Chapter Text
Breathe, Crowley. Inhale, exhale. Remind your stupid lungs to do their goddamn job. Don’t let the sight of that dandelion-fluff hair, those broad shoulders, those gorgeous, expressive eyes (pale blue in the harsh fluorescent light of the airport terminal) completely derail you.
I saw him before he saw me, thankfully, because I didn’t think he needed to witness yet another one of my ridiculous panic attacks.
I took another deep breath, willing my rebelling body to get with the program. I could do this. I was a badass firefighter, for fuck’s sake. I'd faced down raging infernos with less apprehension than I felt right now.
Then Aziraphale turned, those impossible eyes landing on me and lighting up with a joy so fierce it sent my heart racing, and I realized. This wasn't panic. This was something far more terrifying.
I willed my frozen body to move, to cross the terminal and stand before him and we stayed like that, unmoving, as travelers slipped around us like water in a stream.
“Hi,” I said. Brilliant and scintillating, me.
“Crowley,” he breathed, and then his arms were around me, pulling me tight against his plush warmth. I dropped my bags and returned his embrace, nestling my face into that soft spot between his neck and shoulder and breathing in that familiar scent that was so very Aziraphale.
We swayed together like that for a while, almost dancing, his presence a soothing balm that quieted all the static in my mind.
“I missed you,” I murmured against his skin.
“Oh, my darling,” he whispered into my hair. “I can’t believe you’re actually here. I kept thinking it was all just a wonderful dream and that I would wake up any second and find myself alone.”
I felt that familiar tightening in my throat. “Aziraphale,” I choked out. “You can’t just say things like that.”
He pulled back just enough for our eyes to meet, and suddenly, the bustling airport faded away. It was just us, suspended in this moment, breath mingling in the scant space between us.
And then he kissed me.
In that soft press of lips and how his hand cupped my cheek like I was something precious, I felt everything.
I felt the ache of our separation like a physical pain finally easing. I felt his joy bubbling up and spilling over with giddy warmth. His desire simmered just beneath the surface, held in check but unmistakable. And there was uncertainty there, too - a question in the slight tremor of his touch. Would I welcome this? Had anything changed?
But underlying it all, steady as a heartbeat, was something that felt an awful lot like coming home.
He asked me out to dinner, almost shyly, as if we’d never been naked and panting, tangled together in bed, gasping as we took each other apart.
He’d made a reservation at a nice restaurant in Albuquerque, where we indulged in braised lamb birria, pescado en mole and delicious cocktails created by professional mixologists.
I couldn't help but grin at Aziraphale across the table, feeling like a kid who'd snuck into a fancy party. “You know, you don't have to seduce me,” I teased, gesturing around with my ridiculously fancy drink. “I mean, this is... it's beautiful. And- and romantic.” I mock-whispered the last word, as if it might shatter the ambiance. “I would've been thrilled with cheap takeout and your company.”
Aziraphale returned my smile, his angelic features lighting up like the sun.
“I heard about this place when I first moved here, but I didn’t want to try it without you.”
I felt my breath hitch at the straightforward intimacy of this statement – the recognition that he’d been thinking of me this whole time, that he wanted to weave our lives together, creating new experiences, new memories.
“I’m glad you waited,” I said.
We spent hours talking, lost in each other until our waiter sighed and pointedly reminded us of closing time. We left him a massive tip and caught an Uber back to the assigned housing site. Aziraphale held my hand as he led me to our trailer, one of my backpacks slung over his shoulder.
“How did you get Michael on board with us being roommates?” I asked as Aziraphale unlocked the door. My nerves were running wild despite my internal reminders that this man had orchestrated most of this move so we could be together. This man had waited for me, texted and called me every day, multiple times a day, for the last three months.
"I may have put in some, ah, unpaid overtime,” he grinned, holding the door for me, and let me add that to the ever-growing list of evidence that Aziraphale really likes me. I should start writing this shit down for the times when my stubborn brain tells me I’m worthless.
The fact that he didn’t push me up against a wall as soon as the door closed behind us told me he was likely just as anxious as I was. The tense set of his shoulders and the fidgety twining of his fingers confirmed it, and as always, signs of his nervousness worked to alleviate my own.
“Why so on edge, angel?” I asked, my hands brushing over his shoulders, then sliding down his arms and back up again, feeling the tension slowly melt from his body under my touch.
