Archive of Our Own ^beta

“Excuse me, Sir — You can’t have that in here.” 

The man who works the front desk at the Buckinghamshire Public Library looks like sin waiting to happen. Some people of a less… open-minded disposition would probably assume otherwise, Crowley thinks, what with the short preppy steps he uses to walk about the place, his hands clasped behind his back, and the little round glasses perched on the tip of his nose sometimes, but he himself just knows the man is likely more delicious than a most decadent snack. Probably a more exhilarating experience than the tallest ride at the annual fair. The thoughts are absurd, completely shameless, but they’re true. The man is perfectly wrapped in his tightly tailored clothes, he’s wearing socks that match the handkerchief tucked in his pocket, for crying out loud, and he just has that smooth and rich air about him that suggests he’s waiting for someone to properly… wreck him. 

“Have what? This?” 

Maybe Crowley just has a bit of a crooked mind. A bit too much fun playing with toys that aren’t his. The loud cackle of the thin layer of aluminum foil being popped sounds almost offensive in the quiet study space, and the face Crowley makes as he throws a piece of gum in his awaiting mouth looks even more-so. There’s just enough of a smirk on his lips and the hint of a challenge in his brow to really allow him to get a feel of whether or not he even has a sliver of a chance, here. 

Some heads turn to stare at them. The gorgeous clerk sort of perks up, his tuft of white-blond hair bouncing just a little — because of course he’s blonde, the bleached cherry on top of Crowley’s cake — and then he scowls at him, crosses his arms over his chest. 

“Really, sir? You’re causing a disturbance .” He says it like it’s the most scandalous crime, like Crowley should be properly ashamed.

“Crowley,” he hates being called sir, though, if he’s honest with himself here, it doesn’t sound half-bad coming out of the pretty boy’s mouth. “Very sorry. Don’t mean to disturb. I just get restless without something to occupy my mouth with, you know?”

He’s being too bold; it’s evident the very second the man scoffs in offense, then looks down at him like he’s a weird stain on the carpet.

“I’ll get security if I have to,” he sort of half-yells, half-whispers. Crowley knows he shouldn’t grin, it’ll just infuriate the guy, but there’s something about his poor attempt at stern and authoritative that’s just plain adorable. “I can see you from my desk. Spit it out, don’t stick it underneath the table, and don’t force me to come back here.”

The clerk turns around, a swift turn on his heels, keeping his stupidly good posture as he walks back to his desk, and Crowley finds himself slouching in his chair to keep him in his direct line of sight. He’s cute. The thought kind of makes him take a double take at his own mind. He never thinks people are cute. He thinks they’re fuckable, or maybe they’re objectively beautiful, sure, but he doesn’t walk through life throwing around the word cute.  

Yet the clerk is exactly that. There’s no denying it. Crowley’s chewing down on four pieces of gum already, and he’s debating popping in a fifth one, if only to watch the guy shoot up from his rolling chair, walk back here, and follow through on whatever threat he’d meant to imply just then. 

He notices some people already shaking their heads at him, and he decides against it. Anyway, he still has eighteen pages to write for his Ethics paper, and he just can’t afford to get kicked out of the library before he even has a chance to get a brainstorm going. Online school is a bitch , and he can’t ever get any work done at home. 

Crowley knows the clerk’s looking at him when he finally stands up, a loud screech of his chair announcing his surrender, and he goes to throw his gum out in a small bin by a shelf. He just leans forward and allows the gum to fall in, his gaze fixed on the man’s face, and he’s unable to see much of his expression from where he is, but he’s sure of himself enough to give a small smile and a polite, even if only a tiny bit mocking, bow. 

He hopes the man rolls his eyes at him before he focuses back on his computer screen. It’s a bit thrilling to have an effect on somebody, no matter how immature the means, or how silly it all might seem. Crowley can recognize it, but it’s true that he hasn’t openly flirted with anyone in a long time, and he’s not exactly available for any kind of romantic endeavor at the moment. He’s a man in his mid-forties, trying to get his Theological Science degree from Zoom recordings, forty-minute quizzes, and forum discussion posts. He knows he dropped out more than twenty years ago, but still, he can’t help but think that the whole of the education system is a pathetic fucking joke nowadays. 

Whatever. He’s doing it. Uploading his essays to web platforms and defending his research to his professor over video calls. Whatever it takes. He just wants to get a fucking paper that proves he’s worth something; not just a pile of crazy drunk stories, or the punk with red hair you call on a Friday night when you’re bored and you’re hoping to get smashed right out of your mind.

