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The sheets were thicker than Crowley would have chosen for himself, but they were warm and soft against his skin. Most importantly, they smelled of Aziraphale.
He was warm and soft too. Except for the rasp of his beard against Crowley’s throat, but that was perfect too.
Crowley was as ready to melt as the fat flakes landing on the uncovered skylight above his head.
Blood and flesh warming beneath Aziraphale's palms. They hadn't even taken their clothes off yet. Buttons had come undone, trousers sagged and Crowley's Henley was being pushed up to his ribs, but still. There'd be time to remove them later, If Aziraphale didn't take him to pieces first.
Lips on his chin, fingers pressing into his thigh, edging upwards and digging into his arse.
Words of love and encouragement murmured straight in his ear.
Crowley arched, his gaze fixing on the single rose in its vase on the bedside table.
The snow had just started falling when Aziraphale had handed it to him. His eyes were bright and his hand's fluttering nervously.
They'd been in the same hole-in-the-wall cafe where they'd first met almost a year ago.
It had been snowing then too.
Crowley lingered over his coffee, sipping the cold dregs from the bottom of his travel mug while he hunched over his laptop.
Things did not look good.
His foot braced on the bar of his stool, jumping beneath the table as he scrolled down the third page his search had thrown up.
None of the job sites were delivering.
Crowley bit at his thumbnail and cursed himself for ever thinking fucking his boss was a good idea. That wasn't the whole of his idiocy either. Crowley had always been one for acts of service and he thought if he gave more, Luke might see that and reciprocate. Turned out Luke wasn't psychic and by the time Crowley had got through his own BS to actually vocalise what he wanted the damage had been done and Luke had moved onto someone less needy.
Crowley pushed his hair back from his face with both hands and tried to focus on what he could control.
“Sorry to interrupt.”
Crowley pulled his spine straight and looked up at the angel.
Over the weeks since Crowley had moved to Edenbury he'd been coming to this coffee shop just to get himself away from the four walls of the pokey flat he'd been renting, the angel had become a constant presence.
With a smile for everyone, and his own laptop he'd tap away until just before lunch.
Crowley had caught himself nodding in acknowledgement whenever their eyes met.
Which they seemed to do a lot. Although at first the angel had always looked quite disgruntled to see him. Not so now. Now he beamed.
The angel had a sweet, full-cheeked face and a halo (obviously) of pale curls. Clothes with an old world charm that Crowley tried not to find appealing.
He held out one of the shop's mugs and a plate.
“Nina said you normally drink Americano with extra shots of espresso. You seemed very tense though so I have a calming lavender tea and an Eccles cake.”
Crowley could only stare. “For me?”
“Yes, for you.” The angel hesitated and a blush crept over his cheeks. “Is that alright? Or too forward of me?”
Crowley felt his cheeks heating up over the fact that someone, no, the angel, had been paying so much attention to him. His belly squirmed with uncomfortable feelings over the fact that it was kind of forward, and bossy, but Crowley did actually like that. Plus, surely he was aware enough now to realise not everyone who was bossy knew what was best for him.
“Yeah, urm. You want to sit down?” Crowley gestured at the empty chair.
“Oh, thank you.” The angel paused and his fingers tugged at his jumper. “Actually, do you mind if I take your seat? I like to see the door-”
“Sure.” Crowley lived to please and it was no bother to swivel his laptop around and slide into the opposite seat.
The angel practically sighed with relief as he sat down. He looked out of the window at the trees in the park across the street. “Such a nice view. Even in winter.”
There was beauty in the bleakness of it. A crisp stillness that hinted at possibility.
Crowley sipped his tea.
“ Is it alright?” the angel asked.
“Not bad. Bit sweet for me.” Growth, that's what that was. Crowley hated seeming ungrateful, but he was allowed to have preferences. His therapist said so.
“Noted.” This was said as though the angel really would remember Crowley's preferences and do better next time.
“I'm Crowley.” He said it rather too eagerly.
“Crowley?” the angel tilted his head.
“Yep. Just Crowley.”
This was accepted at face value. The angel held out his hand. “Aziraphale.”
“Aziraphale?”
His hand was velvet soft and strong with well-kept nails. Crowley liked how it felt holding his. He tried not to imagine how it would look holding other parts of him.
“Oh, it gets worse. Aziraphale Fell.”
“Gosh.” Crowley laughed.
“Quite.” Aziraphale Fell wriggled on his chair. “It's nice to finally introduce myself actually. As long as I'm not interrupting.” His smile was nervous. “You looked quite intense and I'd hate to have broken your concentration.”
“Nah, just job hunting.” Crowley closed the search window and sat back with a huff that summed up how he felt about the whole thing.
“Oh, what do you do?”
“Website design a bit of making my own graphics and-”
Aziraphale sat up straighter, wiggling like he was ready to pop.
“What?”
“That's marvelous.” Aziraphale laid a hand on the table between them. “I do work for an auction house sometimes and they are redesigning their website. Call my friend. She might like what you do.”
A white card was produced with the flourish of a magician.
“You've just met me.”
It was too good to be true surely?
Aziraphale's arm extended a bit, holding the card out further. “That doesn't mean I can't help you out of a tight spot, does it?”
The work at the auction house led to work with some of the collectors and phone calls from other big businesses in Edenbury. Crowley bought himself a suit with less polyester in and upgraded from sleeping on a mattress on the floor to a proper wooden bed, with storage underneath for his records.
The snow had melted away and green was slowly replacing gray now. It rather matched Crowley’s optimism. He was drinking a flat white when Aziraphale heaved his laptop bag onto the table.
“Oh, Gabriel is being an absolute nightmare.”
Crowley lifted his eyes from his own screen and smiled indulgently.
Since that first introduction they'd been sharing the table in the window quite regularly, and Aziraphale's despair at his live-in partner was fairly regular too.
Crowley told himself that although he was entitled to his many, many opinions about Gabriel, he'd never actually met the man and wasn't entitled to share them.
Besides, he was still bruised from his last long-term relationship, and although the butterflies that came to life in his belly whenever he saw Aziraphale were nice, that didn't mean he was ready to act on them.
His therapist had very gently helped him work through that realisation and Crowley was doing his best to stick to it. That didn't mean he wouldn't signal to Nina that it was time to bring over a slice of red velvet.
“What's he done?” Crowley asked.
Nina motioned from behind the counter that Crowley should get off his arse.
Crowley shrugged. His question was all the nudge Aziraphale needed. A litany of inconveniences and upsets were forthcoming. Nothing really serious on the surface and Aziraphale told them in an amusing way, but the skin at the corners of his eyes grew tight and his hand's danced nervously about.
“I liked that waistcoat,” he concluded with a pout. “Yes, it was a little worn at the hem, but it's vintage. The shirts Gabriel likes me in are so rigid.”
This was the real crux of the matter and summed up all Crowley's feelings on why Gabriel was no good for Aziraphale. Why be in a relationship with someone as quirky and delightful as Aziraphale if you were going to change him?
That still didn't make it his business, so Crowley held his tongue.
“You should do me,” Aziraphale said when summer was in its full baking glory.
Crowley choked on his iced coffee. “You what?”
“My website.” Aziraphale's lips pressed together in the smallest smile and, not for the first time, Crowley wondered if he'd phrased it exactly like that on purpose.
“OK, what have you got already?” Crowley rested his elbows on the table.
“Nothing.”
“Nothing?”
Crowley had come very close to googling Aziraphale Fell because there couldn't possibly be more than one of him, especially working in the antique book industry.
He'd always pulled himself back though because it felt intrusive. Plus, if the website was a mess, the professional in Crowley would be desperate to get his keyboard on it.
Aziraphale straightened his shoulders defensively. “Antique book collection and restoration is a very niche community. Word of mouth has always been more than sufficient.”
“So why do you want a website now?” Crowley grinned.
Aziraphale looked faintly annoyed to be asked this. “If you don't need the work-”
“Nah, didn't say that.”
“Well then.” Aziraphale primly sipped his earl gray.
“But,” Crowley wheedled, “If I know why you want one it'll be easier for me to put together something that works for you.”
“I suppose it would be nice to reach a wider audience,” Aziraphale admitted, reluctance dripping from every word.
“You sure about that?”
Aziraphale pursed his lips. “Quite.”
“OK then.” Crowley tried not to laugh. “What sort of vibes do you want?”
“Vibes?”
“Yeah, like colour palettes and style. What are your main actionable targets? And do you want to put together your own content.”
Aziraphale had gone rather peaky. “How about I just show you?”
“Show me?”
“If you're not too busy?”
Crowley worked on Aziraphale's website in chunks of time between his other projects. It wasn't quite an obsession, but it was quickly turning into a passion project. As soon as Crowley had set foot in Aziraphale's shop he'd fallen in love. The burgundy and gold paint, the gleaming mahogany all drew together to make the place feel cosy and loved. Aziraphale had pottered about self-consciously giving Crowley the grand tour.
Didn't realise you had an actual shop.
Calling it a shop is a bit of a misnomer. Most of my business is restoration and work for auction houses. The opening hours are quite erratic.
Not surprising, given how much time Aziraphale spent in the coffee shop with Crowley talking shit and humming with delight over baked goods. It had been hard though, not to wonder about a future where they worked in the bookshop together. Late nights and late mornings-
The coffee shop door opened, bringing a wave of heat in to battle the air conditioning.
Aziraphale hurried over wearing a pale yellow polo shirt and dark chinos. He looked decidedly uncomfortable as he sat down.
“Brunch with Gabriel and his business associates.”
Ah.
Crowley held his tongue and focused on being industrious.
“Can I see?” Aziraphale asked expectantly.
“Nope.”
“My dear, I'm paying you-”
“Because you trust me, right? You trust me to do a good job.”
And it would be bloody amazing. Crowley grinned over the top of his laptop.
Aziraphale leaned on the table looking thoroughly heartbroken. His lip pouted and his eyes were all limpid and shiny. “Crowley.”
That was all it took. That demand disguised as a request. Crowley was weak for it.
“A tiny peek?”
“The tiniest!” Aziraphale perked up at once.
“Get over here then.”
Aziraphale bustled to Crowley's side, practically vibrating with happiness. He pulled up his stool and perched next to Crowley, his elbows resting on the table and their arms pressed together.
It was the closest that they'd ever been and Crowley felt his shriveled, cynical heart start beating painfully fast. Aziraphale smelt of vanilla and suntan lotion, and the heat from him warmed Crowley's bones.
“Okaaay.” Crowley rubbed at the back of his neck, forcing himself to get a grip before he opened up the mock pages. Crowley had done presentations to clients before, but, well, before he had not put quite so much of himself into what he'd created.
Or quite so much of his client either.
Aziraphale's shop, which was not actually a shop, had been like a dusty, cluttered extension of his soul. He'd moved comfortably around it sharing his love for the space effortlessly with Crowley.
It was like a cave of wonders being opened up, and Crowley had learned more about bookbinding than he'd ever thought he’d wanted to know. Aziraphale could make anything interesting though. Crowley had allowed himself to be led on a journey through Aziraphale's past and had fallen just a little bit in love.
As the pages opened up, Aziraphale's breath caught. Crowley relaxed. He'd got things right.
That was the sort of noise Aziraphale made when Nina brought over the cake of the day.
“I thought this could be the homepage-”
He'd replicated the deep, dusky reds and yellows of the shop, and got the style of the lettering over the door pretty much exact if he were honest.
He'd taken pictures too. Of the books, of Aziraphale working, of the quirky treasures he surrounded himself with. Those for sale and those just for atmosphere.
“This is wonderful,” Aziraphale breathed.
“Really? No notes?”
There were always notes. Crowley couldn't help thinking that notes from Aziraphale, being given the opportunity to show off his skills to give Aziraphale what he wanted, would be deeply satisfying.
Aziraphale leaned forward, an adorable frown creasing his brow. “Well, as you mention it-”
The next hour was spent fiddling with the layout and letting Aziraphale trawl through the pictures Crowley had taken.
By the end Crowley buzzed with a deep contentment that had nothing to do with all the coffee he'd drank.
“There now.” Aziraphale smiled brightly. “You've done brilliantly, my dear.”
“Nah. It's my job.” Crowley would not blush. “And I like helping.”
“You really do, don't you?” Aziraphale's voice was thoughtful. He looked at Crowley steadily, his gaze trailing slowly over him.
Damn it, blushing it was then. Crowley ducked his head.
“I mean it.” Aziraphale earnestly took his hand, trying to catch Crowley's gaze again. “I absolutely love it. It's like you've taken the essence of the place and captured it. Like you understood and, and appreciated what I was trying to create-” Aziraphale sat up straighter. “Anyway. Thank you.” He lifted Crowley's hand to his mouth and kissed his knuckles.
Such an easy, casual move, delivered almost without thought.
The absolutely wretched noise that came from Crowley’s throat made Aziraphale look up sharply.
Aziraphale's eyes widened and he released Crowley's hand quickly. “I'm so sorry.”
“It's fine.”
“No, I shouldn't have. And after you've done such a great job.”
“You're paying me…”
“Anyway, I must get on.”
Crowley had never seen Aziraphale pack up so quickly.
“Thank you again, my dear,” he called as he shouldered his bag and fled out onto Garden Street.
They still weren't talking about it.
In contrast, it felt like Crowley spoke to his therapist about nothing but that kiss.
The trees outside the coffee shop's window were turning brown and life continued. Or, a more tense, calculated version of life continued.
Fair enough really. Aziraphale was in a relationship and Crowley was probably reading too much into it, and probably not ready for another relationship.
All things considered, it was better Crowley pined quietly from afar.
As far as Aziraphale was concerned there was probably nothing to talk about.
Although Aziraphale was coming to the coffee shop less, and not spending as much time there when he did.
When he bustled in on a moderately busy Wednesday morning, Crowley tried not to get his hopes up.
“How are you?” Aziraphale set himself up at the other side of the table and began getting his laptop out. His keys slid onto the floor with a clatter and the expletive shouldn't have sounded so hot in his precise voice.
“How are you?” Crowley tried to sound sympathetic rather than worried.
“Fine,” came the curt response.
Crowley chose not to press things. He tapped quietly away while Aziraphale checked his phone and sipped his tea.
“The truth is,” Aziraphale glanced up and his phone started ringing.
Crowley tried not to look, but couldn't avoid seeing Gabriel's name.
Aziraphale slumped into his seat. “I'm sorry, I really must get this.” He began gathering his things back together and left the shop, his phone tucked between his shoulder and ear.
It was pumpkin spice season before Crowley really felt prepared for it. A whole year since he'd left Luke, nearly the same since he'd moved to Edenbury.
There were bats hanging from the cafe ceiling and Monster Mash on the speakers.
Crowley could hardly be blamed for making a Halloween comment when Aziraphale came through the door and unwound his scarf. There was a desperate challenge in his eyes though so Crowley bit his lip on the words, at least until Aziraphale had ordered.
“You're growing a beard,” Crowley ventured.
Aziraphale stroked his chin as though to check. “Yes, I fancied a change.”
“What does Gabriel think?”
Petty, but Crowley couldn't resist poking. He lived in a torturous state of wanting to know both nothing and everything about Gabriel.
“It's not his face,” Aziraphale replied smartly.
“No, it's not.” Crowley went back to his laptop while Aziraphale set his up.
“What do you think?” Aziraphale asked after a few minutes of industrious tapping.
“I think I'm going to need another coffee.” Crowley ran a hand through his hair. Invoicing and accounts was the worst.
“About beards,” Aziraphale said.
Crowley looked up feeling very attacked by Aziraphale's pointed gaze.
“Beards generally? Or yours specifically?”
“Mine.”
“It's not my face either,” Crowley prevaricated.
“No, but I'm asking.”
Crowley swallowed slowly. He didn't not like it. It did make Aziraphale look more distinguished though. Older. Like someone who'd give Crowley very specific instructions and expect them to be followed to the letter. Crowley shivered. “Suits you. So, urm, why did you?”
“I told you, I just fancied a change.”
“Good as a rest, so I'm told.”
“Exactly.”
There was a sharp bite of cold in the air, and the gingerbread chai lattes had appeared on the chalkboard behind the counter. Crowley ducked out of the winter air and into the warm cafe.
Nina gave him a distracted grunt.
Crowley was running on habit, already planning what he was going to put together following his meeting with an indie record shop owner he'd met yesterday. As he ambled forward he noted there was someone else at his table.
Crowley stopped, unsure what to do with the emotions crowding in on him. It'd been weeks. Be cool, Crowley, just be cool.
“Aziraphale? You're early.”
Good. That was good. Sounded completely chill.
Aziraphale looked up from his laptop screen. “Worms to catch, my dear.”
The beard was still there, well-kept and soft-looking. It really did suit him. Aziraphale looked very settled, much calmer than he had for a while, actually.
“Huh.” Crowley had been getting depressingly used to his own company and eagerly climbed onto the free seat. “And how's Gabriel?”
Things with Gabriel. Are you happy? Please tell me you're happy at least.
It was impossible to resist thinking about it.
“I'm not actually with Gabriel anymore. Haven't been for nearly a month now.” Aziraphale didn't look up.
“Oh, I'm sorry,” Crowley managed as his heart pounded.
“You hated him.” Aziraphale's gaze flicked up briefly.
“I never met him.”
“Anyway. I've moved into the shop, the flat above it.” Aziraphale's words were brisk, matter of fact.
“Imagine that's more peaceful.”
“And lonely, sometimes. Still, I'll get used to it. Besides, there's always the coffee shop, and you, if I need company.” Aziraphale's face momentarily softened, but his eyes didn't fix on Crowley. Instead, his attention would flick up in urgent little peeks.
“Yes, I'm always here. Keeping our table warm.” Crowley grinned.
“Our table?” Aziraphale looked up then, his eyebrows lifting into his hair.
“Is it not ours?”
“I suppose we both get plenty of use out of it, don't we?” Aziraphale smiled.
“You're really OK?”
“No.” Aziraphale looked back down at his screen again. “But, my dear, I think I will be soon enough.”
“Have you started Christmas shopping yet?”
“Aziraphale, we've barely got through November.”
“I know, but Edenbury hosts this wonderful Christmas Market outside the church.”
“Is that why all the roads were closed?”
“I go every year-”
Crowley frowned, trying to puzzle out what Aziraphale was working himself up to ask.
“I like mulled wine,” Crowley admitted.
“Oh! Then perhaps you'd like to come with me.”
“Now?”
“We can finish here first. It doesn't open until ten, but you've been working so hard. I thought maybe for lunch-”
“Alright, alright. I'm saying yes, OK, to whatever you like.”
“Well, thank you.”
“Now let me work.” Crowley ducked his head to hide his inconvenient smile.
Aziraphale made no effort to hide his. It lit him up from within and Crowley basked in the glow of it.
Crowley's cheeks stung with cold as they returned to the coffee shop, but Aziraphale’s arm had linked through his and not let go.
“Did you see those wooden angels?” Aziraphale asked as they approached their table.
It had been a risk to abandon it before lunch, but it was near closing now, a fact reinforced by the disgruntled look Nina gave them, and a number of tables were vacant.
“Wooden angels?” Crowley teased.
Aziraphale's arm slipped away as they sat down. Crowley reached out across the table, already missing the contact.
“Oh, yes!” Aziraphale's eyes lit up. “They were hand carving them at the stall.”
Aziraphale had cooed over them quite effusively.
“Why didn't you get one?” Crowley asked.
“Oh, well, it's a bit rustic-”
That sounded rather like Gabriel talking, in Crowley’s opinion. His eyebrow had slid up before he could stop it.
Aziraphale flushed and pressed his lips together. “Seems silly having a tree this year. It'll just be me, a glass of port, and the King's Speech.”
“Sounds lonely.”
“I dare say I'll get used to it. What will you be doing?” Aziraphale asked with false brightness.
“Driving down to see my nibblings Christmas Eve. Then they'll kick me out Christmas Day after breakfast so they can see the grandparents.”
“Oh, then we should-” Aziraphale looked away, swallowing his words down. “We should go out again sometime,” he added cautiously.
“Should we?”
In Crowley’s defense, he wasn't used to getting what he wanted and was struggling to believe this was real. Thar it could be so easy.
“Shouldn't we?”
Crowley couldn't stand the doubt in Aziraphale's voice
“Yes. We should,” Crowley said firmly. He was allowed to ask for things, allowed to accept them when they were offered.
His therapist would be proud.
“There were a few times I nearly asked before, you know? But Gabriel- well, I think he was jealous of you.” Aziraphale shrugged.
“Should he have been?”
“I don't know. Looking back I would have denied it, but now-” Another shrug. A self-conscious smile.
“Now?” Crowley asked very casually, despite the tightness in his chest.
“Smugness doesn't suit you.”
“Yes, it does.” Crowley laughed.
“Anyway, I do have tickets to see the Edenbury Amateur Orchestra play some Strauss in the church on Sunday night.”
“Good for you.”
“I'm asking you to come with me,” Aziraphale huffed.
“No, you're bragging about your Strauss tickets.”
“Well, if you don't want to come, I'm sure the man we met at the market with the German sausage-”
“I can move some things around.” Crowley was grinning like a loon and didn't care.
“Thank you.”
“Smugness doesn't suit you, you know?”
Crowley was giddy. It was the only way to describe the perfect, swirly-twirly feeling in his belly.
Strauss had been perfect and the print of Aziraphale’s lips, cool from the new snow, still lingered on Crowley’s cheek, as did the weight of his gloved hand on Crowley’s forearm.
It had been so soft. So flipping romantic.
Snow fell again as Crowley ducked into the coffee shop, breath turning to steam and glasses fogging up.
Aziraphale shot to his feet as Crowley stumbled in with a blast of cold air and snow.
He had a single red rose clutched to his chest.
“Aziraphale?” Crowley placed his laptop bag on the table.
The rose was held out to him abruptly. Then Aziraphale looked mortified. “I'm sorry, I just had such a good time last night, and it's perfectly alright if you don't feel that way about me, but I wanted to let you know that-”
Crowley swept forward, cupping Aziraphale's face and bringing their lips together.
Aziraphale inhaled sharply and then his hands were clutching Crowley's back and his hip, holding him close.
“Yes,” Crowley whispered as they parted.
“I've not asked you anything yet,” Aziraphale whispered.
“Doesn't matter. Answer's yes.”
“Oh.” Aziraphale wiggled happily. “That's lovely.”
He dropped his gaze and Crowley found himself rubbing the back of his neck as he studied his shoes.
“So,” Aziraphale tugged at the hem of his waistcoat. “May I get you a drink?”
“You may. And, just going to nip out for a bit. Don't go anywhere.” Crowley was already backing toward the door.
He was allowed to ask for what he wanted. If he needed to make a gesture to help the words come out too, well, that was his business.
“I can go to the counter to buy drinks, of course.”
“Of course. I'll be right back.”
“Alright?”
Crowley couldn't stand the worried little frown pulling on Aziraphale's face. He swept forward and kissed it away.
Aziraphale's hand found his waist and it was the perfect mix of slow and sweet and hot. Crowley was quite breathless when they parted again.
“Right. Back.” Crowley hurried from the shop before he got distracted again.
Aziraphale sat at the table with a cup of tea and Crowley's travel mug in front of him.
Crowley must have left it when he ran off earlier. Thank someone his wallet had been in his coat pocket or he might have forgotten that too.
He sat down and the way Aziraphale's eyes lit up made him forget the cold in the tip of his nose and on his cheeks.
He took the first small box from the bag at his feet and placed it on the table with a flourish.
“What's this?” Aziraphale asked.
“For you. Can't be on a date without getting you something too.”
“Is this a date?” Aziraphale twisted his teacup.
“Is it not?”
“I'd hoped that it could be. Really, I was so nervous I hadn't thought past my confession.”
“It's a date.” Crowley tapped the box. “And this is for you.”
Aziraphale’s smile rose very gently over his face. “Well, this is for you.” He handed the rose over and Crowley tried not to sniff it, or do anything else positively sappy, before he laid it gently next to him.
“Open yours,” Crowley insisted.
Aziraphale slowly took the lid from the box. His hands covered his face when he saw the hand-carved angel resting in its tissue paper.
“You can have whatever you'd like on your tree now.” Crowley moved the rose closer to himself, his fingers stroking the petals.
“I can. I can do whatever I like now too.”
“I certainly won't stop you.”
“If anything, I get the impression you'll positively encourage me.”
Crowley sat back in his chair and shrugged a shoulder.
Aziraphale gave him a flirtatious look and sipped his tea. He kept both hands wrapped around his cup and his eyes down. Crowley caught himself leaning forward. He placed his elbows on the table, holding his own mug, then let his leg stretch out. The toe of his shoe bumped gently against Aziraphale's.
“Not done this for a while,” Crowley confessed.
Aziraphale looked up almost shyly. “Neither have I.”
“We'll figure it out.”
“Yes.” Aziraphale sat up straight and his foot ran up the side of Crowley’s leg. “I rather think we will.”
The sheets were thicker than Crowley would have chosen for himself, but they were warm and soft against his skin. Most importantly, they smelled of Aziraphale.
He was warm and soft too. Except for the rasp of his beard against Crowley’s throat, but that was perfect too.
Crowley was as ready to melt as the fat flakes landing on the uncovered skylight above his head.
Blood and flesh warming beneath Aziraphale's palms. They hadn't even taken their clothes off yet. Buttons had come undone, trousers sagged and Crowley's Henley was being pushed up to his ribs, but still.
There'd be time to remove them later If Aziraphale didn't take him to pieces first.
Lips on his chin, fingers pressing into his thigh, edging up the cotton of his boxers and digging into his arse.
Words of love and encouragement murmured straight in his ear.
Crowley arched, his gaze fixing on the single rose in its vase on the bedside table. A different rose from the first one he'd been handed on that first date, but it was nearly a tradition now.
Happy three-week anniversary, Aziraphale had said.
It's Christmas Eve.
It can be both.
Three weeks of holding hands and careful kisses. Of harder, more urgent kisses until Crowley knew he would burst until the caution and hesitancy holding him back had melted away beneath Bucks Fizz and Bing Crosby and the sight of the Christmas Angel hanging in pride of place on Aziraphale's tree.
They'd decorated it together.
“You're doing beautifully,” Aziraphale whispered in the same way he'd asked if Crowley wanted to move to the bedroom.
Everything was sweet and treacle slow. Nothing rushed. Each moment savoured.
Hardly like they'd had a year of pent-up lust and yearning to work through at all. Except Crowley had never been so close to feeling overwhelmed. He was a squirmy mess as Aziraphale plucked at his nipple and then let his hand change direction.
His nails ran over Crowley’s belly and then fingers pushed beneath the elastic of his pants. Aziraphale never stopped kissing him.
Each press of their lips or sweep of their tongues bloomed into the next. All consuming and so bloody perfect that Crowley wanted to weep.
He fumbled with the buttons on Aziraphale's shirt, eagerly searching for more skin. The first stroke from Aziraphale’s hand put a halt to things. Crowley fisted the cotton shirt. “Go slow, I'm so close already.”
Aziraphale ground his hips against Crowley’s thigh, his own cock pressing insistently. “Shall we stop?”
“Fuck no.” Crowley held Aziraphale's wrist, adjusting the pace. “Just feels like being a teenager again. That sort of intensity.”
“If only I still had the energy and flexibility of my teens.”
“Sure we can muddle through.” Crowley's hands went to Aziraphale's trousers. The belt had been undone some time ago, before Crowley had been distracted by Aziraphale pushing him onto the bed. He got the zipper open quickly. “Be better with lube.”
“I have lube.”
Aziraphale was gone only a moment, but it was enough time for Crowley to get his Henley off, to shove his trousers further down. Before he could think about removing his boots, Aziraphale was covering him again. Crowley was in real danger of drowning in kisses, of being obliterated by that now slick hand stroking his cock.
Focus.
He got his hands beneath Aziraphale’s shirt, pushing it off his broad shoulders, taking the time to feel muscle and sinew. Aziraphale's size, his weight was enough to make Crowley feel safe.
He'd missed feeling safe.
“You're doing so well.” Aziraphale’s mouth was hot on Crowley’s ear, his cock a brand against his thigh. “Roll over for me.”
“Hnng.”
Aziraphale pushed himself up and Crowley scrambled onto his front. His trousers still being trapped around his ankles made it awkward and ungainly, but honestly, he liked the feeling of restraint as Aziraphale covered him again. Crowley sighed into the pillow, rolling his cock against those too-soft sheets.
“There now.” Aziraphale’s lubed fingers were opening him slowly and Crowley was already so content, so relaxed he felt like warm liquid.
“Aren't you beautiful?”
Crowley breathed through the pain in his chest, in the belief that for this clever, kind man, he could be beautiful. “Please,” he breathed into the pillow.
It seemed though, that despite a year of waiting, of Crowley staring and pining from the other side of a coffee shop table, Aziraphale would not be rushed.
Crowley's teeth plucked at the high thread count of the pillow, his body squirming as his legs fought against the constraint of his trousers. He was desperate to be fucked, yet this was perfect. The Christmas lights, the croony music and the lingering scents of food in the air. The rasp of Aziraphale’s beard and the hair on his chest rubbing against Crowley’s back.
“You squirmy thing,” Aziraphale whispered, finding the place inside Crowley that made him tingle from the roots of his hair all the way to his toes.
“Your fault.”
“Should I stop?” Aziraphale asked innocently.
Crowley huffed, lifted his arse from the bed. He didn't quite dare to call Aziraphale a bastard, not yet, but he thought it, enjoyed the way Aziraphale could let his bitchy, controlling side shine through with Crowley. It was nice too, that Crowley could let himself unravel too. That he could be needy and hungry, a complete mess for what Aziraphale gave him.
Crowley wanted to be fucked, but he would also be at complete peace floating here, edging himself without thought or consequence until Aziraphale told him otherwise.
A shifting of weight, the dipping of a mattress signaled Aziraphale was on the move again. Crowley was left empty, but the crinkle of a condom wrapper made his stomach flip.
“Beautiful,” Aziraphale whispered. “I do wish you could see yourself.”
Crowley closed his eyes, cheeks warming pleasantly with the praise as Aziraphale pushed inside him. It was liquid slow, careful, as everything had been so far. Crowley bit his lip and heard the catch in Aziraphale’s breath, the soft Oh , then oh, Crowley as he slid up to the hilt.
A strong arm worked around Crowley's chest, holding him close so they were plastered together, not an inch between them. Crowley went up on his elbows so his head could fall back against Aziraphale’s, almost cheek to cheek, warm breath on his skin, hands and flesh, and weight everywhere.
“Just like that,” Aziraphale rocked forward, still torturously relaxed as Crowley’s nerves grew tight and his belly clenched.
It was too much and Crowley had to bury his face in the pillow again. He was blushing everywhere, skin on fire with the pleasure of it.
Aziraphale finally began to put his back into it, bracing himself on his arms to thrust. Crowley missed the weight of that broad chest on his back but he had space now to lift on his knees a bit, to push back and find the right angle to get the friction he needed on his cock.
“May I?” Crowley caught himself asking before he'd really registered. “Need to touch myself.”
“Yes.” Aziraphale kissed the back of his neck. “You've been so good. Let me see you come apart for me.”
Crowley wriggled an arm between his legs and buried his face in the crook of his other elbow. He was drowning in the bliss of it, would never be able to hear Bing Crosby again without exploding.
“Tell me you're close.” Aziraphale’s strokes were hard but measured. If Crowley cracked open an eye he could see the muscles in his arm tensing.
Crowley nodded, making a whiney noise in the back of his throat.
“Thank goodness.”
Aziraphale's weight was back on him, pinning Crowley to the bed.
“Let go for me, my dear.”
That breathless plea had enough demand in it to make Crowley shatter. Everything tight and pulsing, too much to bear for just a moment, then loose-limbed bliss.
Aziraphale swore softly, expletives strung together with Crowley's name before his hips stuttered and he lowered his weight fully back onto Crowley's back.
They ate Christmas cake and drank Irish coffees in bed afterward.
“Thank you,” Crowley said, leaning back against the padded headboard. “For coming over to my table that day.”
“Your table?” Aziraphale sat up straighter, his fork pausing. “I think you'll find it was my table.”
“No. Definitely mine.”
Aziraphale tutted.
“I was there for weeks before you even came over,” Crowley laughed.
“Weeks during which I consistently tried to beat you in and never managed to get up early enough.”
Crowley looked at him. Eyebrows raised in disbelief. “Your act of kindness was a passive-aggressive ruse to get your table back.”
Aziraphale shrugged. “It worked, didn't it?”
“It did.” Crowley sipped his coffee. “In which case, I think you should be thanking me for stealing it in the first place.”
“Don't push your luck, fiend.” Aziraphale couldn't quite hide his smile.