Aziraphale let out a breathy laugh, tinged with relief. “I keep having to remind myself that this is real. That you’re here. That you actually want to be here. With me.”
“Me, too,” I admitted, meeting his storm-gray gaze.
“Let me – ah – show you to… hmmm…” He faltered, the anxiety creeping back into his voice. This was going to take some getting used to.
I smiled softly. “I don’t see a reason to have separate bedrooms.” His shoulders visibly relaxed, and the furrow in his brow smoothed out. I followed him into the bedroom on the right – the same side he’d inhabited at our last shared residence. We both dropped my bags by the bed.
“The, um, shower in this one is much bigger,” Aziraphale said. “Big enough for two, really.”
So that’s how we ended up kissing naked under the soothing, surprisingly hot water, soaping each other until we were slippery and laughing as we melted together, fingers exploring everywhere, lips trailing over necks and shoulders.
“I missed you, Crowley,” he breathed against my neck. “God, I missed you so much.”
He lifted his head, using his fingers under my chin to bring my mouth to his, capturing my lips and tasting me thoroughly, rutting softly against my thigh and moaning deep in his throat.
I turned him to face the tiled wall, pressing against his back, my fingers sliding down to his arse and between those luscious cheeks, circling his tight entrance. He gasped, bracing himself with both hands as I continued to explore, pushing one slippery finger inside him, back out to tease his rim.
“Cr-crowley,” he whispered, bucking his hips back against my fingers, seeking more. I slipped one finger back inside, thrusting slowly, opening him up before adding another. My other hand, slick with soap, began to pump his cock as I fucked him and oh, the needy, beautiful noises I was pulling from his throat…
I curled my fingers inside him, finding that spot that made him cry out – he thrust back onto my fingers, and forward into my wet, hot grasp around his cock, brokenly calling out my name between cries of “oh” and “fuck”, which turned quickly to “don’t stop, please, god, don’t…,” and ending with “Oh god I’m… oh…”, fading into unintelligible gasps and groans as he painted the wall with his come, shuddering and clenching around my fingers with the force of his orgasm.
Once he’d regained his breath, he reciprocated, sliding his fingers between my legs and caressing me while he kissed me over and over, his other arm wrapped around me to hold me steady while my knees buckled with the force of my climax, my cries echoing in the tiled chamber.
Michaela put me on the fireline with two new teammates. As the rookie, I was stuck with the heavy lifting, but Jim and Newt seemed easy to get along with. Jim, tall and athletic, gave me a big grin and a clap on the back before getting back to work. No nonsense. Newt was shorter, wiry and a bit shy, offering a cautious smile and few words, but we quickly fell into a rhythm.
Everything was going fine – nothing out of the ordinary – until the wind shifted unpredictably and gathered in strength, and suddenly our fireline was in the wrong place to stop the flames from reaching a neighborhood down in the canyon.
“Oh, shit,” gasped Jim. “Fire’s turning.”
“We don’t have time for another fireline,” I said, thinking quickly. “We need to light a backfire. Along this ridge.”
It was risky – a backfire is an intentionally set, controlled blaze meant to create a barrier by removing the fuel that a wildfire needs to survive. It requires precise timing and careful control to prevent the fire from escaping and becoming part of the main wildfire.
I’d done it before, but only once, and Newt and Jim were both quick to tell me their thoughts about lighting another fire in the middle of an already-raging wildfire.
“I’ll let you explain to those lovely people down there why we let their homes burn to the ground,” I snarled, gesturing to the canyon.
“Jim, I think Crowley’s right.” Newt’s voice was calm and clear and Jim nodded his quick agreement. They both turned to me, awaiting instructions. It was a heady, exhilarating, terrifying feeling.
“OK,” I breathed deeply, blowing it out slowly. “Here’s what we’re gonna do…”
The chief's voice crackled over the radio, "Outstanding work out there today, Crowley. That was some quick thinking with the backfire. Saved lives and land."
I froze, half-expecting a punchline or a sarcastic ‘just kidding’ to follow, like any praise I’d heard in the past. But nothing came. Just radio silence, leaving me alone with the unfamiliar warmth spreading in my chest.
"Uh, thanks, Chief," I finally replied, cutting myself off before I could start babbling. A small grin crept onto my face, knowing Aziraphale had heard her words and was likely already planning to bake me a celebratory cake or something equally as ridiculous. And you know what? I might even let him.
I was starting to think that maybe, possibly, I might be worthy of the occasional compliment.
My phone chirped at me while Aziraphale and I cuddled together on the sofa watching the latest season of Hell’s Kitchen.
Reading the message, I couldn’t help but chuckle.
“Bee said Gabe finally asked them out on a date,” I said.
“Took him long enough,” Aziraphale replied with an amused scoff.
I continued reading. “He took them to this super-fancy restaurant and tried to speak French to the server, but mangled it completely. Bee said he inadvertently ended up asking the server if he wanted a threesome with them.”
Aziraphale burst into laughter – a sound that never failed to fill me with joy.
“Are they going to go out with him again?” he asked, still giggling.
I texted the question, and read the almost immediate reply: “They said Gabe agreed to let them do all the talking in the future. Mmmm. I’m getting some distinct dom/sub vibes here.”
“More power to Bee if they can get Gabe to keep his mouth shut for a change,” said Aziraphale with a cheeky grin.
Our lives fell into a comfortable rhythm. Mornings started with Aziraphale's meticulous tea-making ritual, while I stumbled around like a caffeine-deprived zombie before we pulled ourselves together enough to make breakfast.
Some days we worked together, but most often we didn’t and we were fine with that. We each knew how distracting we were to the other.
Evenings often found us on the sofa, Az buried in a book, me sprawled across his lap, binging whatever trashy reality show caught my fancy that week, him frequently joining me in making irreverent comments about the contestants.
We had a lot of amazing sex, of course, that undeniable, inimitable chemistry sparking between us constantly. If we were in the same space, we were touching. We couldn’t help it - our bodies gravitated together like magnets.
Sometimes we clashed. My anxiety and impulsiveness were still there, of course; part of the warp and weft of my life.
When I decided to ‘brighten up’ the place by purchasing a truckload of houseplants, Aziraphale groaned, pinching the bridge of his nose.
“It looks like an Amazon rainforest in here,” he griped. “And what are you going to do with all of these when we have to move? Did you even bother to think about that?”
His rigid perfectionism faded but didn’t disappear.
I had to take deep breaths and a time out when I caught him alphabetizing my vinyl records by album title.
“I had them grouped by genre, Aziraphale,” I growled. “And even if I wanted them alphabetized, why would I do it by album name? Everyone, in the entire record-listening world, would organize them by artist.”
But for every squabble, every eye-roll, every exasperated sigh, there were a hundred moments of us just being… us. Together.
The way he would absently run his fingers through my hair while reading.
How he'd leave sticky notes in my work boots, cheerily reminding me to ‘stay hydrated!’ or encouraging me to ‘have a great day!’
The proud little smile he'd get when I cooked dinner for us without burning anything.
The quirky grin he’d flash when I said something cheeky or started an argument for no reason.
How he would bite the insides of his cheeks and try not to laugh when I regaled him with horrible puns.
How I would sit behind him on the sofa and rub his broad shoulders, easing the tension from his muscles after a long day, and then he’d do the same to my perpetually sore feet.
The way we would seek out new hiking trails and restaurants and present them to the other like a gift.
The way we curled into each other in our sleep, always waking up completely intertwined, tangled together like puppies.
On one of those quiet evenings, Aziraphale was dozing beside me on the bed, a book splayed open on his chest, and it hit me with the force of a speeding train, the words bubbling up in my throat, those three little words we'd been dancing around for months.
I opened my mouth, then hesitated. Old fears, old scars whispered their warnings. Instead of fighting against them, which only made them stronger, I acknowledged them, and in doing so, I realized, we didn’t need to say anything. Not right now.
It was there, in every gesture, every kiss, gaze, touch, shared laugh and whispered word.
I draped a blanket over him, pressed a kiss to his forehead, and whispered, “Sleep well, angel.”
His eyes fluttered open briefly, a soft smile tugging at his lips. “Goodnight, my dear,” he murmured.
Whatever this was between us – this wonderful, terrifying, beautiful thing – it was ours. And we had all the time in the world to let it grow.
artwork by ghostrat; background and title edited by my son, who is very patient with me.