The library is a good place to not be that person. The high ceilings and the endless rows of smart literature make him feel important, and he’s comfortable in the soft lighting. He feels strangely motivated by the surrounding energy of other mind-linked people just as focused on their own work as he is (or at least, as he ought to be).

It’s only a bonus that the man who works there every night is very, very enjoyable to look at. Crowley smiles at him every time he walks by, and he tries not to be too obvious in his desire to jump across the main counter and offer himself entirely up for grabs, but his grip is always a bit tighter on the leather strap of his messenger bag, and his smile always more like a smirk, when the man welcomes him with a soft-spoken good evening and a small wave, a shy hand. 

Crowley’s always there at night. Always in the same spot, always reading an ancient volume of religious texts or furiously typing away at his keyboard. On his more uninspired days, he just sits there and tries not to tear his own hair out, but he finds it always helps to take multiple unnecessary trips to the loo, if only to walk by the main counter and give himself a reminder of how gorgeous men can be; 

Men in pastel blue button-ups and tartan waistcoats, in cozy sweater vests and brown plaid slacks. Men with full pink lips who still wear bowties well into the first half of the 21st century. It’s not men, really, it’s just a man, just one. It’s him. It’s the way he should be so insignificant yet still manages to carve himself a little place of importance into Crowley’s wildest thoughts. 

It shouldn’t be, but the whole chewing gum incident is almost like a revelation. It’s the first time the man’s uttered more than two words at Crowley, and already he craves to hear more. He taps his pen against the cover of his notebook, pondering, and it’s beyond his capacity to resist; already his mind is filling up with mischievous plans to enforce more… interaction between the two of them.

He’s rusty, and he’s not truly hoping for anything to come out of this, so maybe it’s actually the perfect opportunity. He can always respectfully back off if he sees that things aren’t working out the way he hopes they’ll be. It’s just a way to remind his heart that it’s perfectly capable of picking up its pace, a game to play to make him reminisce about what it’s like to feel a bit of desire, a bit of hope, a bit of thrill. 

(Maybe it’s actually a mid-life crisis, but that thought is just a tad too depressing, so he quickly shoves that shit away). 

Regardless — it’s all harmless fun. Crowley looks back at the front desk now, at the man sifting through a book and typing things on his keyboard, and their eyes meet when he looks up to check if Crowley’s behaving; and Crowley is, he’s being a good student, a good citizen. He only intertwines his fingers together and stretches his arms behind his head, before he shoots the guy a knowing grin. It travels faster than a bullet; even from back here, Crowley sees the clerk’s eyebrows shoot up, a bit of a fluster in his usually pristine manners, and then he seems to force himself to focus back on his work. 

Right. Just some harmless fun, isn’t it?

Let’s see if I still got it. 

___

Crowley starts by borrowing an outrageous amount of books. No one in their right minds reads actual books for research anymore; everything is perfectly available online, but Crowley decides that using the Library for what it is – a Library – is probably a better way to get talking with the man than acting out and maybe hoping for a stern talking-to. 

He finds copies of the Old and the New Testament, and Bede’s Ecclesiastical History of England, and some other smaller paperbacks of less famous Theologians, and he drops his stack on the counter. The man smiles as he gets up from his chair, then he gives him a courtesy nod before he drags the books to his side of the counter, and he kindly asks Crowley to scan his card. 

Crowley does, and then he clears his throat. 

“Not many people borrowing books nowadays, huh?”

It’s such a boring line to start with but he’s not quite feeling like his usual self. The man only hums a sound of agreement and then he starts scanning the books, stamping them, sliding their spines across the big magnet trapped in the counter, and placing them back in a neater stack than Crowley previously had them in. He’s got nice hands, Crowley thinks as he watches him at work; thick fingers with rough lines and a good grip, maybe some papercuts scattered across the skin of his fingertips. 

“You’ve been working here a long time?”

Boring, boring, incredibly, stupidly fucking boring, but he’s got no other subject to latch onto. 

“I have. More than ten years already. Time just… flashes by,” the man smiles, and just like that he’s done with the books, giving a light tap on the one at the top of the pile to gesture to Crowley that he can grab them and get back to his studies. “Due back in two weeks,” he mentions, finally. 

“Ten years? Oof,” Crowley slides the books under his armpit, pressing them against his side, but then, instead of walking away, he sort of lingers there. “You like it?” 

“I sure do,” the clerk smiles, warm and polite at first, but then he seems to have a thought, because the corner of his mouth twitches up further, and he says, “Except for when people give me trouble, of course.”

“Trouble? You don’t say?” Crowley does a really piss-poor job of acting surprised, but really, it doesn’t matter, because the clerk rolls his eyes at him, and it’s absolutely wonderful. “What kind of trouble?”

“I’m sure you know,” the man would’ve sounded annoyed if it hadn’t been for the smile still teasing at his lips. “No food in the Library is a rule a lot of people have a hard time following.”

Sweet. He remembered him. 

“I’d hardly qualify chewing gum as food,” Crowley teases, leaning a hip against the edge of the counter, and oh, he’s feeling it now, the thrill of a light bit of flirting going on. “No sustenance, no nutrients, no…” 

“I’m not going to argue food semantics with you,” the clerk interrupts. “I’m just saying – There are a lot of adults acting like children, here. Always trying to get away with things. And it does get annoying.” 

He’s feisty! Crowley beams as he realizes it, the undercut insult thrown his way making him feel nothing but pride, and maybe a bit of devilish curiosity. 

“Oh, you hurt me so,” he licks his lips. “Are you trying to imply I’m… immature?” 

“Well. If the shoe fits…” 

Crowley erupts in a bit of laughter, but he quiets himself when he realizes the sound of their hushed conversation is really the only noise in the room. He pulls a face to apologize for his outburst, and then he says, 

“I guess maybe it does,” he shrugs. “At least, a lot of people in my life would probably agree. Though — Honest, I’m actually on a bit of a… reinvention journey, as it were.”

He’s dangling a bait, and he knows it. 

The clerk bites down on it. 

“Reinvention?” 

“Yup — Maybe even a rebirth. Or… whatever. I spent a long time running away from responsibilities. And it’s the kind of downfall you only realize you went through when you reach the bottom of the pit. You know?” 

“No, I don’t know,” the clerk smiles. “I’ve always very much cared about my responsibilities.” 

Oh, what a bastard!

“Ha! Yes. You sure look like it.” 

Crowley’s grip on his books is getting weak, the stack is properly heavy, and he readjusts his hold on them as the man narrows his eyes at him, 

“Crawley, was it?”

“Crowley,” he corrects, and alright, maybe he should feel a bit offended, but close enough. He remembered him. “And you…?”

The clerk extends a hand for Crowley to shake. 

“It’s a mouthful,” he warns, and then, “Aziraphale.” 

And what an exquisite mouthful it is, Crowley thinks. Aziraphale. Crowley shakes his hand and tests the syllable of his name being closed lips, Aziraphale, and then he feels the urge to speak it properly, so he says, 

“Very nice to meet you, Aziraphale,” he lowers his voice some more, and sure, it’s because they’re in a library, but also, it’s because he knows his lower range is downright sexy. Aziraphale’s grip stays firm, but his eyes go unsteady. “I’ll try my best not to cause you any more… trouble. Promise.” 

Aziraphale chuckles as his hand leaves Crowley’s, and he’s not exactly blushing, but there’s a definite tint to his cheeks, and a bit of a twinkle on the surface of his deep blue eyes.

“I sure hope so,” he says. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have work to get back to. I wish you a good evening. Just let me know if you ever need… anything.” 

Crowley nods and he smiles, but before he can think of something else to say, Aziraphale is already turning around and walking back to his desk. He shoots him a glance when Crowley doesn’t leave immediately, with sort of a question behind it, was there anything else?, but Crowley just smiles again, and finally his limbs get moving.

He walks back to his spot – which isn’t actually his , it’s just the one he always chooses when it’s available, because the window beside it goes from the ceiling to the floor, and the chair is far better-cushioned than the other seats in the place – and he drops his stacks of useless books on the little table. They’ll be such a bitch to carry home, he thinks as he looks at the tower they make; maybe he should just leave them here. But then again, Aziraphale would probably find it weird.

Who borrows that many books, only not to read them?

Crowley sighs and he sits down and he can’t help it, he looks back at the front desk. Aziraphale isn’t looking at him, he’s properly focused on his work now, but Crowley figures that, hey, at least he did make a bit of progress here. 

It’s not the man or the clerk or the pretty boy anymore; it’s Aziraphale. 

Aziraphale. 

Being able to put a name to his face does nothing less than rekindle Crowley’s interest. 

___

“Hello there, Aziraphale,” Crowley decides he can’t be bothered with pretense and subtlety; let the guy know he remembers every syllable of his ridiculously unique name, who cares? “I want to renew these three. And borrow these.”

The pile of books he drops on the counter is so high it almost hides his entire torso from view. Aziraphale walks to the counter and raises an eyebrow. 

“Already? