crowley says. “Went down like a lead balloon.” 

Aziraphale comes very close to rolling his eyes. “What did you think about them, Crowley? Truly.” 

“Truly?” Crowley says. 

Aziraphale nods once. 

“They’re unsympathetic,” Crowley says bluntly. 

“Unsympathetic?” Aziraphale echoes. “Whyever do you think that?” 

“One brain cell between the two of them,” Crowley says. “Stupidity at its finest.” 

“They were in a difficult situation,” Aziraphale says, “I think we ought to give them a little grace—“ 

“Oh, no. You know why? Because we were in a very similar situation— read: pretty much our entire existence— and neither of us are dead. Boo hoo, my parents don’t want me to see Romeo— so don’t tell them!” Crowley throws his hands up. For someone who hates Romeo and Juliet, he has a lot of thoughts about Romeo and Juliet. “Make it work. Nobody found out we were seeing each other for six thousand years.”

Aziraphale blinks. “Well. When you put it that way, I suppose— but we had miracles!”

Crowley jabs a finger at him. “But not always. 1941, the West End. 1800, with Gabriel. There was 1157 in Prague, and 934….” 

“Fine. We usually had miracles.” Aziraphale gives him a look. “But miracles or no, we almost did the exact same thing as them.” 

“I don’t recall us ever trying to discorperate ourselves,” Crowley says. 

“We almost ran away,” Aziraphale says. “Alpha Centauri.” 

Crowley stops at that. We almost ran away. How he’d wanted to run away, to keep Aziraphale safe and far, far away from everything. He’d wanted them to be safe together. No Heaven, no Hell, no Great Plan telling them what to do. 

They don’t talk about it often. It makes the room grow still. 

“We didn’t, though,” he says heavily. “You were never going to leave.” 

“I wanted to,” Aziraphale says, not quite looking at him. “Crowley, I did want to go with you— but there were… extenuating circumstances and—“ He shifts. “Well, anyway, the point is, we would have done the same thing.” 

Aziraphale has never said point blank that he would have gone with. It makes something twist in Crowley’s chest.

“And on the matter of trying to discorperate,” Aziraphale continues, “don’t tell me you can’t imagine— well. If you really loved someone and thought they were gone, you can’t say that you wouldn’t think about finding a way to join them, or— or finding a way to avoid living without them. Or something else equally drastic.”  

Inexplicably, Crowley thinks of the bookshop fire. Collapsing amidst the flames. The anguish that seemed to seep into his very being when he believed Aziraphale to be dead. He remembers the strange, numb solace he found in the knowledge that he only had to live without him for a couple hours. 

That can’t possibly be the same thing, though. Because Aziraphale is his friend and— 

And Crowley would’ve fought Heaven and Hell to run away with him; he almost did. He practically denounced his role as the Adversary. There’s the way that his heart flips when Aziraphale smiles and the fact that he’s doing this stupid book club just to make him happy and the fire and—

Crowley stops breathing. He doesn’t need to breathe, technically, but he’s been doing it so long that not breathing is quite uncomfortable. He barely notices. Because he’s in love with Aziraphale. 

Oh, Satan. He’s in love with Aziraphale. 

Crowley tries to unthink the thought. He tries valiantly to banish it to the back of his mind. It’s impossible, though. It’s running through his head on a loop, I’m in love with him, I’m in love with him, I’m in love with him. It twists around memories of the two of them as it rockets about; feeding the ducks in St. James, standing in a cell in Paris, watching the rain fall in the Garden, clinking glasses at the Ritz, shouting at each other across a bandstand, sitting in the Bentley, and a thousand other moments. It’s not quite like a puzzle piece sliding into place because it’s always been there, but now it has a name, which somehow makes it feel new. 

“Are you alright, my dear?” 

Crowley startles and abruptly remembers that Aziraphale is right here. Looking at him almost nervously as he waits for an answer. 

“Just peachy,” Crowley says, forcing a smile. It doesn’t feel right. The oxygen he forces into his lungs feels wrong, too. 

Aziraphale clearly wants to press him because he’s probably very obviously not just peachy, but he doesn’t. Instead, he smiles— something a little too forced— and says, “I’m glad to hear it.” 

A beat. 

“But as I was saying—“ Aziraphale fidgets with the cuff of his jacket, breaking their charged silence, “— I think they did the best they could. It just… wasn’t quite enough. Maybe in another world, it could’ve been.” 

Crowley nods automatically. It’s the kind of thing to nod to. He barely hears what Aziraphale is saying, though; he’s too preoccupied by the strange, small, almost-smile on his friend’s face, and the words reverberating in his skull. I’m in love with him.

Not long after that, Aziraphale offers to break out the wine. 

Crowley tries (and probably fails) to be nonchalant and declines. As he fumbles through his excuses and nearly trips over himself trying to get to the door, Aziraphale watches, befuddled and a little worried. He tells Crowley to drive safely and that he’ll see him on Sunday for the Ritz. 

Crowley shuts himself in his car, starts the engine, and rockets off in the direction of his flat. He barely hears the music playing (Fat Bottom Girls) or the cacophony of the streets (as always, there’s a lot of angry honking directed at him). 

He’s in love with Aziraphale. 

Only that can’t be, he tries to reason. It can’t. Wouldn’t he have noticed if he were in love with his best friend? 

Traitorously, he wonders if Aziraphale was ever just a friend. Because he had friends, in the old days, before the Fall. Beezelbub and Furfur and Lucifer and the gang. Before everything went down, they were friends. It’s almost fondly that he remembers scaring the cherubs with them and making bets on whose nebula could make the most starts in a half a dozen millennia and whatnot. But that’s all nothing compared to how fondly he remembers Aziraphale over the years. Nothing compared to how fondly he thinks of him now. 

He doesn’t remember wanting to be near them that much. He doesn’t think that he would have taken any of them to Alpha Centauri. 

Crowley shoves the thought away. He’s being ridiculous. He can’t be in love with Aziraphale. He isn’t. There’s a perfectly logical explanation for these stupid thoughts. Like— Romeo and Juliet is supposed to be romantic, right? Perhaps he just got caught up in it, never mind that he hates Shakespeare. 

They were quite brave, don’t you think? Going against everything they knew so they had even the slightest chance of being with each other. 

It’s about Shakespeare. But it’s about them, too. 

Because they were supposed to be enemies. They were supposed to hate each other, and then they stood in a garden and Aziraphale covered him as it rained. They kept meeting up, even when they knew neither side would approve. Crowley did miracles he shouldn’t’ve because they made Aziraphale smile. They snuck around despite the risks, despite the consequences. 

They tried to run away. 

And Crowley knelt in that bookshop, tears pooling in his eyes for only the sixth time in six thousand years, because they’d failed and Aziraphale was dead. He was ready to be dead, too. 

Why the hell is his life a Shakespearean tragedy? Maybe because you’re in love with Aziraphale, you idiot—

He swerves and nearly hits a tourist. 

That night, he goes through no less than seven bottles of various types of alcohol, trying to forget what he’s realized. It does not work. Crowley cannot forget. Upon realizing that this isn’t going to work, he tries to rationalize. 

“Can’t be in love with him. Can’t.” He paces the length of his apartment, wineglass swinging around in one hand. “He’s an angel. ‘Nyways, it’s not like you were friends until a couple months ago— really ought to be properly friends before you fall in love.” 

This line of reasoning makes perfect sense until Crowley remembers that no, they’ve been friends for centuries, they just hadn’t admitted it until a few months ago. Back to the drawing board. 

“Well— okay, the friends thing— doesn’t matter. Demons don’t fall in love. And neither do angels, for that matter, it’s strictly a human thing. But especially not demons.” Because it doesn’t make sense for demons to love, does it? If they’re the opposite of God, who’s supposed to be Love personified. And angels— well, they’re above that, aren’t they? Falling In Love is a uniquely human thing. So there’s no way Crowley can be. 

Crowley has also never been very good at following rules. So perhaps—

“I’ve got it,” he plunges on, shoving that thought away, “I’ve got it. You haven’t had real friends in over six thousand years. Pitfalls of demonhood. You’re just— ngk— just rusty. On friendship.” 

Friendship is really, probably, most likely, just what this is. A very strong, intimate friendship. Some kind of advanced friendship or something. Crowley’s just been spending too much time with Aziraphale, is all, and he’s getting confused. So really, fixing this is simple, they just— need a little distance. That makes sense, right? Until he remembers how friendship works? 

Crowley tries to figure out how long they’ll need distance for. A few days? Years? Decades? Longer? It’s painful, thinking about not seeing Aziraphale for an undefined period of time, and he decides that he’s not drunk enough for this yet. 

The hangover is awful and Crowley deals with it for all of thirty seconds before miracling it away. And then he remembers why he’s hungover and contemplates getting drunk again. 

Crowley, however, is a very well adjusted individual (read: he’s out of alcohol and doesn’t want to go through the trouble of acquiring more right now), and does not get drunk again. Instead, he goes to yell at his plants. That particular activity doesn’t take long— no leaf spots today, something he’s quite pleased with— and leaves him standing in the middle of his flat with absolutely no idea what to do. Normally, he would pester Aziraphale, but the thought of seeing him makes Crowley’s heart beat a little faster and makes his brain catch on those five troublesome little words. 

So, Crowley putters around his flat, flipping through the two hundred channels on tv and taking the occasional nap and very pointedly not thinking about anything in particular. It’s maddening, but at least there’s Gilmore Girls. He’s able to pass two days without leaving, threatening the snake plants and cursing the showrunners. And then Sunday comes. 

Every Sunday since the Apocalypse That Wasn’t, he and Aziraphale have gone to the Ritz. They sit at the same table and drink fine wine and champagne, perhaps share an appetizer of some sort, and talk about all kinds of things. The first dozen times they did it, it took Crowley an impressive amount of self control to keep from berating Aziraphale for choosing the most conspicuous table for two. It’s a miracle that he was able to follow along with his friend’s anecdotes with how often he glanced around the room, mapping out exits and making sure that none of the other couples seemed to be watching them. Old habits die hard, and Crowley is used to hiding Aziraphale. But now, there’s no need to hide. Heaven and Hell have both agreed to leave them alone. Now, it’s just the two of them, free to do what they please. Crowley likes it. Loves it, even. 

Except for now, in this moment, because it means he’s going to have to see Aziraphale. He’s going to have to sit across the table from him and drink champagne and stare into his eyes and be normal about it. Which he’s done dozens of times before, but now, he’s incredibly aware that he’s in love with him. There’s no possible way that this is going to be a pleasant evening. 

For a moment, he considers calling Aziraphale and canceling. He could come up with some sort of excuse, buy himself more time to fix himself. And then he imagines Aziraphale sitting alone in the bookshop while Crowley’s lounging about on his couch losing his goddamn mind, and that’s the end of that train of thought. He’s not abandoning Aziraphale. Besides, Crowley likes what they have going, and so help him, a little crush— ngk, a little friendly confusion on his part is not going to ruin that. 

So, at six o’clock on the dot, he climbs into the Bentley and starts the car. 

“This is fine,” he says. “Totally fine. Regular dinner, nothing out of the ordinary.” 

She's a Killer Queen! Gunpowder, gelatine, dynamite with a laser beam, Freddie Mercury sings. 

Crowley repeats it like a montra as he drives. This is fine. This is normal. I’m normal. So normal. 

Who’s he kidding? He’s the Serpent from the Garden, Creature from the Pit, Mastermind Behind the M25. Who happens to be (in love with) going to a friendly dinner with the Angel of the Eastern Gate, Wielder of the Flaming Sword, Hoarder of Misprinted Bibles. His life has never been normal. 

By the time Crowley pulls up to the bookshop, he’s pretty sure that he’s even less normal about all of this than he was when he left his flat. His existence is a cosmic joke and he has Words for God about it. It’ll have to wait until after dinner, though, because he’s letting himself into the shop, eyes already zeroed in on Aziraphale, who’s reading intently at his desk. 

“Dreadfully sorry, but we’re quite closed,” Aziraphale says, not looking up from his book. 

Crowley looks at him. Really looks at him. His face is pinched with vague annoyance at the interruption, but he’s too enraptured to tear himself away from whatever it is he’s reading, peering at the text through wire-rimmed glasses, which he doesn’t even need. It’s stupidly endearing— same as it’s always been. Aziraphale is exactly the same as he was last Sunday, before Crowley’s crisis (Crowley is determined that it is not and will not become a crisis, but he doesn’t really have a better word for it) began, and Crowley loves him all the same. 

Platonically, of course, he reminds himself. This is his best friend he’s thinking about. 

Crowley realizes very abruptly that he’s been staring, and scrambles to come up with something to say before an awkward amount of time passes. “Even for me, angel?”

That gets Aziraphale to look up. He turns with a soft smile. “You’re not a customer, though, are you?” 

Crowley’s the exception to the rule and they both know it. He’s always the exception. It makes his heart flutter in his chest and he tries to tamp down the feeling. It’s far too human, far too fond. He’s not made for feelings like this— feelings which he is not having about Aziraphale. At all. 

The fact of the matter is, though, it’s harder to deny that he feels… feelings… for the angel when they’re staring at each other. 

Crowley decides that the best course of action is to get them to stop staring at each other. 

“Ready to go?” He’s proud of how level he sounds when he nods towards the door. 

Aziraphale pulls his reading glasses off and sets them primly atop his book. “Certainly,” he says, eyes bright. 

Crowley turns on his heel and leads them outside. Less than a minute later, they’re careening through London. 

Aziraphale has always been a nervous passenger. He tends to dig his nails into the seat and sit stiff as a board half the time he’s in a car with Crowley. To his credit, he doesn’t say anything until they take a turn at seventy and nearly hit a bus. “I’m afraid the speed limit is twenty, Crowley, you really ought to slow down.” 

Crowley feels like he’s driving in slow motion. Normally, he rockets around at ninety at least— there are few things better than going ninety while listening to Bohemian Rhapsody— but with Aziraphale in the car, he tries to go slower. Seventy is very slow for him. He should be getting a gold star for this. 

“I can go a hundred, if you prefer,” he snarks, but allows the Bentley to slow to sixty five. Aziraphale is lucky he loves him. 

Crowley fights the urge to slam his head against the steering wheel. 

Aziraphale doesn’t quite relax, but he smiles, ever so slightly. “Thank you.” 

Crowley realizes that the odd flippy thing his corporation's stomach does whenever Aziraphale thanks him probably has something to do with this whole feelings mess. He hates it. He loves it.

They make it to the Ritz (without hitting anything, Crowley is a fast driver but he’s also safe, thank you very much) just as their table miraculously opens up. 

“The two of you have impeccable timing,” the hostess— Ashley, tonight— says. 

“Don’t we just,” Crowley says. 

Being shown to their table is more a formality than anything, as is taking their drink orders. All the wait staff know them at this point. They’re rather peculiar; the Ritz isn’t the sort of place you dine at weekly. Unless, of course, you’re an angel and a demon with an affinity for the food and wine, respectively. Crowley doesn’t doubt that the staff gossip about them. He wonders what sorts of stories they’ve come up with about the two of them. He wonders if perhaps they’ve ever thought he and Aziraphale were a couple, and quickly shuts down that train of thought to focus on literally anything else. 

Aziraphale is looking over the menu thoughtfully, as though he doesn’t already know what’s on it. “Perhaps the tartine tonight?” 

“Sure,” Crowley says easily, then throws them into conversation. “Anyway. I have some extra room in the flat—“ last week, he discovered that one of his jade plants had a spot, and hadn’t had the heart to throw it out— he only pretended that he did (he had to keep order somehow) and instead took it to the bookshop, leaving a small, empty pedestal next to the aloe, “— and was thinking that I need another plant.” 

Aziraphale latches onto the conversation immediately. “Have you any idea what kind?” 

“Meh. P’raps a cactus,” Crowley says. “Been a while since I had one of those.” 

Aziraphale makes a face. 

“What.” 

“Oh, nothing,” Aziraphale says. “Just— I don’t believe cacti grow in tropical climates like the one you simulate.” 

“They’ll grow if they know what’s good for them,” Crowley says. They always have. His tropical plants would grow in twenty degrees and snow— he only keeps the back room warm because he likes the temperature himself. 

Aziraphale almost rolls his eyes. Almost. “What about something with color?” he suggests. 

Crowley gives him an unimpressed look. Crowley does not do color. 

“Orchids!” Aziraphale says. “An orchid would add a lovely pop of color— yellow, perhaps?” 

“I grow plants, not flowers,” Crowley says, spitting the word out with disdain. 

“Flowers are plants, my dear,” Aziraphale says mildly. 

“No, they’re— well, hmg, they are, but they’re not— they just sit there looking pretty,” Crowley says. “My flat is not supposed to be pretty.” 

“They’re quite important, actually,” Aziraphale says, arching an eyebrow. “Pollinators use them for food sources, and—“

“Well, there aren’t any bees in my flat, now, are there?”

It’s much easier to forget about the whole I’m in love with him thing when they’re arguing over plants. 

This particular vein goes from the varieties of plants that will not be making an appearance in Crowley’s flat to remember when you could get silphium bread in Athens? Pity that it’s extinct now, to was that dinosaur movie one of yours or one of ours? in the time that it takes for the appetizer and wine to arrive. Crowley is, though not back to normal, decidedly more in control. He’s more relaxed, and is actually able to listen to what Aziraphale is saying versus bluescreening because he’s a lovesick idiot. Crowley can do this. He can be normal about this, because this is normal. This is him and his best friend reminiscing and teasing and existing. 

And then Aziraphale takes a bite of the tartine and sighs as though he’s never had something so delicious. He smiles. To any observer, it’s a small, unremarkable moment. To Crowley, it’s not. 

Crowley thinks about kissing him. 

It’s certainly not the first time he’s had this thought. Rome, 41. Constantinople, 300. London, 1941. 1967. And those are just the first couple that come to mind. The fact of the matter is, though, that he’s always been able to brush it off as one of those random thoughts you get, where you don’t quite know where they’ve come from, but you know there’s no real substance to them. 

Crowley can’t dismiss this one, Because it’s not just I want to kiss him. It’s I love this dork so much that I might actually combust if I don’t kiss him. I want to feel that smile, I want to be the cause for that smile. I want him to know I love him. 

And that’s the moment he knows. It’s all over. 

Crowley manages to pretend that he doesn’t want to do certain things that involve his lips and Aziraphale’s lips for the rest of the meal. He keeps the charade that he isn’t endeared by the angel’s little stories, and that every time he smiles at Crowley, that Crowley doesn’t want to beam right back at him and bottle the warmth it gives him. He and Aziraphale reach the corner by the bookshop with him none the wiser. 

“Lovely evening,” Aziraphale says, “as usual.” 

Crowley nods. “Yep.” 

This is the part where Aziraphale opens the car door and bids Crowley good night. He lingers, though. Hesitates just a moment, then asks, “Do you think that you’ll be around this week?”

“Uh. Yeah, yeah, probably.” After Crowley finishes dealing with his most-definitely-a-crisis. Stupid feelings. 

“Well, if you are,” Aziraphale says, “I have a rather nice bottle of Château Corton Grancey that I need to get rid of. Perhaps I can tempt you one of these nights.” 

“It’s a date,” Crowley says without thinking. 

Aziraphale’s face does something odd before settling into a (vaguely panicked) smile. “Excellent,” he says, and fumbles for the door, “That sounds— wonderful, I’ll see you later, then— off you pop— goodbye!” He scurries into the shop, and Crowley is left alone in his car. 

He sits there for a moment. 

“Fuck,” he says, and then with more feeling, “ Fuck!” This time, he actually does slam his head against the steering wheel. It doesn’t help. “ Fuckfuckfuckfuckfuck, fucking— you had one job!”

Get up there and make some trouble, Hell said. Piss off the Heavenly Host, they said. And instead, Crowley slithered off to Eden and fell in love with an angel. Shit, has he been in love with Aziraphale since Eden? That’s something he can’t even begin to unpack right now. He shoves the thought away. 

“Have dinner with your best friend,” he says, because dinner is easier to think about, “no biggie. Just like every other week, but nooo, you had to look at his lipsssss and—“ His breath catches. It’s a funny sensation. “You’re in love with him.” 

It’s the first time he’s said it out loud. 

“Oh, God,” he says. 

He’s well and truly fucked. 

He gets zero sympathy from Freddie Mercury. Queen torments him with Play the Game all the way to his flat. 

This is your life, don’t play hard to get

It’s a free world, all you have to do is fall in love

Play the game

Everybody, play the game of love, ooh, yeah

The way Crowley sees it, he has three options. Option one is to find a hole to slither off to and avoid Aziraphale for the rest of their existences— and by extension, his feelings. He does not like option one, because he does not like the prospect of eternity without Aziraphale. 

Option two is to… well, to just go about as normal. Pretend he isn’t head over heels in love with the angel and keep doing what they’ve been doing since the Apocalypse That Wasn’t (and pine miserably all the while. Demons, generally, don’t pine, but Crowley has never been particularly good at demoning). 

Option three is by far the most ridiculous of the lot. It’s so ridiculous that Crowley banishes it almost as quickly as it crosses his mind. 

He could tell Aziraphale. 

This is a stupid, stupid idea, because it fills Crowley with a terror he doesn’t think he’s ever felt. Because there is no possible way that Aziraphale feels the same— he’s Aziraphale, after all, and Crowley is Crowely, there’s no universe in which they could possibly be, well, that. Telling him would change their friendship; a kind but pity-filled letdown at best, an angry rejection and end of their friendship at worst. Crowley can’t risk that. He won’t. So, option three is out. Aziraphale can never know. 

Crowley knows how to love from afar, he’s been doing it for six thousand years, even if he’s only realized it recently (looking back on it, he wasn’t in love with Aziraphale in the Garden, but that must be where it started. Looking at him from beneath a wing and thinking, this one is different. That must have been where he started to fall). What’s eternity compared to that? Crowley can do it. It may very well drive him mad, but he can do it. 

Besides. When it comes down to it, there’s really only ever been one option. Crowley can’t leave Aziraphale. 

So Monday evening, he saunters into the bookshop as though nothing’s changed (because it hasn’t, he’s determined it hasn’t) and says, “Tempt you to a bit of sloth and drunkenness?” 

Aziraphale sighs. “I’m working,” he says, glancing back at him. 

“And I happen to know where to find a rather nice Château Corton Grancey .” Crowley raises his eyebrows. 

“Wily old serpent.” Aziraphale clearly intends for it to be chiding, but it’s more fond than anything. 

Crowley’s heart stutters in his chest. 

It takes a surprisingly short amount of time to get used to the whole Being In Love Thing. 

For the next week, things continue as they always have. They hang around the bookshop and walk across the street for coffee and get takeout delivered that they eat while watching the history channel. Through it all, whenever Aziraphale smiles or poorly executes a magic trick or chases someone out of the bookshop— essentially, whenever he does something particularly Aziraphale— and Crowley has to fight a smile or his heart beats just a little faster, there’s a little voice in the back of his head that whispers I’m in love with him. A fact. An explanation. It stops surprising him by Wednesday, and though he can’t quite ignore it, it feels natural as breathing (which, demons don’t need to breathe, but Crowley doesn’t have a better metaphor, so).

On Sunday, they drive to the Ritz. Aziraphale tries (and fails) to keep his mouth shut about London speed limits. Over the Bentley’s speakers, Queen croons about needing somebody to love, and Crowley focuses more intently on the road than usual, as though if he so much as glances at Aziraphale while the love song is playing, he’ll know. It’s a relief when they finally park and the music shuts off.

Dinner goes smoothly. It feels more natural than the week before. They share a plate of oysters and have a rather nice red wine. Crowley only looks at Aziraphale’s lips half a dozen times (they’re much more distracting now that he’s actually aware of what he wants to do to them) and manages to go the entire meal without saying anything stupid. It’s quite pleasant, actually, and the little voice in the back of Crowley’s head that keeps repeating I’m in love with him, I’m in love with him, I’m in love with him is much more manageable. 

Walking out of the Ritz, laughing over Caligula’s fashion, Crowley finds himself thinking, I can do this. This is enough. Sure, he’ll want more, but what he has is already wonderful, and he wouldn’t trade it for the world. This can be enough. He’ll make it enough. 

They climb into the Bentley and start the drive towards the bookshop. And then. 

Can anybody find me somebody to love?

Crowley’s ease from dinner vanishes and he curses his existence as his corporation's heart thumps a little faster in his chest. Somewhere, Above or Below, someone is laughing at him. 

Ooh, each morning I get up I die a little

Can barely stand on my feet

In the passenger seat, Aziraphale frowns. “Didn’t we just hear this?” 

They absolutely did, because Crowley has a very vivid memory of staring very intently at the road to avoid accidentally looking at Aziraphale while trying to reason with himself that it’s just a song, he’s not going to read into it, this song plays all the time, it’s fine. But now it’s playing again and that’s not normal. Aziraphale’s noticed and Crowley doesn’t know why it’s playing again but he’s absolutely terrified that now that it’s been noticed, it will be read into. He doesn’t care why this song is repeating, he doesn’t dwell on it. All he does know is that the sooner it stops, the better. 

“Hrm— yeah, yeah, it did. CD’s probably broken, just grab something else.” Somehow, he manages to avoid sounding panicked. 

Aziraphale examines Crowley’s music collection, taking his sweet, sweet time. 

Take a look at yourself in the mirror and cry (and cry)

Lord, what you’re doing to me? (Yeah, yeah)

“You have an awful lot of bebop,” Aziraphale notes. 

I have spent all my years in believing you

“Not bebop,” Crowley grumbles tersely. He’s in a car with an entity he loves while listening to a love song and he might break something. Like the car. Or a tourist. Or himself. 

But I just can’t get no relief

Lord—

“Ah, that’s better.” Aziraphale ejects the disk, fiddling with the case in his hands. “A little Chopin will be nice.” Only, when he puts the new disk in, the song picks up right where he left off. 

Somebody (somebody), ooh, somebody (somebody)

Can anybody find me somebody to love?

“That’s odd,” Aziraphale says, confusion evident. “It usually works when I do it.” 

The Bentley has always had a bit of a temperament. Crowley hasn’t picked the music since she came off the assembly line. First it was Louis Armstrong, then Ella Fitzgerald, and then David Bowie and Elton John. She’s played chiefly Queen since 1975. Whether Crowley wants to listen to Freddie Mercury or not, that’s what she plays. She’s only ever made one exception. 

When Aziraphale asks for classical, she plays classical. Every tape turns into Queen eventually, but it doesn’t stay Queen if the angel decides that he’s in the mood for Beethoven’s Ninth Symphony. As much as Crowley gripes about his car liking his best friend more than she likes him, he doesn’t mind all that much. It’s one of the few constants in his life. So when the Bentley refuses to listen to Aziraphale, it sets off all sorts of alarm bells in Crowley’s head. 

I work hard (he works hard) every day of my life

“Right, that’s strange,” Crowley says quickly, and resolves to get them back to the bookshop as fast as demonically possible. He slams his foot on the gas. 

Aziraphale inhales sharply. “Crowley—“ 

“I mean, it’s nice that my car has some taste,” Crowley prattles on, “Chopin is so nineteenth century.” 

“That’s probably because he’s from the nineteenth century,” Aziraphale says, giving him a sixty-percent-worried-forty-percent-confused look. “Crowley, is it really necessary to go— watch out for that cyclist! — to go over a hundred?” 

“Um. Yes.” 

  I get down (down) on my knees (knees)

 And I start to pray (praise the Lord)

‘Till the tears run down from my eyes

Crowley is very proud of the fact that he doesn’t hit anything. Everybody makes it to the bookshop in one piece. The song repeats itself. 

Somebody (somebody), ooh, somebody (somebody)

Can anybody find me

“Are you quite alright, my dear?” Aziraphale doesn’t get out of the car right away. Instead, he peers at Crowley as though he expects him to burst into flames. Which, in Aziraphale’s defense, Crowley has been known to do when he’s overly stressed. 

Somebody to love?

“Just fine,” Crowley says, pasting on a smile. He probably looks like a madman. “Wonderful night, just have to get back to my plants, you know how they are— everything’s perfectly normal, no need for anyone to be worried about anything—“ 

“Alright….” Aziraphale clearly isn’t convinced, but he lets the matter lie. “Well, if you need help with your, erm, plants, let me know.” 

“You don’t know the first thing about gardening,” is all Crowley can come up with to say. 

Aziraphale makes a vaguely affronted noise. “I have plenty of manuals in the bookshop.” 

“Not the same thing,” Crowley says. 

“Nonetheless,” Aziraphale says, “I could. Help. If you wanted me to.”

Crowley doesn’t have anything to say to that. The flip-flopping in his stomach is making it hard to construct proper words. 

Lord, somebody (somebody), ooh, somebody (somebody)

Can anybody find me somebody to love? 

“Well, goodnight, Crowley,” Aziraphale says, and opens his door. 

“‘Night, angel,” Crowley replies. 

The door shuts, and it’s like a lever’s been switched. There’s a moment of static, and then it’s Chopin, in all his nineteenth century glory. 

“What,” Crowley says venomously, “the hell do you think you’re doing?” 

He’s answered by an arpeggio. 

“That was you, wasn’t it?” He’s betting it was either the Bentley or the ghost of Freddie Mercury, and one of those is much more likely than the other because as far as he knows, Freddie has better things to be doing with his afterlife. “Answer me. Just what do you think you’re playing at?”

The Bentley is a sassy bitch. She doesn’t respond. Normally, Crowley can at least respect her feistiness, but now— 

“You need to stay out of this,” he growls. “My feelings are not a joke, regardless of what you seem to think. And they’re none of anyone’s concern— especially not Aziraphale’s. He doesn’t need to know. So you keep your mouth shut. Or your tapes straight. Whatever. Just, do not do it again, or I’ll— I’ll resort to public transportation.” 

The Chopin seems to quiet a little, as though thoroughly chided. Good. 

Crowley pulls back into traffic, scowling. His heart is still going a little too fast. 

He knows that it’s stupid. Aziraphale isn’t going to look at Crowley and know that he loves him, he isn’t going to hear a love song and suddenly realize. It’s all bebop to him; he doesn’t listen to the words, so far as Crowley knows. And songs repeat all the time— discs get scratched, DJs do what they want— just because he noticed it doesn’t mean he’ll dwell on it. He hasn’t so far, if their last exchange was anything to go by. I could. Help. If you wanted me to. Not the words of an angel who’s found out that the Adversary is properly In Love with them. 

Besides, Crowley thinks, this is a one time thing. The music is back to normal and she’s going to behave. We’ll forget about it in a month or so. 

He doesn’t dignify thinking about his excuse that he has to water his plants. It’s embarrassing, how poor of a lie that was. 

By the time he’s back at his flat, he feels at least mostly back to normal, if still a little righteously angry with his car. He shoots her one last dirty look as he stalks inside. If he’s still upset tomorrow, perhaps he’ll take the bus to Soho. She ought to be properly repentant by then. 

With that nice little plan in mind, he steps into the elevator, and resolves to put his irritation to good use. The plants could use a little extra love— or threatening, as it were. 

Aziraphale raises an eyebrow when Crowley shows up without his car the next morning. 

“Need to fix the radio,” Crowley says, waving him off. “Not a big deal, just didn’t want to listen to that song all the way here.”

Aziraphale accepts that explanation readily enough, and that’s that. The Bentley is suitably cowed when Crowley gets back. He’s finally able to go back to pining in peace. 

Good riddance. 

The weather is gorgeous on Wednesday, especially for London. Sunny with a pleasant breeze, not too hot, not too cold. Someone suggests that they take advantage of it and feed the ducks. They miracle up a bag of frozen peas and pile into the Bentley. 

“The ducklings still need names,” Aziraphale says as he fastens his seatbelt. “I think the little one looks like a Ruth.” 

“Or a James Pond,” Crowley says. 

“You say that about every duckling,” Aziraphale grouses. “They can’t all have the same name.” 

“Well,” Crowley says, and starts the car. 

Can anybody

Crowley nearly snaps the gearshift in half. “For Heaven’s sake—“ 

Find me somebody to love? 

Not this. Not again. He’d thought they’d come to an understanding. 

“You’re a right bastard, you know that?” he hisses at his car. 

“So I take it the player isn’t broken?” Aziraphale says, reminding Crowley of his presence. “If you’re cursing at the car?”

Crowley sputters. “I— hmk— well, you see— it absolutely is!” At Aziraphale’s look, he hurries to add, “Oh, come on, you apologize to inanimate objects all the time. This is the same thing!” 

Aziraphale presses his lips together. He can’t argue with that and he knows it. 

Crowley takes a split second to weigh his options. Best to just ignore the music, right? If he makes a big deal of it, Aziraphale will know something’s up. So, he makes a valiant attempt to stay his nerves and says, “Anyway, my point is, James Pond is a brilliant duck name, and every duck should be called James Pond.” 

Aziraphale’s eyes narrow. Shit. He shouldn’t have changed the conversation so quickly. Hopefully, though, the angel will ignore it in favor of defending his other duck names. 

“Crowley,” he says, “if your car is being stubborn, you can just say so. Heaven knows I get a craving for Vivaldi’s Winter every so often.” 

Well, now, Vivaldi’s Winter doesn’t try to set you up with your crush of six thousand years, does it? Crowley thinks. 

“What about ducks that don’t live in ponds?” Aziraphale turns the conversation blessedly away from the Bentley’s music choices. “They can’t be a James Pond, now can they? A James River, perhaps, or a James Lake—“ 

“It’s not about where they live,” Crowley insists. 

“Isn’t it? The pun doesn’t work if it’s not a pond—“ 

They fall back into their familiar banter. Aziraphale keeps going on about geography and land formations. Crowley rolls his eyes and pretends that he doesn’t hear the music. 

(They both do.)

Anybody, find me somebody to love, love, love, love, love (somebody to love)

Find me, find me, find me love

Neither of them comment on it on the drive back. 

When Crowley shows up at the bookshop the next day, Aziraphale meets him outside, which is unusual. 

“Happy to see me?” Crowley quips. 

“Always, my dear,” Aziraphale says. “Fishing for compliments this morning, are we?” 

“Love compliments, me,” Crowley replies easily, as though he hasn’t gotten stuck on always, my dear.  

“You hate them, actually,” Aziraphale reminds him, lips quirking upwards. 

“I only hate them when they’re about how nice I am,” Crowley says with a disdainful curl of his lip, and then before anyone gets any ideas, goes on, “So, what’s all this about?” 

“We’re going shopping, of course,” Aziraphale says. 

“Shopping?” Crowley repeats. They don’t go shopping. In six thousand years, the only shopping they’ve done has been a ruse to inconspicuously run into each other, and even at that, they haven’t done it since… Budapest, maybe? It’s been a good hundred years, at least. 

“You were looking for new plants, weren’t you?” Aziraphale snaps his fingers and the shop’s shutters close. 

“Yes?” Crowley’s not entirely sure how these two things are connected, until he sees the look on Aziraphale’s face. “No. Absolutely not.” 

“It’ll be fun!” Aziraphale insists. 

Crowley fumbles for some excuse. “Ngk—“

“Besides, I think Felix is getting lonely in the corner,” Aziraphale says. “He could use some company.” 

“Company?” Crowley sputters. “It’s in there because of leaf spots! You can’t award poor behavior—“ 

“Perhaps an azalea,” Aziraphale muses. He starts to move towards the car. 

Crowley chases after him. “Those aren’t even indoor plants!” 

“I suppose you’ll just have to help me, then.” Aziraphale smiles at him, triumphant, and with that, climbs into the Bentley. 

Crowley stands alone on the sidewalk for a moment, mouth opening and closing uselessly. Then, he tilts his head back and groans. Satan, preserve him. And his apartment— he’d better not get talked into flowers. 

He clambers into the driver’s seat and starts the car. 

Can anybody 

They speed off. Thank somebody that the nursery Crowley likes to go to isn’t that far of a drive. 

“If you’re going to get a plant,” Crowley says, hoping fervently that Aziraphale hasn’t noticed the music (he definitely has), “you have to take care of it properly.” 

Aziraphale nods along. “Oh, yes. Water, sunlight— car!”

Crowley swerves. “No cars involved in botany,” he says. 

“Very funny.” 

Crowley grins. He is, isn’t he. “Water and light, sure, but they also need a firm hand. Don’t think I’ve missed how you coddle them.” 

“It’s not coddling, it’s encouragement,” Aziraphale corrects. “It’s been doing wonders for Wolfgang.” 

“And the naming is another thing,” Crowley says, wrinkling his nose. “You don’t name them. You name them, they start thinking that they’re irreplaceable, and that’s when they get difficult.” 

“I haven’t had any problems,” Aziraphale says. 

“That’s because you have low standards,” Crowley says. “You think that so long as they’re not all the way dead, everything is tickety-boo.”

“They’re trying their best and that’s what matters,” Aziraphale says. He clutches the seat as they whip around a corner. “So, azaleas are outdoor plants? What constitutes as an indoor plant, then?” 

Crowley launches into an explanation, barely pausing to take a breath. When he runs out of things to say about what plants are suitable for indoors, he moves onto the outdoor ones. Anything to keep Aziraphale’s attention off of the music. 

I just gotta get out of this prison cell

One day (someday) I’m gonna be free, Lord

They screech to a stop in the parking lot of Neal’s somewhere in the middle of a rant about annuals. 

“—even get me started on zinnias. Weak constitutions, the lot of them.” Crowley is actually quite glad that he doesn’t have to go into his rant about zinnias. Instead, he’s able to get out of the car and saunter across the pavement towards the nursery. 

It’s a nice day. Past the stacked bags of fertilizer, people are milling about in the place’s yard, where two dozen long tables full of flowers have been set on display. Garden gnomes and fountains are scattered haphazardly across the colorful scene. Several people are wheeling carts full of perennials towards the main building, a great long thing with wide doors and a ceiling dotted with skylights. An employee is trimming a hedge off to the side. 

Crowley always ignores the hustle and bustle of the patio, instead opting to make a beeline for the greenhouse in the back. He has no interest in the rose bushes or hollyhocks that amateurs like to put in their front lawns.  

Aziraphale seems to have other ideas. He drifts towards the lavender almost immediately. “Now, look at these….” He trails off almost reverently. 

Crowley wonders, not for the first time, why he is in love with this dork. “Those are outdoor plants, angel,” he says bluntly. 

“They’re very vibrant,” Aziraphale notes, and then his attention is caught by a cluster of primroses.

Crowley follows him, equally exasperated and endeared. He wants to just go and get his plant, or at the very least, not ogle the plants outside because it’s hot and crowded. He can’t help but watch fondly, though, as Aziraphale comments on the flowers and asks Crowley questions about their longevity and growing conditions. At one point, Aziraphale cups the drooping petals of a hibiscus in one hand, murmuring some kind of encouragement to it, and it throws Crowley back to Eden. Aziraphale had loved the Garden, too. Crowley forgot about that. It makes his stomach do something wiggly, not in an unpleasant way. 

Crowley’s patience lasts for almost ten minutes, which is, if he does say so himself, quite impressive. At the ten minute mark, he starts moving towards the greenhouse and calls over his shoulder, “Come on, angel, ogling time’s over!” 

Aziraphale glances up from the mint. “Just a moment, my dear… do you think we should try brewing our own tea?” 

“Brewing our own— I don’t know.” Crowley turns back around, baffled and the tiniest bit impatient. He was promised a plant, goddammit! “Is there a reason we should?”

“It would be something new,” Aziraphale says, still inspecting the plant’s leaves. 

“You can miracle up a sprig of mint whenever you want,” Crowley says. “We do not need a mint plant.” 

Aziraphale frowns. “Perhaps—“ 

Crowley strides forward and grabs Aziraphale’s hand to physically pull him away from the mint. “No. We’re on a mission, remember?” 

Aziraphale lets himself be pulled away. He’s quiet for half a second too long before saying, oddly flustered, “Well, yes, of course we are— but— that is to say, the mission was to get a plant. There was no specifying of which plant. Technically.” 

Crowley snorts derisively. “If you think I’m putting herbs in my apartment, you—“ 

He realizes very abruptly that they’re holding hands. 

His fingers are wrapped around Aziraphale’s almost effortlessly. Aziraphale grips back, gentle and firm, and it’s almost like their hands were meant to fit together like this. 

That’s a dangerous thought to have. Crowley shoves it aside. 

“— you clearly don’t know me,” he finishes lamely. He drops Aziraphale’s hand as they come up to the greenhouse. He still feels the warmth of it, though. 

It’s not the first time they’ve held hands. They’ve done it— well, not loads of times before, but a couple. Mostly around Armageddon. (Does Armageddon count? It was a weird time— they did a lot of things they didn’t normally do. For Crowley’s sanity, he decides that the post-almost-apocalyptic hand holding counts.) This isn’t special. 

Still, Crowley pointedly avoids looking at Aziraphale as he pushes the door open. He’s pretty sure if he were to look at him, he would blush, which is concerning, considering that demons aren’t supposed to blush. 

It’s noticeably more humid once they’re inside. There are plants everywhere; ferns sitting by the door; the orchids taking up a corner of a long table; birds of paradise tucked away in a corner. A couple baskets hang from the ceiling, lush greenery spilling out of them and reaching towards the floor. For all Crowley’s talk of a cactus, these are the types of plants he likes. They take a little more work than the average succulent, and they look nicer, too. 

He strides through the place, trying to shake off the flip flopping in his stomach. He tries valiantly to focus on the plants, stopping to inspect a few stalks of monstera deliciosa and hiss at them, “Unimaginative little things, aren’t you. Pathetic.” The fiddle leaf fig nearly cowers when he curls a lip at it. 

Promising, he thinks. He does appreciate when a plant knows its place. 

His stalking mostly keeps his mind off of Other Things, and so it’s mostly normally that Crowley manages to respond to Aziraphale mentioning the orchids. 

“They’re simply delightful,” Aziraphale says. “I’m sure you’ve room for at least one.” 

“‘At least?’” Crowley stays facing the wall of plants. “What have I said about the flowers?” 

“Your flat could really do with a pop of color,” Aziraphale continues, ignoring him. “Perhaps a blue one— they symbolize uniqueness, you know. Er. Or red, much more your color, really.” 

“Black is my color,” Crowley says.

“It’s a shame they don’t have yellow,” Aziraphale muses. “Yellow would look nice.” 

“ No flowers,” Crowley repeats. He turns to arch a brow at him. “Do I have to drag you away from those, too?” 

Aziraphale straightens up from peering at the display. “No need,” he says, moving towards Crowley. He glances back at them one last time before focusing on the fig. “What do we have here?” 

“Fiddle leaf fig,” Crowley says, and launches into a rundown. “Native to Western Africa, partial to lowland rainforests. Can be a little difficult. Last had one of these in… ‘82?” 

“It’s lovely.” Aziraphale nods appreciatively. “They get quite large, don’t they?” 

“Not if I don’t want them to.” Crowley turns a steely glare on the tree. A leaf twitches. 

Aziraphale sighs. “Must you bully them?” 

“It’s not bullying, it’s— building character,” Crowley argues, but nonetheless, only scowls at the tree once more before continuing to peruse the rest of the greenhouse. 

“What about these?” Aziraphale draws his attention to a rather vibrant red congo. No leaf spots to be found, and it’s about the right size for the hole Crowley has in his flat. 

He makes a noncommittal noise. Truth be told, he likes the way the leaves look. Their stems are a vivid red, though, which decidedly breaks the No Color rule he has going. 

“The red is very subtle.” Aziraphale reads his mind. “You hardly even notice it. But it would give your flat—“

“If you say a ‘pop of color,’” Crowley threatens. 

“A splash of color,” Aziraphale says, only sounding the tiniest but smug. “The most minuscule ounce of color.” 

“Absolutely not.” 

“It’s not a flower,” Aziraphale presses. “You said no flowers, not no color.” 

“The no color was implied.” Crowley hates this. So much. Why did he agree to let Aziraphale come? He can already tell how this is going to end, and it’s going to be with Aziraphale winning. 

“And besides—“ Aziraphale turns his attention to the plant itself, “— you’re doing wonderfully, all on your own. I’m quite impressed— I suspect with so many other plants, you hardly get any attention. But you’re beautiful as ever, even with skipped waterings and customers yanking on your leaves—“ 

“Do not coddle it,” Crowley cuts in. Aziraphale continues to coddle.

“You deserve much better. Quality fertilizer, adequate sunlight—“ 

Crowley snatches the plant up, holding it away from Aziraphale. “Look what you’re doing!” he snarls. The plant is preening, best as a plant can. “Building confidence and— and ngk— and other things! You are ruining it!” 

“I have no idea what you mean.” Aziraphale looks far too innocent. Crowley’s not going to fall for it, he’s not—

“Bastard. Now I have to re-condition it. Do you know how long that takes?” It’s for the good of humanity that plants are miserable and drowning in self-loathing. Or, at least, that’s what Crowley tells himself. 

“I mean, if it’s so much work, you could just leave it,” Aziraphale says. 

Crowley scowls and holds the plant a little closer. “Shut up.” 

Aziraphale is far too smug when they leave the nursery. Crowley can feel it radiating off of him. Between that and the music, he’s halfway to losing his mind. If he hasn’t lost it already, that is. 

Me somebody to love

Find me somebody to love 

Find me somebody to love

This is a circle of Hell Dante never imagined, Crowley thinks. You’re in a car with the love of your life and a plant he goaded you into getting. Freddie Mercury won’t shut up because your car sucks, and the bastard driving in front of you won’t pick a bloody lane. 

Wait. Did he just think of Aziraphale as the love of his life? Oh, fuck.

“You know,” Aziraphale says, pulling him rather abruptly from his thoughts, “there’s a new French place that opened around the corner from the bookshop. Perhaps I could tempt you to a bit of lunch?” 

“Thought that was my job,” Crowley says, managing to not sound like he’s having another crisis. 

“I was under the impression that neither of us had jobs anymore,” Aziraphale says. “Retirement, and all.” 

“Speak for yourself, angel.” 

“Gluing coins to the sidewalk and watching people struggle hardly counts as demonic activity, my dear.” 

Crowley has nothing to say to that. 

“So,” Aziraphale says brightly, “once again: tempt you to lunch?” 

“No temptation necessary,” Crowley replies, and it’s true. Aziraphale could probably ask him to sit in traffic with him and Crowley would be there. 

Somebody, somebody, somebody, somebody

Somebody find me

Somebody find me somebody to love

Crowley pulls into his parking space by his flat around eight. Aziraphale offered to let him stay longer at the bookshop, but his latest acquisition needs to be brought inside. It has absolutely nothing to do with the fact that the alcohol they plundered from the back room was making it very difficult to remember why exactly leaning into his best friend on his stuffy old couch and putting his head on Aziraphale’s shoulder was a bad idea. Nothing whatsoever. 

Crowley ducks out of the Bentley and moves to open the backseat door to grab his plant. He groans loudly at the sight that greets him. “Aziraphale.”

A vivaciously red orchid is sitting on the seat, tucked halfway under one of the leaves of his red congo. Crowley has zero recollection of Aziraphale so much as picking up one of the orchids, much less carrying one out to his car. And they’d been together the entire time, bar a couple of minutes when Crowley’d been preoccupied by the ferns. Surely that wasn’t enough time, though…? 

However it got here, he can’t leave it in the car. He glances down the street both ways— empty, small blessings— before reaching into the backseat and hefting a plant in each hand. The car door shuts and locks with a miracle, and Crowley hurries into his building before anyone can turn any corners and see how stupid he looks with his goddamn flower and leaves in his mouth. 

After an excruciatingly slow elevator ride, (must all Crowley’s inventions come back to bite him in the arse?) Crowley makes a beeline for his flat, and once safely inside, hisses at the orchid, “You’re lucky he likes you. You’re lucky I like him. Don’t think that means you’re getting any special treatment.” He deposits it on the counter before moving towards his other plants. 

They begin to tremble as he comes through the doorway. 

“New friend for you today.” He doesn’t bother to hide his satisfied smirk as he carefully places the red congo in the room’s empty spot. “Let’s see if he lasts longer than the last one, hm?” 

(Aziraphale is a fucking liar. The red stalks are not subtle. The leaves look nice, though.)

The shaking of the plants is audible now. What a beautiful sound. Crowley surveys them for a few moments, taking the scene in. Then, mood uplifted, strides back out of the room, leaving the plants to stew in their fear. “Ciao.”

The orchid greets him, a stark contrast to the blacks and grays of everything around it. Despite his scowl, it doesn’t cower, still standing tall. He has to admit, it is a rather nice flower. 

Grudgingly, Crowley grabs his plant mister off the counter and spritzes it a couple times. He’ll get it back to Aziraphale tomorrow. For tonight, though, it’ll stay. 

(The orchid never makes it to the bookshop. Instead, it stays on the counter, regardless of how often Crowley complains about it.) 

(Perhaps even more peculiar than that is that Aziraphale never asks if Crowley plans on bringing it over. Almost as though he intended for Crowley to have it. Crowley tries not to think too hard about the implications of that.)

Two weeks later, they’re driving back to Soho after yet another promenade around St. James’. 

Got no feel, I got no rhythm

I just keep losing my beat

Crowley is going to commit horrible crimes. It’s been half a month and his car is still committed to ruining his relationship with his best friend. Also, he’s just plain tired of this song. 

“You need to stop,” he hisses at his car. 

The music only gets louder. 

(You just keep losing and losing)

Aziraphale shifts uncomfortably in the passenger’s seat. 

Crowley decides that the first horrible crime he’s committing is crashing his car into something that will explode. Destruction of property, arson, and at least attempted manslaughter (or demonslaughter, to be more precise). Because Aziraphale must know, or at least suspect if he’s being antsy; the angel is never antsy. He must know, which means that the clock is ticking down on their friendship as is, and that’s a thought that terrifies Crowley. He doesn’t know how to deal with it; how to even begin to examine the idea of losing the one constant he’s had for six thousand years and the person he cares about most. 

Tense, he braces himself for the worst.

“My dear,” Aziraphale says, far too evenly, as though he’s trying not to react, “have you tried turning it off?” 

“Of course I—“ Crowley realizes that he hasn’t, in fact, tried that. He presses the stereo’s off button. 

I’m okay, I’m alright (he’s alright, he’s alright)

I ain’t gonna face no defeat

“Well,” Aziraphale says. 

Crowley waits for the end of the sentence, but it never comes. He glances at him out of the corner of his eye and for a moment, he swears that Aziraphale is blushing. But that’s ridiculous; must be a trick of the light or something. 

They drive on in a rather thick silence. 

Later, after Aziraphale’s been dropped at the bookshop and Crowley is headed back to Mayfair, he snaps at the Bentley, “You need to keep your wheels out of my business. Speakers, whatever. Don’t think I won’t sell you for parts.” It’s a bluff and they both know it. 

The track switches. 

I’m in love with my car

Got a feel for my automobile

“Not anymore, I’m not,” he grumbles. “I hate you. You’re the worst.” 

Crowley makes the mistake of getting drunk at the bookshop a couple nights later. 

He and Aziraphale drink quite a bit at the bookshop, but, apocalyptic events notwithstanding, they rarely go any further past tipsy. Ethereal and occult constitutions are incredible things. Crowley can count the number of times he’s been well and properly drunk with Aziraphale on only two hands (one hand, if you don’t count the laudenum incident). 

So this is irregular. Quite enjoyable— he loves drunk Aziraphale, who stumbles over his far too wordy words and forgets to mask his silly faces— but incredibly irregular. The lingering awkwardness from their last car ride has been completely obliterated by the wine, and they’re having the time of their lives, cackling over nobody-remembers-what and making jokes at Mozart’s expense and trying very hard to not slosh their drinks all over the carpet when Crowley falls off the couch from laughing too hard. 

Crowley thinks that if he were sober, he would try stopping time, just to save these moments. He likes them quite a bit. Then drunkenly, he reasons, well, I ought to just sober up and do it, then. 

He tries to sober up, but the alcohol stubbornly refuses to leave his system. He grunts. 

“What’re you doing?” Aziraphale frowns at him from the couch, cheeks rosy. He’s quite the picture, and it doubles Crowley’s intentions of stopping time. 

“Try’n to sober up.” Crowley scowls at his lack of success. “Wanna stop time. S’nice. With you. You’re nice.” 

“Stopping time. That would be nice,” Aziraphale muses vaguely, then glances at the clock. “Heavens, Crowley, it’s— s’three in the morning. We really ought to sober up.” 

“Nuh— don’t—“ 

Aziraphale grimaces as the alcohol drains out of him and Crowley despairs. So much for saving the moment. He’s suddenly less inclined to sober up, but makes a valiant effort anyway. It’s far less fun, being drunk alone. 

Aziraphale makes a face at the taste it leaves in his mouth. It’s a very stupid face— one Crowley would sympathize with if he were also sober, but he’s not. 

Crowley laughs. 

Aziraphale looks to the heavens, exasperated, before turning to Crowley. “Do you plan on sobering up, my dear?” 

“‘M tryin’,” Crowley whines. “Whatsit look like?” 

“You look rather distressed,” Aziraphale says. “As though someone told you we were repeating the fourteenth century.” 

“S’not working,” Crowley says after another fruitless attempt. He can feel the molecules milling about through his bloodstream, but stubbornly, they won’t evaporate, no matter how insistently he wills them to. 

“It’s not working?” Aziraphale repeats, lost. 

“S’not working,” Crowley repeats. 

“Well…” Aziraphale glances at the assortment of empty bottles on the arm table. “I suppose we drank a bit more than usual…. My dear, do you think you’re too drunk to sober up?”

“I’m fine!” Crowley insists. 

Aziraphale gives him a look. 

“I’m fine!” Crowley repeats, and to prove it, he clambers to his feet, far too fast. The world spins for a moment and he almost pitches forward. “Hrk. That’s new.” 

Aziraphale reaches out to steady him. 

Crowley leans into his touch, practically draping himself over the angel as he presses into his side. He’s warm to the touch and his hands are steady where they grasp Crowley’s arms. Crowley wonders why they haven’t done this before. It’s nice. Perhaps he should get drunk more often. 

“Well, I can’t miracle you sober,” Aziraphale says with a frown. They know this from a rather unfortunate incident in Mongolia, which led to Crowley almost being discorperated, and subsequently led to Aziraphale apologizing like a broken record for the next century. Neither of them particularly want a repeat of that. 

“I’ll figure it out,” Crowley says, “Isn’t that bad. Jussst— gimme a coupla minutes.” Or eternity, if it means he gets to keep leaning on Aziraphale. 

“Don’t be ridiculous. If you can’t do it now, you won’t be able to do it in five minutes.” Aziraphale dismisses him. “Perhaps…” He hesitates. “Perhaps you should stay here for tonight. There’s a bed upstairs, you can have that, and— sleep it off, like humans do.” 

Crowley is incredibly drunk, but not so drunk that he’s unaware that staying with Aziraphale while he’s this inebriated is a horrible idea that he absolutely cannot indulge in. Resigned, he tries to untangle himself from Aziraphale. The room pitches again, though not as violently. “No, no, ‘m fine, don’t want to ‘mpose—“ 

“Nonsense.” Aziraphale helps him readjust, so they’re face to face. He doesn’t let go of Crowley, though. “You wouldn’t be imposing at all.” 

“I’ll just drive home,” Crowley says. “No trouble.” 

“Crowley, you cannot drive— you’ll hit someone or something and be discorperated!” Aziraphale is appalled. “Just spend the night, please—“

“No, I can—  anyway, ngk— better bed at home.”

“You’re not driving,” Aziraphale says firmly. “I assure you, my bed is perfectly pleasant, but if you insist, I will drive you to your flat.” 

Crowley makes a noise of protest, but Aziraphale’s already holding the keys to the Bentley. 

“Come along, then, my dear,” he says. Gently, he loops a hand around Crowley’s waist and begins guiding him towards the door. 

Crowley doesn’t fight him. He lets himself be pulled. If he weren’t drunk on alcohol, he thinks the proximity would do it, because it’s wonderful. 

He still protests, though. Because even while drunk and stumbling over his own two feet, even shoulder to shoulder with Aziraphale, the Bentley is his car and he’s the only one who gets to drive it. 

“You can’t drive my car,” he says. 

Aziraphale opens the bookshop door. “Careful on the steps,” he says. 

“You haven’t got a lis— a lices— a permit,” Crowley insists. 

“And you do?” Aziraphale raises an eyebrow. “I’ll have you know that I do, in fact, have my license. They didn’t require tests, but I insisted. I’m a perfectly safe driver.” He helps Crowley to the passenger door. 

Crowley climbs in clumsily, fumbling for another excuse. 

“Last time you drove my car,” he accuses once Aziraphale starts the ignition, “you turned it yellow.” 

“Yellow is a perfectly respectable color,” Aziraphale says primly, checking his mirrors. “There’s nothing wrong with the color yellow.”

“There is when it’s on my car!” 

“It suits you better.” 

“Mhm. Because demons are such rays of sunshine,” Crowley says dryly.

“It matches your eyes,” Aziraphale says. And then he glances at Crowley, expression almost panicked, and stares determinedly at the road. There’s a faint blush dusting his cheeks. 

Crowley stops. It matches your eyes. As though Azirapahle’s noticed them— which, duh, his eyes are pretty fucking noticeable, not everybody has snake eyes. But Aziraphale talks about them as though he’s fond of them. 

Another thought hits him, a memory; last time Aziraphale drove the Bentley, and Crowley berated him for turning the car yellow. 

But it’s pretty! Aziraphale had protested, so earnest. 

Does he think that Crowley’s eyes are pretty? 

Crowley stares determinedly out the window (or as determinedly as he can while drunk, at least). If he’s blushing, it’s because of the wine. 

Aziraphale might think his eyes are pretty. Aziraphale is blushing. Does that mean something? Is this all in Crowley’s head? 

Does he maybe, just maybe, feel the same?

Crowley tries frantically to banish those thoughts. He can’t think like this— especially not while he’s not entirely in control of himself. If something slips out—

“You’re slow,” he says abruptly. 

“Pardon?” Aziraphale says. 

“‘Nother reason y’can’t drive my car. You’re slow,” Crowley says. “Do you know how slow you’re driving?” 

“I’m driving the speed limit,” Aziraphale says. “It’s a marvelous invention.” 

Crowley loves him. 

“You can’t go twenty miles an hour in central London!” he protests. 

“I think you’ll find that I can,” Aziraphale says, just a little smug. They speed— or, drive at a reasonable pace— on. 

Find me, find me, find me, find me, find me

Ooh, somebody to love  

Aziraphale insists on walking him up to his flat. He wraps a steady arm around Crowley’s waist and doesn’t protest when Crowley leans into him. Miraculously, the elevator is waiting on the first floor for them. They slip into Crowley’s flat with ease.

They haven’t spent much time here together. The bookshop has always been where they go, or out and about London. Aziraphale dropped in when Crowley first got the place with a vintage Barradas as a housewarming gift, then perhaps once after that. Then there was the night the world didn’t end, and…. That’s it, he supposes. 

Still, despite the lack of familiarity, Aziraphale doesn’t hesitate, guiding Crowley past the entryway and in the vague direction of the bedroom. “Mind the counter, I don’t want to hear you complaining about bruises tomorrow….” He waves a hand and the lights come on. 

Crowley screws up his face against the brightness of it. Even with his glasses on, it’s sudden and disorienting. 

Aziraphale pauses. 

Once Crowley’s able to see again, he follows the angel’s gaze. 

“You kept it,” Aziraphale says softly. 

The orchid is still sitting on the counter. Its blossoms are vibrant as ever. It’s been repotted since Neal’s, plastic faux-terracotta pot replaced by a sleek black one that better matches the style of the flat. 

“‘Course,” Crowley says. If he were sober, he would be appalled at how genuine he sounds.  “Wasn’t gonna let your plant die.” 

“It’s not with the others,” Aziraphale glances at him, as though afraid to ask. 

“Well, I yell at the other ones, don’t I?” Crowley dismisses it. “Don’t want ‘em to think I have favorites.” 

Aziraphale smiles, then. Crowley doesn’t think he’s seen anything quite like it. It’s small, the slightest twitch of the lips, a private thing. His eyes soften. Somehow, he looks radiant. 

“No, we wouldn’t want that,” he says. And with that, he resumes their route, gently urging Crowley forward. “We’re almost there, my dear.” 

They make it to the bedroom without any other distractions. Neither of them move to turn on the lights, leaving it illuminated by a stark sliver of light from the other room. 

Aziraphale coaxes off his jacket and hangs it on the door handle. He makes sure Crowley doesn’t trip climbing into bed (“‘M fine, angel,” he insists uselessly) and gently pulls off his glasses, gingerly placing them on the sleek bedside table. 

“Dream of whatever you like best, my dear.” Aziraphale hesitates for a moment, hovering beside the bed. 

Crowley thinks, for a moment, of asking him to stay.

And then Aziraphale steps back, towards the door. “I’ll see you tomorrow, Crowley. Goodnight.” 

Crowley’s left there, alone but for the retreating footsteps and the sound of traffic outside. 

The hangover the next day is atrocious for the thirty seconds Crowley tolerates it. He nearly cries for joy when he realizes that his miracles are working again. 

Then, of course, the events of the previous night come rushing back in full detail, waiting to be confronted. For his own sanity, they’re banished to the back of his mind. Crowley doesn’t think he can be normal about the implications of it matches your eyes or the fact that Aziraphale half carried him to bed and wrapped an arm around his waist. He blushes like a Victorian maiden thinking about it. 

He saunters into the bookshop with takeout from the Italian place down the street that evening, determined to not let any of it mean anything. 

Aziraphale beams at him, abandoning his manuscript to help carry the bag despite Crowley’s protests. Their fingers brush as Aziraphale takes it. The angel is almost giddy.

“Did you unearth another copy of the Nice and Accurate Prophecies?” Crowley asks halfway through dinner. “You’re in a good mood.” They’re lounging about in the back room, food spread across a round little table.

“No prophecies,” Aziraphale says, smiling softly at him. “I think we’ve had quite enough of those.” 

“I’ll drink to that,” Crowley says. They haven’t pulled out the alcohol yet, though, so toasts Aziraphale with a half eaten breadstick before taking another bite. 

Aziraphale sighs. It’s indisputably fond. “It’s been rather nice, hasn’t it? Just the two of us, no Great Plan or pre-ordained happenings. We get to choose for ourselves.” 

Just the two of us. We get to choose for ourselves. Aziraphale’s words loop about through Crowley’s head. 

As friends, he means, Crowley reminds himself forcefully, Just as friends, that’s all he means. Why would he mean anything else? Stop reading into it. 

“Anyway, to answer your question… I think that I found something I was looking for,” Aziraphale says. He doesn’t offer anything more.

Crowley tucks the what if he means The Two of Us thoughts inside a box and shoves it to the back of his mind. More sensibly, he puts his bets on an Oscar Wilde first edition and takes another bite of his breadstick. 

Aziraphale’s good mood lasts through the rest of the week. Tuesday, he practically skips about while listening to Chopin, much to Crowley’s bemusement. Wednesday, he lets a couple college students browse his shelves. Thursday, Friday, and Saturday all pass in similar fashions; Aziraphale is smiley and downright excitable all the way up until Sunday, when his liveliness… shifts. He picks at the cuffs of his jacket as they drive to the Ritz and keeps glancing at Crowley out of the corner of his eye. It’s making Crowley nervous. Aziraphale is so uncharacteristically distracted— almost enough to forget to gripe about the speed limit. 

Almost. 

“You know, Crowley, it would be a good deal safer if you went the same speed as—“

Crowley slams a hand on the horn as he speeds around a taxi. “No.” 

He wants to ask why Aziraphale is so twitchy. He wants to ask what he thinks he found, what on earth has been making him so happy this past week and why it’s making him so anxious now. He wants to ask why Aziraphale keeps looking at him like that and what he meant by the two of us getting to choose for ourselves . 

He doesn’t. Instead, he takes a sharp left, swerving in front of a Volkswagen that has no right to be on these streets, ugly as it is. 

At the end (at the end of the day)

I take home my hard earned pay (goes home)

All on my own (goes home on his own)

“Just because I invented speed limits doesn’t mean I have to follow them,” Crowley says. “They’re to fuck with all the other impatient bastards. I’m the exception.”

“I hardly think—“ Aziraphale is cut off as they swerve violently around another corner. He clutches the seat beneath him. 

Crowley lets up a little on the pedal after that. Aziraphale’s tense enough without worrying about discorperation; they’ll drive seventy if they must. 

Aziraphale looks a little less like he’s expecting Death to pop up in the backseat to reap their souls when they pull up outside the Ritz. He’s still picking at his cuffs, though, and Crowley’s certain that if the buttons on them hadn’t been miracled to be especially durable, he would have lost a button from all the worrying at them he’s done since they left the bookshop. 

Dinner itself is pleasant, as it always is. Their usual table is pristine. The wine is excellent and the angel lets Crowley nibble on a bit of his bolognaise. They talk amicably. Aziraphale is distracted through the whole thing, though. Something is off. 

Crowley wants to know what it is. He doesn’t know how to ask. He doesn’t think he’s seen Aziraphale this nervous since Eden, when he admitted to having given away his sword. 

Crowley has to be missing something. For Aziraphale to be this worked up, something must be happening, or has happened. Is it Heaven? Hell? Did someone leave a message at the bookshop while Crowley was gone threatening them? Do they know about their charade with the holy water and hellfire? It has to be something big, he knows, and what’s bigger than Heaven and Hell? 

 The more he thinks about it, the more on edge Crowely becomes. Of course their good thing couldn’t last. He let himself be lulled into a false sense of security, and now— what will it cost them? What will it cost Aziraphale? It’s always too late, he’s always too late, never able to do anything to stop them from getting hurt. 

He thinks about the end of the world, and everything they almost lost. Thinks about everything they could lose now.  

By the time they’re leaving, Aziraphale still hasn’t said anything, and Crowley’s anxiously been tapping out the rhythm of Bicycle for the past half hour. He whips out of their parking spot, going zero to a hundred in mere moments, as though that will release some of this nervous energy. 

Can anybody find me somebody to love?

The music doesn’t help. 

He hears Aziraphale inhale next to him, as though steeling himself. This is it, he thinks. 

Ooh, each morning I get up I die a little

“Crowley,” Aziraphale says, measured, “I— it’s come to my attention that. Well, I— please, forgive me if I’m mistaken, but it almost sounds like your car is trying to get us together.” He hesitates. “Romantically, I mean.”  

Crowley stops breathing. 

Can barely stand on my feet

Aziraphale knows. This isn’t about Heaven or Hell. It’s not about the end of the world, only it might as well be, because he knows.  

Crowley’s heart is in his throat. He understands, then, that this has been the cause for Aziraphale’s anxiety tonight. The angel’s been working himself up to this confrontation, working himself into a state because the idea of a demon having a crush on him is akin to potentially upsetting the Almighty. Because it’s an abhorrent thing, for Crowley to be in love with Aziraphale. Demons don’t love angels— and angels certainly don’t love demons back. We’re hereditary enemies, he can hear Aziraphale saying, as though it was just yesterday. (He thought they’d moved past that, thought they were better than that, but Crowley doesn’t have it in himself to blame Aziraphale for wanting nothing to do with his feelings.) Crowley knows what’s coming, and all he can think is that he has to stop it, has to at least try. He’s selfish, and somebody help him, he’ll do anything to keep Aziraphale, even if it’s just as a friend. 

“Nhngk— you— and me?” Crowley sputters. “Together? Like a couple? That’sss— myng— I mean, that would be—“ 

“Silly?” Aziraphale suggests softly. There’s something to the way he says it, resigned and almost wistful, that makes Crowley feel like he’s messed up somehow, but he’s too grateful for the out. He jumps on it. 

“Exactly! Ridiculous, really— I mean, we’re, we’re an angel and a demon,” Crowley blunders on, “and we’re just friends— known each other too long to be anything else, right?” 

“Right,” Aziraphale says. 

They lapse into a charged silence.

Somebody (somebody), ooh, somebody (somebody)

“I forgive you,” Crowley says abruptly. 

Aziraphale inhales unsteadily. “Sorry?”  

Can anybody find me somebody to love?  

“You said, before. If you were wrong,” Crowley says, willing his voice not to shake, “to forgive you.” 

“Oh. I did, didn’t I?” Aziraphale tries to smile. It comes out strained. 

“So,” Crowley says, “we’re okay, then?” 

Aziraphale takes a breath. “Of course,” he says. 

It’s a victory, but it doesn’t feel like it. 

After that disastrous night, it becomes Crowley’s mission to avoid driving anywhere with Aziraphale at all costs. He brings takeout to the bookshop, or suggests that French place just down the street. They start up another book club— Les Miserables (you know who’s miserable? Crowley, because Victor fucking Hugo has never heard the word concise in his life)— which gives them an excuse to stay in the shop. When Aziraphale asks if he has any interest in seeing the revival of Cabaret, Crowley replies, yeah, sure, maybe in a couple weeks. Until this whole thing is resolved, they’re staying local. 

The only exception is the Ritz. It would be far too suspicious to suddenly stop going there, and anyway, Crowley likes that tradition. It’s the only time when he puts up with his car’s antics. He tries very hard to be normal about the whole thing, and thinks he’s doing a pretty decent job of it. 

Crowley didn’t realize how often they really used the Bentley until he decided that it was no longer an option. There’s no more just popping off to the sushi place on the other side of Soho, or running out to buy the newest bottle of Greyfriar’s. He feels the absence of their freedom. 

Aziraphale, on the other hand, has noticed nothing. After the awkwardness of the whole it almost sounds like your car is trying to get us together exchange fades (it’s only a week or so, but it feels like an eternity. Funny how time works), he simply smiles when Crowley shows up with a takeout bag filled with boxes from Aziraphale’s favorite sushi place, or miracles a bottle of wine into the shop. He makes an odd, pinched face every time Somebody to Love plays on their way to the Ritz, but never mentions it. He doesn’t call out the way Crowley can’t stop glancing at him when his eyes are supposed to be on the road or how his knuckles are white against the wheel. Just asks if he plans on eating a meal tonight, or should he get something for himself that Crowley can nibble on, too? It makes Crowley love him all the more, which is ridiculous, because Crowley is pretty head over heels in love with him already. 

Honestly, he should get a medal or something, for being so besotted with the angel. Not at all because Aziraphale is hard to love— on the contrary, it’s so very easy to love him— but because Crowley keeps impressing himself by how far that love goes. He thinks he’s found the end of it, and then there’s somehow more warmth in his chest and another stupid smile he’s trying to keep off his face because Aziraphale’s misusing slang again or smiling softly across the table at him. 

Crowley also thinks that he deserves a medal for somehow managing to keep Aziraphale from finding out about how ridiculously infatuated he is with him. Especially with the Bentley’s meddling, which no amount of threatening has been able to fix. Keying her paint job with rude words, running her into a tree, turning her an obnoxious neon orange— none of those promises make any difference. Crowley has half a mind to actually follow through on one or all of them, though. Normally, he would never do something like that to his car, but… well, desperate times and desperate measures, or however the phrase goes. 

He’s not quite that desperate yet, though. So long as Aziraphale is oblivious to the thing with the car, Crowley doesn’t have to do anything drastic. He has time to come up with other solutions. 

This changes on a Tuesday, when Aziraphale suggests that they have Vietnamese for dinner. 

“Sure,” Crowley says, “Pick up at six?”

“I was thinking that perhaps we could dine in,” Aziraphale says lightly. He pauses in shelving a stack of books, turning to watch Crowley trying very hard (and failing) to avoid panicking.

“Oh, right. We, ah. We could. But it’s been a busy, busy day, and really, doesn’t a bit of relaxation sound nice?” As far as Crowley is concerned, this is a very reasonable excuse. People stay in all the time after busy days, don’t they?

“We’ve been relaxing all day,” Aziraphale says. “Or I have, at any rate.” 

“Have we?” Crowley asks. It’s fine. He can still salvage this. As long as Aziraphale hasn’t connected the dots—

Aziraphale levels him with a look. “Crowley, is there any particular reason that we don’t drive anywhere anymore?” 

Apparently, Crowley has not been as subtle as he thought. 

“Well— nrg— I mean, we take the car plenty!” he says. “The Ritz, uh— mnk— you know, other places. What do you mean, we don’t drive anymore?” He nearly kicks himself for that because now he’s practically invited Aziraphale to keep arguing. Fuck. 

“I mean, we always do takeout, or walk to dinner, we don’t leave the neighborhood… which is lovely!” Aziraphale hurries to add, “We’ve rather neglected it lately, and it’s been nice to rediscover the place, but the fact of the matter is, well— we don’t leave. It’s odd.”

Crowley opens his mouth to come up with some sort of argument, something, anything that can salvage this, but Aziraphale keeps going. 

“Is it about my nagging?” he asks. “It’s not that I don’t think you’re a good driver, my dear, simply that you really shouldn’t be going four times the speed of everyone else on the road whether you can do it or not… but anyway, that is to say, I’m very appreciative of your driving, and if it bothers you—“ 

“What? No,” Crowley says, unthinking, “Aziraphale, it’s got nothing to do with you. You’re fine.” 

“Then what’s it got to do with?” Aziraphale says. He sets his books down on a table and Crowley fights the run and hide. He means business. There’s absolutely no way they get out of this without Certain Things being divulged. 

Crowley is suddenly very aware of his sweaty palms (he didn’t even know demons could get sweaty palms) and his accelerating heartbeat. Oh, Satan. Aziraphale’s going to find out, for real this time. Crowley’s going to have to look him in the eye and see the face he’ll make when he finds out a demon has feelings for him. Then he’ll have to listen to the rejection, go back to his flat alone and know he can never show his face around here again— 

He makes one last desperate attempt to stop it. 

“It’s nothing,” he says quickly. “Don’t worry about it.” 

“Crowley—“ 

“Really, angel, no need to get your halo in a twist, it’s just— things, really—“ 

“Tell me,” Aziraphale demands. “If it’s got you this worked up, it can’t possibly be nothing.” His voice softens. “You must know that I’ll help with whatever it is. I’m not going to— to hold anything against you.” 

And that only makes Crowley’s panic skyrocket. 

“I’m not worked up over it,” he snaps, “I’m completely fine. The car is fine, everything is fine. You’re the one who’s getting all— all worked up about it!” 

“And I would love to know exactly what I’m getting ‘worked up’ about,” Aziraphale says dryly. 

“Well, ssssuckss to be you.” Crowley shoves his hands into his pockets to hide how they’re shaking. It doesn’t quite work, because his pant pockets are so tiny they barely constitute as pockets. Fuck women’s jeans. “Sssseeing as it’s none of your—“

“It is about the music?”

Crowley freezes. 

Aziraphale takes that as confirmation. “It is, isn’t it?” 

Crowley realizes, then and there, that it’s useless, continuing to deny it. That godawful conversation in the Bentley only bought him time. It didn’t change the fact that Aziraphale already knows. There’s no escaping this. 

Crowley looks him over carefully. For a moment, he looks almost nervous himself, eyes darting about Crowley’s face as though looking for something. Then the moment passes, his features smooth over, and he seems to steel himself. Crowley wonders if this is the last time he’ll see Aziraphale make an expression that isn’t one of pity or outrage. He tries to commit it to memory. 

“I, ehm. I’m afraid I don’t quite understand,” Aziraphale says, and Crowley wants to discorperate there on the spot because the bastard is going to make him explain himself, “why you’re so worked up about this.” 

Crowley refuses to play this game. He’s not going to dissect his feelings for an audience. “Take a fucking guess, angel.” 

Aziraphale almost flinches. Which is not the response Crowley is expecting. At all. “Well, I— I suppose that I thought—“ He looks away. 

Crowley is very curious as to how he plans on finishing that sentence, because it doesn’t sound at all like he’s about to accuse Crowley of being desperately in love with him. Aziraphale’s discomfort is so palpable, though, and Crowley is such a lovesick idiot that he does the first thing he can think of to keep Aziraphale from continuing to put himself in agony. 

“It’s embarrassing!” Crowley blurts. 

Aziraphale’s gaze snaps back to him. He swallows. “Why on earth would it be embarrassing?” He sounds much more put together than he looks. “Your car plays Queen all the time.”

Crowley lets out a breath he didn’t know he was holding. “Yes. Right. Not embarrassing, I meant.” 

Aziraphale’s going to let it go. He must know, he must, but he’s going to let it be buried again. It’ll turn into one of those things they both know but never speak of, and even though this is the one of the better outcomes, Crowley can’t help the ache in his chest. He soldiers on. 

“She just— started playing that song one day, I don’t know why, and she won’t stop!” He tries to sound as frustrated and confused as possible. One of those things, at least, comes easy. 

“You have no idea why?” Aziraphale says. He’s a little more collected now. 

“Nope. Car just— has a mind of its own.” It’s a lame excuse, but Satan does he hope that it’s enough. 

“Well, I. I suppose they do that, sometimes.” Aziraphale doesn’t sound particularly like he believes Crowley, but he doesn’t argue or accuse. “It’s— I’ll hardly make a fuss out of it. It’s certainly not a good enough reason to miss out on excellent food.” 

“Nyngk,” Crowley says. 

“So,” Aziraphale straightens his jacket, “Vietnamese?” 

They have dinner at the restaurant and it’s perfectly enjoyable, if a little off-kilter at the beginning. They don’t talk about the music any more. 

It’s only after they part ways when Crowley thinks to wonder why Aziraphale was so rattled earlier, if this whole thing is about Crowley’s feelings. 

Crowley has been staring at his ceiling for close to three and a half hours. 

Sleeping is one of the finer things he’s picked up during his time on Earth. Strictly speaking, demons don’t need to sleep, but Crowley’s found that it does wonders to be unconscious for a couple hours at a time at semi-regular intervals. It’s incredibly refreshing, it’s solitary, and it means he gets to laze about under a pile of blankets. 

Crowley has been alone for several hours. He’s been lazing about under his blankets for most of that time. Irritatingly, though, he hasn’t been able to make the whole unconscious thing happen yet. His brain won’t shut off. No matter how hard he tries, his neurons keep firing off, mostly about Aziraphale. 

He’s been thinking about Aziraphale a lot, lately. 

That’s not a particularly new development, by any means. No, the new development is the conversation from the bookshop that keeps playing over and over again in his head. 

Take a fucking guess, Crowley snarled, and Aziraphale flinched. Crowley’s starting to get the feeling that neither of them are on the same page here. Why would Aziraphale flinch because Crowley has feelings? 

He’s dissected every inch of that interaction, and he wishes that he had even an inkling as to what was going through the angel’s head, because the more he thinks about it, the more confused he gets. Crowley swears to somebody that they started off talking about his feelings. Swears it. But then that flinch— why did Aziraphale flinch? And why, after that, did he suddenly decide that he didn’t want to have this conversation? Why did he start making excuses like your car always plays Queen? What changed? 

Take a fucking guess, Crowley said. 

What on Earth did Aziraphale guess? It certainly doesn’t seem like he thought Crowley was in love with him. He had to have been thinking something else, only that doesn’t make any sense. What else would he have been thinking? 

He groans into his pillow. This is so stupid. He’s stupid, feelings are stupid, all of it is stupid. What the hell is he missing? 

Crowley finally admits to himself that he’s not actually going to fall asleep anytime soon. That prompts a rather creative string of curse words, which, were he not so frustrated, he would be quite proud of. Still, grumbling, he gets up, wandering towards the kitchen, as though the change of scenery will magically help him understand the mess he’s gotten himself into. 

“What did you mean, Aziraphale?” he asks the empty room. “What did you think we were talking about?” 

His gaze lands on the orchid. A much-needed pop of color, Aziraphale would say. 

He meant to give the orchid back. He had every intention of bringing it to the bookshop and depositing it in front of the eastern window; looking Aziraphale in the eye and going, who’s the wily serpent, now? Hm? And then he just… hadn’t. He refuses to admit, even to himself, that it’s because Aziraphale gave the thing to him. No, as far as Crowley is concerned, the orchid was left accidentally in the back, and was always meant to end up at the bookshop because it was Aziraphale’s flower. 

Only, Crowley thinks back to the last time Aziraphale was here, in the flat. He was drunk out of his mind, but he remembers. You kept it, Aziraphale said, almost reverently. He’d smiled, like he was happy that Crowley had been taking care of it, and— 

And that was when he got all smiley. The next time Crowley saw Aziraphale, he was outright beaming. I think I found something I was looking for. The orchid? Or something else? 

This whole thing feels like trying to put a puzzle together in the dark. Crowley has all the pieces, he’s positive he does, but he hasn’t the faintest idea how to connect them. 

“A puzzle in the dark would be a hell of a lot easier than this,” he grumbles, but he’ll be damned (heh) if he’s giving up. He begins to pace. “Okay, Crowley: what do you know? You’re in love with him, your car sucks, uh… he started acting weird after he saw the orchid… he thinks it would be silly if we got together. Obviously. Ngk—“ 

Crowley stops in his tracks as he remembers the way Aziraphale suggested it. Silly. Almost sadly, tentatively, as though— 

“No,” Crowley says immediately. “Nonono. That’s— that’s silly, is what that is.” 

— and then in the bookshop, take a fucking guess, I suppose that I thought—

Crowley replays their entire conversation and it suddenly makes a lot more sense. Because Aziraphale thought—

He couldn’t have, Crowley thinks weakly. He couldn’t have. 

Since Crowley realized that he was in love with him, not once has he ever considered the possibility that Aziraphale could love him back. Because it’s positively insane, because he’s Crowley, a demon, and warped and tarnished and everything that Aziraphale isn’t. Crowley isn’t nice, he isn’t Good, he doesn’t care for any Divine Plan or reading Shakespeare or dancing; he doesn’t listen to Bach or drink hot chocolate. He inconveniences people for the fun of it and screams obscenities at his plants and drives like a maniac and does a thousand other things that he knows Aziraphale must hate. He’s the Serpent from the Garden, the architect of Original Sin. It’s a miracle that Aziraphale likes him enough to be friends, but to love him? He wants to dismiss the idea. It should be ridiculous. Shouldn’t make sense. 

Only—

“No.” Crowley does his best to shut down that train of thought, to burst the bubble of hope taking root in his chest before it’s out of control. “There’s a different explanation,” he says. His voice wavers. “There’s got to be.” 

The orchid sits there, mocking him. 

Crowley is in love with Aziraphale. It’s one of the few things he knows for certain. He wants to hold his hand and put his head on his shoulder; wants to pester him for the rest of eternity and wants my dear to mean something more than my friend; wants to rescue him and his books from customers and argue amicably with him over how to properly care for plants and make him smile and a thousand other little things. 

Aziraphale is not in love with Crowley. They’re friends, who meet up for lunch because there’s no one else to talk to, who occasionally get along. They’re a team, the two of them. They have each other’s backs. They’re friends, and that’s all. 

Crowley is less certain of this than he once was. And it’s terrifying. 

Because what if he’s wrong? What if he’s reading into this because it’s what he wants to see? What if Aziraphale has some kind of other completely logical explanation and Crowley’s being abnormal about this, connecting dots where there aren’t dots to be connected and making something out of nothing? Correlation is not causation; what if all these little things, the blushes and odd remarks and conversations and the blessed orchid are all unrelated? Then, if Crowley says something, he’s out a best friend, and, well, the thought of that is painful enough that he can’t go any further. Aziraphale is his fucking world and it’s disgustingly sappy but so very true. He doesn’t know what he’d do without him. The last time he was facing that, he set about to drink until the end of the world. 

Can anybody find me somebody to love? 

They’re driving to the Ritz, now. Crowley barely notices the music or the road; he’s too busy glancing at Aziraphale out of the corner of his eye as though he’ll magically be able to tell if the angel is in love with him. 

Aziraphale’s face is too neutral— almost pinched, chin up and lips in a straight line. He’s pretending not to look at Crowley, the same way Crowley is pretending not to look at him. 

Ooh, each morning I get up I die a little

Can barely stand on my feet

Crowley has no idea what that means. He’s almost positive that he’s not going to figure it out unless he asks, but no way is he doing that. He won’t breathe a word of this until he’s certain that Aziraphale feels the same. 

( Take a look at yourself)

Take a look in the mirror (and cry)

 Lord, what’re you doing to me?

The silence between them is awful, and Crowley casts around desperately for something, anything to talk about. 

 “So,” Crowley says, trying so very hard to be nonchalant, “how’s Felix? Still a plant?” 

He fails. Miserably. 

“Well, he— he’s certainly not an aardvark,” Aziraphale says. His lips twitch as though to smile, but all too quickly, it’s gone. “Felix is doing wonderfully. I’ve moved him upstairs— better lighting and all.” 

“Nngk. Good. Threatening him once a day?” 

“Certainly not. I’ve found that a little compassion goes far enough.” 

“I’ll believe that when I see it,” Crowley says.

I have spent all my years in believing you

But I just can’t get no relief, Lord

Somebody (somebody), ooh, somebody (somebody)

Can anybody find me somebody to love? 

They go uncomfortably silent again after that. It’s a relief when they get to the restaurant. 

Be normal. For the love of somebody, just be normal, Crowley begs himself. You talk all the time. Just— just do that. Shouldn’t be that hard. 

Sitting down at their table, sans Queen and Crowley’s godawful conversation starters, seems to help. Aziraphale spends far too much time deliberating over the menu he’s seen dozens of times and Crowley fidgets under the table, but after a few stilted starts, they ease into something resembling their normal banter. It’s a little more timid than usual, but Crowley will take it. It’s an improvement. 

Improvement or not, though, Crowley’s still losing his fucking mind.  

He swears to somebody that he catches Aziraphale looking at his lips at least twice, and that’s just before their drinks arrive. Despite their stilted quality of their conversation, Aziraphale sounds so fond describing the time Crowley stole from the Library of Alexandria (just before it burned, because he knew the angel was awfully fond of Apollonius’ scrolls), just as he always does, and it makes Crowley’s heart flip about ridiculously. And when Crowley adjusts his legs under the table he accidentally bumps Aziraphale’s foot and the two of them jump, Crowley offers a rushed apology and wonders, have they always sat so close together? He’s going to discorperate. This is ridiculous. 

It’s a miracle that Crowley makes it through dinner without spontaneously combusting. It’s a near thing. Walking to the car, falling into an only slight uncomfortable silence, he’s almost unbearably keyed up. 

But everybody wants to put me down

They say I’m going crazy

Aziraphale makes The Face again, glancing at Crowley out of the corner of his eye. He says nothing. 

Crowley puts the car in drive and tries so very hard to not think about it. He makes it one measly block. 

He knows what this is all pointing to. He’s known it for days. The glances, the blushes, the smiles and all of it, it all adds up to Aziraphale (probably) feeling the same way. Logically, it makes sense. Crowley is still scared shitless, though— because what if? What if despite all the signs, Crowley’s misread them? What if Aziraphale doesn’t love him? What if he does, but not like that? 

What if he does, and Crowley fucks it up? 

That’s a thought he hasn’t had before, but it’s almost as terrifying, if not more terrifying as Aziraphale not reciprocating. What if he does? What if he does and then he doesn’t? What if he realizes that Crowley really is a horrible person and they actually do have nothing whatsoever in common? What if they try to be together— properly together— and it doesn’t work? What if they can’t go back to being friends? 

The questions pile and pile on top of each other so quickly Crowley can barely keep track of them. They have him gripping the steering wheel almost tight enough to break it. He probably would have broken it already if the Bentley didn’t know better.

Got no feel, I got no rhythm

I just keep losing my beat

Aziraphale glances at him again. Looks like he wants to say something. He doesn’t.

Crowley thinks that he’s already fucked this whole thing up. Their friendship. Silences were never this tense, conversations never so awkward— he screwed this whole thing up, because they can’t exist in the easy way they always have anymore.

It hits him, very suddenly, that they probably can’t ever go back to that easy existence. Not after everything said. Not after everything unsaid. 

He looks at Aziraphale. Aziraphale looks away, too fast, as though he’s been caught with a hand in the cookie jar. 

(you just keep losing and losing)

I’m okay, I’m alright (he’s alright, he’s alright)

They can’t do this dance forever. 

I ain’t gonna face no defeat (yeah, yeah)

They have been doing this dance forever. 

I just gotta get out of this prison cell

Crowley takes a breath as they stop outside the bookshop. He wants—

One day (someday) I’m gonna be free, Lord

For one moment, he lets himself just want. Without what ifs, or thought, or reason. And God, he wants. For that one moment, terrified as he is, it feels like maybe it could be enough, for them both to want like this. That their sheer wanting could make it all work. 

Before he can think about it too hard, Crowley blurts, “When you said. Nnrgk. The other— the other day, when you thought my car was trying to get us together.” He can’t look at Aziraphale. “Did you want it to be?” 

There’s no going back now. 

He swears that Aziraphale forgets to breathe for a moment. Then there’s a soft exhale. 

“That would be silly, though,” Aziraphale says, all false cheer. “Wouldn’t it?” 

It wouldn’t be, Crowley thinks, not if you wanted it. 

“But. If it weren’t,” he says. “If it wasn’t silly, or— or ridiculous or impossible. Would you?” He chances a glance. Corrects himself. “Did you?” 

Aziraphale is— vulnerable is the only word that could possibly describe it. His mouth is open in a perfect o. His eyes are wide, staring unseeing at the street in front of them. 

Crowley looks away, blood running cold. Oh, God. He’s fucked up, he’s fucked so badly—

“Yes,” Aziraphale says. His voice wavers. “I suppose I did.” A beat. “Did you?” 

Crowley’s heart is threatening to jump out of his chest. Still, he nods. “Yeah,” he says, a little higher than usual. “I mean— no, I didn’t want my car asking you out for me, because, ngk, well, you know, but I did— I do— fucking heaven, of course I do, I’m in love with you, which— hrk— I— I didn’t think you— I mean, you obviously don’t have to—“

He thinks he probably would have kept tripping over his words for the rest of eternity if Aziraphale hadn’t leaned over, grabbed the lapels of his jacket, and kissed him. 

Or, well. That’s what he would have thought, if Aziraphale kissing him hadn’t fried all his circuits. It’s firm but gentle and so incredibly tender. He melts into it. They both do. Six thousand years, and this is what it has led to.

The music is still going in the background, somebody, somebody, somebody, somebody, somebody find me, but Crowley doesn’t care. He barely hears it; he’s kissing Aziraphale, and it’s nothing like he thought it might be because it’s real. It repeats in his head like a mantra as they pull apart. 

Crowley blinks a few times. It’s real. That really happened. His lips are tingling. How strange. How wonderful. 

Aziraphale hasn’t retreated all the way back to the passenger seat. He’s still close, close enough that Crowley could pull him back in without a second thought. He searches Crowley’s face for something. “Was that alright?” 

“Ngk,” Crowley says. He’s almost positive that he’s blushing obnoxiously. “That— hrmp— yes. That was—“ Satan, have words always been this hard? “We might have to do it again,” he says. “So I can make up my mind. Maybe more than once.” 

Aziraphale’s face breaks into a smile. “Silly serpent,” he says fondly, then tries to somber. It can’t quite mask his delight. “Well, if we must. Perhaps we ought to try a goodnight kiss?” 

“Perhaps,” Crowley says, still in shock. This is happening. 

Aziraphale beams, and with that, he’s out of the car. 

Anybody, find me somebody to love, love, love, love, love (somebody to love)

Crowley sits there for a moment. Raises a hand to his lips. 

He breaks into a grin. 

Find me, find me, find me love

He turns the car off and follows Aziraphale, up onto the steps of the bookshop. Their next kiss isn’t so much a kiss as it is a clumsy, giddy press of mouths. They’re both smiling too much. 

“You know,” Aziraphale says, “I still have my last bottle of Chateneuf De Papes. I’ve been saving it for a special occasion. This certainly seems to fit the bill.” 

“Why, angel,” Crowley says, “are you tempting me?” 

Aziraphale takes his hand and pulls him inside.

Crowley wakes up in a rather awkward position that would probably break his spine if he weren’t, well, Crowley. His limbs are twisted, except for the arm that’s hanging off the plush couch. There are fingers carding through his hair, and it’s with a start that he realizes his head is in somebody’s lap. 

“Good morning, my dear.” Pages rustle over his head. 

Crowley opens his eyes. 

He’s in the bookshop. Dust dances in the light from the window. The empty bottle of Chateneuf De Papes sits on the coffee table beside two equally empty wine glasses. His sunglasses lay abandoned on an armchair across the way. And— 

He turns his head to find Aziraphale smiling at him, book in one hand, and his other in Crowley’s hair. It feels marvelous. 

“‘Morning,” Crowley croaks. For a moment, he’s terrified, because they don’t do this. Only, they do now. He can drape himself over Aziraphale all he wants, hold his hand (and doesn’t that thought make him blush), tell him he loves him and make him tea and tease him and a thousand other things. He can do this, now. The thought makes something expand in his chest, like a balloon. 

“Sleep well?” Aziraphale asks. 

“Yeah.” Crowley keeps laying there, because he can now. “You make an excellent pillow.” 

Aziraphale looks incredibly pleased by that. Crowley wonders if they’re thinking the same thing. Good. We can do this again.

“Well, I hope not for much longer,” Aziraphale says, trying to sound a little more business-like, “I’m beginning to get peckish.” 

 “You could just miracle up a meal,” Crowley gripes, mostly for show. 

 “It’s not the same!” Aziraphale insists. “The texture is so hard to get right, and….” 

He keeps going on but Crowley’s barely listening. Instead, he’s fighting a stupid grin, because he’s stupidly head over heels in love with this dork. 

“— even get me started on seasoning, it’s an absolute nightmare—“

“Alright, alright, angel, I get it.” Crowley pushes himself up, already missing his lap-pillow. He turns to look at Aziraphale. “What do you say to some crêpes?” 

Aziraphale’s mouth quirks. “I say that that sounds like an excellent idea, my dear.”

They pile into the Bentley a couple minutes later. As soon as Crowley turns the ignition— 

I can dim the lights and sing you songs full of sad things

We can do the tango, just for two

“I can’t believe you,” Crowley says. “You are the worst.” 

“Oh, hush,” Aziraphale says. “She’s braver than the two of us put together and you know it.” 

I can serenade and gently play on your heartstrings

“Maybe,” Crowley grumbles, “but that doesn’t mean she isn’t the worst.”  

Be your Valentino, just for you

Aziraphale comes very close to rolling his eyes. “You’re being ridiculous.” 

“I’m not, I’m being right.”  

Ooh, love, ooh, lover boy

“You know,” Aziraphale says, “I’d thought that I was the reason for the, erm, insistence of our soundtrack.” 

 “Nope. All her,” Crowley says. “It had absolutely nothing to do with me breaking down after a highly stressful book club where I realized I was going to be miserably pining forever.” 

What’re you doing tonight? Hey, boy

“Book club?” Aziraphale raises an eyebrow. 

“Yeah, Shakespeare, that arsehole— no, wait, wasn’t the Shakespeare, it was after the Ritz— shit.” This is totally ruining his reputation. “Forget everything I just said. I’m a very cool demon, I don’t pine— ngk— never waxed poetically to my car about anything.” 

“Well, I certainly hope you won’t be pining anymore,” Aziraphale says, clearly amused. 

Set my alarm

“Nope. Not that I was in the first place.”  

Turn on my charm

“Not-pining aside, it’s odd to have something else playing.” Aziraphale seems to consider something. “Do you suppose Somebody to Love is our song?” 

Crowley sputters. “Wha— pft— no. Absolutely not. If anything, it’s Good Old-Fashioned Lover Boy.” Because Crowley has definitely not thought about this in length. Nope. Never. 

Aziraphale is far too amused by all of this. “You think so?” 

“Obviously,” Crowley says. “Found somebody to love, didn’t we?” He goes bright red. That’s easily the cheesiest thing he’s ever said. Someone discorperated him, please. 

That’s because I’m a good old-fashioned lover boy

“I suppose we did,” Aziraphale says, all fondness. 

And isn’t that something? A strange something, but a wonderful something. Crowley will turn it all over in his head later. He’ll try to fathom how the hell they ended up here, why they didn’t get here sooner, what all this means for them. Preferably while lying back in Aziraphale’s lap. For now though, they’re going to go to breakfast and grin idiotically across the table at each other and blush into their coffee cups. 

Crowley can’t imagine anything better.