Chapter Text
Getting to the charity match is a blur. Aziraphale boards as many flights as necessary from London to Amsterdam and then finally Denmark. Honestly, he tries not to think about it too much because flying has always bothered him. Usually, Michael ensures that Aziraphale has a direct flight because he hates the chaos of multiple flights, but since he decided to do this so late, they had to work with what they had.
He would definitely prefer never to do it again. He spends far too much time in the airport, as it is full of constant tournaments throughout the year. Honestly, he wonders sometimes how he got this far with such a hatred of flying.
(He knows how he did, and it’s not precisely as angelic as he likes it to be.)
The hotel feels strangely scarce, and he barely gets a second even to check-in. Gabriel is off in a meeting with their sponsor, so it’s just Michael and Uriel accompanying him with Muriel.
Michael stops him before he even reaches the front desk. “Aziraphale,” she says, hand resting on his arm like she’s trying to catch him and prevent him from escaping. “I need you to head over to the courts for your scheduled practice time, and then you have a meeting with the people running the event.”
For a moment, he wants to fight. He wants to demand a second to himself because he’s spent hours on the plane and with people. But he knows that he can’t. If he doesn’t practise now, he won’t have a chance until just before the charity match. So he lets Uriel and Muriel lead him down toward the court, slipping into the locker room nearby to change.
The court is gorgeous, well-maintained, and recently redone. The lines are fresh and bright, and the moment Aziraphale steps on it, he feels at home. It’s a quick practice, nothing too laborious – enough shots and chances to hit the ball to familiarise himself with the court. He needs to be in the mode to play, but this is not a professional match that affects his ranking, so he doesn’t have to worry about it as much.
However, it does affect his appearance as a professional – something that Gabriel repeatedly reminds him of, mainly because of Crowley.
But everything will be fine.
Aziraphale won’t let anything escalate to something out of his control.
While he cannot control Crowley and the insults flung, he can certainly handle them each with grace and an angelic smile. He’s here to prove Crowley wrong. He does care about these kids, and it’s not just about being the best.
(For a moment, he ponders whether this is actually the case. Is that the real reason he’s here: to best Crowley?
Despite how much it will help these kids and his image, is he doing it for the right reasons?)
Michael joins them just as they’re finishing up practice. With her is a short, blonde woman with piercing blue eyes dressed in vintage-looking clothes and humming an old tune that Aziraphale recognises from his childhood.
Aziraphale likes her immediately.
“This is Maggie,” introduces Michael, voice a long way from excited, adjusting a couple of sheets on their clipboard. “Her and her partner, Nina, run the organisation that heads up these charity matches.”
Aziraphale clasps his hand around Maggie’s and tries to ignore how dishevelled he feels. “Pleasure.”
“The pleasure is ours,” says Maggie with a soft laugh. “We really are grateful you’re here. Nina and I hope that you’ve found the court to your liking?”
“It’s a charming thing, well kept,” Aziraphale grins, ever the pleaser. “I feel that I’ll play wonderfully here. And your partner Nina?”
“She’s over in the cafe,” Maggie explains cheerfully. “Not much of a social battery, but she can make a damn good latte. I usually handle any social interaction, and she handles the technical things. She sends her best wishes.”
Maggie then takes them on a guided tour of the facilities, showing them every innovation that helps with the program they run for queer kids, how they offer tennis lessons and matches regardless of payment to spark an interest and shape the tennis community into a bit more of an accepting, open place. It’s meant to be a safe place that can provide help to people in need.
There are many other activities in the facilities, but tennis has been a standout hit.
Aziraphale tries not to mention Crowley, to not think about how Crowley has been here for years, working to make the tennis world more accepting and open to all people.
Crowley didn’t just care about winning and being the best; he cared about other kids, other people who shared a love for a sport and needed a little extra help, and people who needed someone to accept them and be there when others couldn’t.
Of course, it’s hard not to think about it when there are several pictures of Crowley with groups of children from the last couple of years. The pictures range back all the way since Crowley started the pro tour when he was 19.
They’d both been in juniors until they were 18 together – Aziraphale had gone first to the professional tour, slightly older by only a few months.
“Ah, yes, Crowley,” says Maggie when she catches Aziraphale eyeing the line of photos. “He’s quite sweet. Makes the time in his schedule every single year to come over here and do the event.”
“He’s really been coming since he started?” Aziraphale asks, reaching out a gentle hand to pick up the photograph from last year.
Crowley’s hair is mid-length, pushed back with a pronged headband, and as fiery as ever. He looks young and innocent as he crouches next to the group of children around him. There is a joy there, undiluted, not forced. It’s something that Aziraphale hasn’t seen on Crowley’s face since the junior tournaments.
The Crowley he knows now is gruff around the edges and fiery, rarely happy or friendly in a way that Aziraphale can appreciate.
Despite the passion that Crowley plays with, despite the fire, Aziraphale dares to wonder if Crowley is happy or if there is something else in his life that defines him besides tennis.
(Aziraphale hasn’t seen joy like that on Crowley’s face since they first met and became friends in the junior tournaments.
Something about them playing together just felt right .
As things got more complicated and demanding, Aziraphale had done his best to try to provide some sort of joy in Crowley’s life and his own.
Crowley’d softened, at the time, to Aziraphale’s efforts; boisterous laughs would tear out of his throat in these soft moments. And there would be this look in his eyes like he wanted to tell Aziraphale something, like he wanted to hold him close and tell him everything . But even though he noticed the looks and the way Crowley would look at him, Aziraphale hadn’t pressed him, and Crowley never seemed to be able to work up the courage to talk with him properly.
It was something that Aziraphale sometimes wished that he pressed Crowley to talk about; it was right before The Mistake – before it all fell apart, before they became what they are today.
Maybe if they had talked, things would’ve been different.
Aziraphale could have prevented them from becoming the way they were – and sometimes he wishes that they were still friends, allies.)
Maggie nods, gesturing back to the photo hanging at the end of the collection of Crowley throughout the years. “He has,” she confirms, taking the photo back from Aziraphale and setting it into place. “It’s something that’s always been important to him.” She doesn’t bother to elaborate further, instead opting to continue their guided tour of the facilities.
They reach one of the practice courts, and Crowley is moving around it, his feet scampering and his breathing laboured as he attempts to put himself in the pathway to return every ball.
There’s music blasting from the speakers, and Crowley’s team is covering every inch of that court, prepared to help in any way.
Crowley’s coach – Bee, Aziraphale believes their name to be – is standing at the net post near the centre of the court, observing Crowley intently. They don’t say anything, their arms folded neatly against their chest, but it’s evident that they have some thoughts — they don’t follow the movement of the ball, their gaze instead hyper-focused on Crowley.
Crowley is clearly in the middle of a very intense drill meant to force him into uncomfortable spots on the court.
It doesn’t last long.
Crowley finishes quickly, and Bee stalks over to him. They start talking in hushed tones while the team begins to pick up the discarded tennis balls that cover the court.
“How long have they been here?” Aziraphale asks Maggie quietly from their spot across the way. He tries to keep his voice low, not wanting to draw any unwanted attention to himself. The last thing he needs or wants right now is for Crowley to see him and cause a scene in succession.
Maggie gives a one-shouldered shrug. “Crowley and Bee arrived yesterday with their team,” she says, checking her phone. “Nina and I typically just give them the fly-by version since they’ve participated in this many times prior. We really don’t mind. You’re welcome to use the courts as much as you’d like leading up to the match, but I think Crowley just wanted to get in some more practice time before the kids arrive.”
“I thought the meeting with the kids isn’t until tomorrow afternoon.” Aziraphale feels a sense of dread and casts a look back to Michael and Uriel, who look just as perplexed as he feels. If they missed something, it could very well be just what the press needs to sully his name further.
Clearly, Maggie picks up on their worry because she shakes her head and chuckles. “You’re perfectly fine,” she assures him, placing a gentle hand on Aziraphale’s shoulder. “This isn’t a scheduled event.”
“But Crowley is…”
“He always worries that he won’t get enough time actually to spend with the kids,” explains Maggie fondly as she turns back to observe Crowley’s newly started footwork drills. “He ensures that his team schedules an extra amount of time with the kids before the entire pro group meets with them.”
They fall into silence after that, watching as Crowley completes his final run-through of the ladders and cones that his team had set out for them. At one point, Crowley spots them and flashes a genuine smile in Maggie’s direction before he notices Aziraphale — and his fond expression shatters immediately into something cruel. And is it possible that it looks more vicious and violent than Aziraphale ever could’ve imagined?
(Aziraphale hates himself for how his heart aches at the sight – that Crowley despises him.
Why does it hurt me so much? He wonders to himself. Crowley made it perfectly clear to me where we stood in that locker room not even a week ago.
But he knows the answer to that. And he doesn’t like it very much.)
The look Crowley gives Aziraphale isn’t overly apparent, but it’s enough of a shift in his features for Bee to notice and whip around to flash a nasty glare at them.
Maggie waves apologetically and then leads Aziraphale, Muriel, Uriel, and Michael back toward the facilities, where they begin to chatter about the match's structure.
Unfortunately, Aziraphale couldn’t tell you a single thing she said about it because he was too focused on Crowley.
(It’s still a problem. He needs to pull his head out of his arse and focus.)
“Now, Aziraphale,” Maggie says as they enter the hotel, guiding them over to a secluded area. “There is one thing that I need to inform you about.”
“Yes?”
“Nina and I have used something for the charity match since it began, not only to help the kids but to help the camaraderie between the players on tour,” Maggie explains, voice gentle, low, like she’s choosing her words carefully. “It’s always been a tradition that the players doing the charity matches together to share a room.”
Aziraphale wants to scoff. Why would he be upset about this? Why would Maggie choose to tell him this like he’s a frightened animal ready to bolt at any moment? He looks back at his team and notices that all three of them have stilled. It takes him a second, but his mind is already coming up with questions to ask Maggie about why she approached him like that.
Oh.
Oh.
It clicks together into his mind right then. The apprehension and the shock on his team’s faces, the way Maggie had broached the subject with him like he would bolt at even the slightest mistake in word choice — he might’ve, honestly. Aziraphale can get a little picky about the wording.
He’s sharing a room with Crowley.
He feels himself tense, arms going still by his sides as he tries to process this. His mind is a flurry of thoughts, varying and swinging in every direction — some of them are a little bit too…erm. Yeah.
( But isn’t this what you wanted? Some alone time with him? Get to the bottom of it?)
Aziraphale shakes himself out of his shock and tries for a winning smile. “My dear girl,” he says kindly. “Would it be too much trouble to inquire whether or not you could break that tradition?”
Maggie blinks, her lips twitching into a frown. “It’s a big part of the whole thing,” she says. “I don’t think that we should mess with it.”
“But you see, my dear,” Aziraphale urges. “Crowley and I aren’t what you’d call…chummy. We’re not even really acquaintances. I don’t think it’d be smart to put the two of us together in proximity. And I’m sure Crowley would agree with me..:”
“Crowley seemed alright with it when I informed him of the arrangement,” Maggie shrugs. “So unless there’s a big concern that you’ll physically harm one another…”
“He did?!” Aziraphale asks, bewildered.
Maggie nods like this should be obvious. “Certainly,” she chirps – and it feels like she expects Aziraphale to be the difficult one, which he supposes he may be acting like right now. “And it’s only a few days, Mr. Fell. I doubt that you two can kill each other that quickly.”
“But..”
“For the children, Mr. Fell,” Maggie reminds him softly, face taking on a pointed look that is almost scolding – honestly, she’s younger than him. “You and Crowley can despise each other the rest of the calendar year, but when you’re here – you need to be amicable with one another.”
Aziraphale wants to protest more, but he finds himself resigning to nodding his head in polite agreement and choking out an “Oh, alright.”
Maggie practically beams at him before ushering him over to the lobby desk to get his room key and bidding him goodbye so she can return to whatever it was that she was taking care of before meeting with him and his team.
The moment she’s out of sight, Aziraphale whips around to face his team, arms immediately going to wrap around himself. “This is absurd,” he says, the annoyance intertwining itself in his words. “I have to share a room with Crowley , of all people?”
Michael licks their lips. “It’s not ideal, Aziraphale,” she says plainly. “But Gabriel was made aware of it the moment the company finished the paperwork. He – we – think that this will be useful for you.”
“But it’s Crowley !” Aziraphale protests, feeling like he’s talking to several stone walls at this point – wishing more and more that he was at home and not in this situation. “He’s going to make my life miserable, and you know it.”
“He may do that,” agrees Michael, tapping their pen against their clipboard in rhythm with her voice. “But you heard Maggie. It promotes camaraderie between the players.”
“You really think a few days of us sharing a room will fix a rivalry that’s been going on since we were juniors?” huffs Aziraphale, feeling his jaw clench, and one of the muscles makes a strange popping noise. “That’s incredibly foolish and even more naive.”
They’re moving towards the elevator with their keycards in hand, and it’s clear that this conversation is going to continue all the way up. It’s infuriating, but something that needs to occur. Aziraphale doesn’t trust himself to be able to put up with Crowley for that long of a time, nor does he trust Crowley not to try anything. He goes on a bit of a rant, bringing up several instances over the past few years that are clear indicators of why this is not an intelligent situation to be placing him in.
(He avoids the locker room incident because that is slightly embarrassing. And no one needs to know about that.)
“Enough, Aziraphale. You’re being idiotic and letting yourself be blinded by your anger with this stupid feud,” Michael snaps out finally, sounding exasperated to the point she looks ready to put their head through the wall. “All this does is promote camaraderie between you two. It doesn’t need to occur in reality. You’re trying to convince the public , not us.”
“But…”
“It’s for the cameras,” jumps in Muriel weakly, attempting to diffuse the anger fumigating between Aziraphale and Michael - something that has drawn others’ attention within the lobby. “You don’t have to get along with Mr. Crowley outside of that.”
“He won’t be able to try anything, Aziraphale – neither will you,” Uriel says, stepping out onto Aziraphale’s floor and gesturing for him to step out with her.
Aziraphale steps out of the elevator and looks back at Michael and Muriel, who are still inside.
Michael hands Muriel their clipboard, pulling out their phone as they do so. “Try to get settled. I’m going to talk with Gabriel and see how his meeting went.”
Then, the elevator doors slide close with a ping.
The silence that envelops the hall is charged with the bleeding-out exasperation and tension thrumming through Aziraphale. Desperately, he tries to calm himself to a proper standpoint; he can feel Uriel’s eyes on him, observing in silence, making note of every possible shift.
(For a foolish second, Aziraphale dares to ponder the possibility of Uriel judging him on this – because isn’t that just what his entire life is with being famous? He’s a spectacle to behold, and sometimes that’s all he ever feels like he exists to be.)
After several moments, he manages to calm himself enough to be somewhat poised.
“I know you don’t like the situation, Aziraphale,” Uriel says gently, guiding him down the long corridor – all the doors they pass by are a uniform white, golden knob, number on the side. “But I promise that we won’t let anything happen that you don’t want to or aren’t comfortable with.”
Aziraphale knows they’re being truthful – he knows that his team cares about him; otherwise, they wouldn’t be with him anymore. Despite the beneficial pay and the strict contracts the sponsors insist upon, these teams only work if there is a genuine connection, a genuine desire to help the player succeed.
Before he can walk straight past his room, Uriel stops him. “Here you are,” she waves at the door. “Get settled. You have a little time until Crowley returns.” And then she places a hand on his shoulder, squeezing gently and reminds him that “we’re only a call away.”
Entering the room as Uriel departs, Azirapahle is taken aback by how big it appears to be. At first glance, the entryway is spacious, with enough room remaining even after Crowley and Aziraphale’s bags are set against the wall – and while tennis players travel somewhat lightly, they still have much more than most.
He takes in the simple, elegant decor – nothing that seems to pull focus, but it blends in well with the whites and reds floating through the room. There are several paintings on the walls, each done by an artist that appears familiar to Aziraphale, but he doesn’t recall where he recognised them from. Hidden between the paintings are bookshelves covered in numerous texts that Aziraphale is pretty sure he owns in his own home.
The bathroom is lovely, and the carpet is plush. For a moment, Aziraphale thinks that maybe sharing this room with Crowley won’t be so bad. So maybe he’s starting to enjoy this, almost – observing everything so intently that he’s enraptured in each design choice. He’s so swept up in observing the subtle touches that have been integrated into the entire room that he completely misses the obvious.
It takes him a moment to realise that in his reverie, his feet have carried him to the sleeping portion of the room where the bed is. When it hits him, he stops dead in his tracks, and it feels like his brain has hit an error. The bedroom is lovely: a large bed laid out neatly in several plush-looking blankets and an even fluffier-looking duvet.
One bed.
One bed.
One bed he has to share with Crowley .
Oh, fuck, this situation cannot get any worse right now.
“Fell?” comes a familiar voice from behind him, gravelly and melodic, jumping between accents on every vowel and word. “Why are you just standing in the middle of our room? Did someone die in here?”
Nope, Aziraphale stands corrected. The universe despises him and made the situation ten times worse. This entire situation has just become a reality. He can no longer deny it – despite the many, many efforts Aziraphale made to put it into the universe that this shouldn’t happen.
He’s here at this charity match – he’s sharing a room and a bed with Crowley.
How the fuck is he going to survive this?
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Really, Aziraphale would rather not admit to just how long he spends gaping at Crowley standing in the entryway. It would be rather embarrassing for him, and he doubts anyone would let him live it down ever – especially Crowley, so Aziraphale is never going to bring this up again. Denial is one of his most remarkable abilities.
“Did you do this?” he manages after recovering from the shock, voice shaking with tremors that are really unbecoming. He’s probably quite a sight right now: chaotic and on the verge of lunacy. “One of your many practical jokes?”
Crowley rolls his eyes, pulling his sunglasses down onto the tip of his nose; his amber eyes narrow at Aziraphale in evident disgust. “ Please , like I want something like this to happen.”
“I know you’ve been here longer than I have–”
“And this is the first time I’ve set foot in this room,” Crowley interrupts defensively. “I’ve been in another room until now.”
“You…”
“Good Lord, Fell,” Crowley says exasperatedly, shaking his head. One strand of his red hair falls onto his forehead, bouncing with his growing agitated state. “I know what you think of me and where we stand. But...do you really think I would put you in an awkward position like this? That’s too cruel, even by my standards.”
“But..you…”
Crowley seems to deflate, rolling his eyes again before sliding his glasses back up his nose. Muttering to himself, he strolls toward the door. However, he is quick to pause when he realises that Aziraphale is not following him. “Are you coming?” He says, but he sounds wrong. He’s talking in a tone and way that Aziraphale has never heard him use before. He sounds almost … betrayed , and the way that Aziraphale’s heart shrivels is in no way pleasurable.
Despite it all – the rivalry, the interactions that are less than pleasant, the quips, the tennis matches – Crowley is a human being who feels things just as strongly, if not more so, as Aziraphale.
Aziraphale despises the image that his sponsor and the public forced him into because he’s expected to live up to it all the time. He can’t be that angelic human being all the time; it’s impossible.
And it’s the same thing with Crowley.
He’s been pressured into this image by everyone – including Aziraphale, especially Aziraphale – that he feels the constant need to try and maintain it. In reality, despite how rude Crowley can be and how much he tries to hide it, Aziraphale knows he’s a good person. And the pressure is destroying him, weighing on him in a way that hurts. Maybe Aziraphale needs to remember how to see past that image that Crowley feels the need to project. Aziraphale should use this time to get through the facade and help Crowley remember what it feels like to matter as more than just a spectacle.
“Fell,” Crowley growls out, still frustrated, looking more impatient by the minute. His lips have curled up, and more of his red hair is falling onto his forehead. “Are you coming, or do I need to fix this mess myself?”
Aziraphale manages to move his feet from where they are frozen on the floor. Scampering towards the door, he makes sure to mind that he doesn’t accidentally brush against Crowley on his way through the doorway.
They walk side by side down the hallway toward the elevator. Aziraphale dares to sneak many a glance at Crowley, hoping to pinpoint what is going on in that mind, but there’s not much to see. Crowley’s gaze is turned downward towards the floor, and he’s stuffed his hands into the pockets of his too-tight black skinny jeans – they certainly don’t leave much to the imagination.
Aziraphale tries to ignore this image because other issues are more prominent at this moment. “Where are we going?”
Crowley raises an eyebrow, pointing at the elevator. “There are only two people who coordinate the rooms, Fell,” he grumbles, still not looking pleased to be handling this situation or that Aziraphale is anywhere near him right now. “Who else would we go to see but Maggie and Nina?”
Crowley practically slams the up button on the elevator when they arrive.
As they step inside to head up to wherever Crowley knows Maggie and Nina reside, Aziraphale prays to whoever is up above that they can work this situation out. Being stuck in an elevator with Crowley for a few minutes and talking to people is one thing. Being forced to share a room and a bed with him is a whole other one.
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Instead of voicing his views, Aziraphale decides to let Crowley take the lead in this particular situation. There’s more of a history and fondness – Aziraphale saw it firsthand when Maggie was taking him on a tour of the facilities – so it’s of better probability that he and Crowley can have this issue resolved if Crowley handles it.
Aziraphale is a people pleaser, but it takes him a while to determine how to interact with different people. Every person he meets has a different vantage point within the world, and if Aziraphale wants to work his way into someone’s good graces, he needs to spend enough time with them or know enough about them in order to do so.
(Despite the fact that he really, really despises people and would rather be at home curled up with a book or eating something interesting. He has very little patience with people, though there are a few exceptions. Ultimately, he finds most people draining.)
In this situation, Crowley has the advantage over Aziraphale. He knows how Maggie and Nina will react, mostly Maggie, because that’s who they’re talking with right now in the cafe. Nina is off in the corner, bent over her clipboard doing inventory – she’s not what Aziraphale expected. She seems to be almost the exact opposite of Maggie in almost every way – and shooting them judgemental glances every once in a while.
“I’m sorry, Crowley,” Maggie is saying right as Aziraphale tunes back into the conversation. “The facilities are booked solid.”
“Maggie,” Crowley says, sounding like his patience is spreading thin as he drags a hand over his face. “I just came from another room. I know there’s more.”
“Yes, but that one has already been cleaned and given to another person on a team.”
Crowley gives her a look, something that appears to be pleading – and in this light, Aziraphale feels like he’s falling over at how good Crowley looks.
(His amber eyes catch the light in a way that makes them look like Aziraphale’s favourite shade of yellow, the way his lips twist up into something naughty and pleading. The muscles that are prominent as his jawline flexes.
Aziraphale could…no)
“ Maggie…please, ” Crowley says, in a voice so soft, so quiet that Aziraphale thinks that it’s a prayer, a plea.
“You know the tradition, Crowley,” Maggie says smoothly, seemingly dismissing whatever else she picked up in Crowley’s tone. “We can’t make exceptions. Not even for you.”
“But only one bed, Maggie?”
Maggie bites her lower lip, nostrils flaring in an indication of growing restlessness. “One bed is unusual,” she admits, and then she deflates in a way that looks like she’s giving in. “Alright. We’ll work on it.”
Crowley punches the air in celebration, looking about ready to jump up and down like an excited child. Aziraphale dares to let a smile across his lips at the sight.
“But,” Maggie says right as Crowley finishes his celebration and makes his way over to the door. Both Aziraphale and Crowley freeze in their tracks, each one of their breathing hitching in dread. “You two are still sharing a room. Just with two beds instead of one. No complaining.”
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“Not a total bust,” Crowley comments as he flops onto the bed, his body arching in a way that is no way humanly possible – and yet it looks graceful, fluid in the way that he looks when he hits every single one of his shots.
“I suppose not,” Aziraphale agrees, still standing in the doorway. He tries his very best to tear his gaze away from Crowley, searching desperately for a bird or something outside through the window.
Unfortunately, he gets a little too focused on trying to look like he’s not watching or taking notice of Crowley’s flexible, lithe form, so he doesn’t realise that Crowley is speaking.
It’s almost impossible to make out because Crowley has his face pressed flush against the mattress.
“ Mmm .. hnngh ”
“Pardon me, what was that, Crowley?”
“We need to figure out how we’re going to do this,” Crowley repeats, sounding a little flustered — and, dear God, is there a hint of a flush coating his cheeks? “I’m certainly not sleeping on the floor.”
“Very well,” Aziraphale says, ignoring the awkwardness of the situation. “What do you have in mind?”
“You’re going to love it.”
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Aziraphale did not, in fact, love it.
Crowley’s brilliant, show-stopping idea was to flip a coin.
For God’s sake, how was the coin in either of their best interests? They spend the next forty minutes trying to find a position that doesn’t force them into something awkward. Frankly, Aziraphale would like some of those suggestions – most of them were Crowley’s, mind you, so, of course, they were preposterous – erased from his mind.
They finally find something, and it’s literally them choosing a side and agreeing not to touch each other during the night. Crowley squashes the one extra pillow between them as a barricade, but it’s so tiny that it looks ridiculous.
Honestly, Aziraphale would rather sleep in the bathtub, but his team would kill him if he hurt his body in any way. So he puts on his brave face and gets ready for bed, and then he slips underneath the covers where he can feel the warmth of Crowley’s body next to him.
(He tries very hard not to think about how he used to dream of doing this when he was younger.)
This is going to be a long event.
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Sharing a room with Crowley doesn’t turn out to be as much of a nightmare as Aziraphale imagined it to be. He worried about Crowley being messy and chaotic, but he’s not.
There’s an order ingrained into every part of how Crowley has his life laid out in this hotel room – and Aziraphale wonders if it makes the chaos quiet down within Crowley’s brain. Crowley pokes fun at him a little bit but is pretty withdrawn into himself when they’re in the room together.
(If it’s out of fear or hatred, Aziraphale doesn’t know.)
They’re pretty silent in those evenings after all the activities of the day.
Usually, Aziraphale likes the quiet; he craves it. Being at matches and being with his team and the fans could be a lot. He finds himself drained after those days filled with excessive loud noise and numerous people.
However, he finds himself desiring their shared evenings in the hotel room not to be so quiet. He considers this one night after a rather long day where the utter silence is hanging over them a little too heavily. Crowley is facing away from him in bed, curled in on his size, while Aziraphale stands at the edge of the bed, ready to slip under the covers.
For just a moment, as he lowers himself onto his half of the bed – Maggie and Nina have yet to inform them of a possible solution for the one-bed situation – he wants to reach out; he wants to speak with Crowley.
It is only here that they are truly alone. There is no camera in their faces, showing them to millions with expectations; there are no teams around to judge and pull them aside to remind them that this isn’t what they can do. There is no one here but them – no expectations, nothing holding them back except their judgment.
And Aziraphale’s fear is the only thing that stops him.
Because what if Crowley doesn’t want to talk to him? The last time Aziraphale tried, when they were alone, led to Crowley slamming him against the lockers.
Crowley is an unpredictable variable. And Aziraphale didn’t want to shatter this sort of fragile truce that they created within this room. Their coexistence in this charity gathering could get so much worse.
Aziraphale didn’t want to ruin it.
So, like the coward he is, he does nothing; instead, he reaches out to turn the lamp off on his bedside table.
━ ━━━━━━
It becomes a pattern over the next few days. Aziraphale will consider for a split second as he readies himself to head to bed about talking to Crowley, and then he will scold himself for being a complete idiot.
What a lovely process.
They’re scheduled for the meeting with the children today – all of the players involved with the charity match. There are so many players and kids that they’re all separated into groups, and then each group of kids rotates through, so they get to talk to all the players. By some miracle or maybe a curse, Crowley and Aziraphale are placed into the same group.
Aziraphale casts a glance over at Michael and Uriel because he’s already spent so much time in close proximity to Crowley, and he doesn’t want this to be the straw that breaks the camel’s back. Before they can do anything, Maggie whisks Aziraphale over to where Crowley and the other player in their group are standing.
If Aziraphale had been surprised by what he’s learnt about with Crowley over the last few days, then he is in utter shock at what he witnesses now.
Crowley is talking with the kids animatedly, teasing and playing in a way that Aziraphale has never seen from him before. There is a lightness, an ease that Aziraphale doesn’t think he recalls Crowley ever having. Crowley looks at home and without a care in the world. And the children adore him, constantly running to him and telling him every word they muster at a million miles an hour.
This is a side to Crowley that Aziraphale has never seen. Sure, he’s always known Crowley can be lovely, can be kind, but like this? Never. This is the Crowley that is reserved for only a few people, and Aziraphale realises that this is the real Crowley underneath all that macho, suave, asshole exterior.
Aziraphale finds he enjoys himself immensely also. The kids do take an interest in him, and he chats with them as much as he can. Aziraphale knows some of them are just being polite – he’s an acquired taste; some find the angelic, perfect persona a bit boring – but some seem to really take to him and have interests similar to his own. Any worries he’s felt fade as he continues to interact with group after group.
By the time he and Crowley return to the room for the night, Aziraphale feels buzzed. He’s overflowing with adrenaline and excitement from interacting with the children. It felt wonderful to make an impact in their lives, if only for a short time. It was wonderful to talk with them and give them as much advice as he possibly could.
Crowley is still on his cloud nine. Though he may be less smiley and giddy than Aziraphale, he still looks pleased and relaxed.
They slip into their typical routine, including the silence. Only tonight, Aziraphale hesitates longer, watching Crowley’s curled-in form, the way his body rises and falls with each breath. The image of Crowley’s face, the sound of his laugh today with the kids plays through his mind – and that is enough that he musters the courage to buck up and slam the door shut on the worried voices in his head.
“Crowley,” he says softly so as not to wake the man next to him if he’s asleep but loud enough that he can hear him if he’s still awake.
Crowley rolls over to face him slowly, dragging out the act like it’s an enormous burden, raising an eyebrow. “What is it?”
“I was wondering if you’d like to converse with me.”
Crowley’s face does something indiscernible, his hair sticking up from the pillow. “Is that not what we’re doing now?”
“No,” Aziraphale says. “Let’s have an actual conversation. There’s a bottle of wine by the door.”
“Alright, Fell,” agrees Crowley, looking slightly suspicious. “Just no getting tipsy on me.”
Aziraphale grabs the bottle of wine and pours them each a glass.
“What do you want to talk about?”
And gosh, Aziraphale freezes. He hasn’t considered that far. Usually, he snaps himself out of it before he can convince himself to ask. “Um.”
Crowley is clearly not impressed, but he takes a sip of his wine and rolls his eyes. “Dragging me into talking with you when you don’t even know what we’re going to discuss,” he huffs, but he looks a lot like he’s trying not to laugh. “Just this once, Fell.”
“Just this once what?”
“I’ll start the conversation.”
━━━━━━━
They don’t go to bed until late that night.
They talk about anything, steering away from tennis and their past. It’s about talking about their lives outside of tennis and getting to know each other in a way that allows them to coexist.
They begin to enjoy themselves. They find that the other has an unexpected, understandable view of the world. So they go through as many topics to find out more. And by the time they’re done, the tension that’s been there since The Mistake has lessened to nothing but a fraction.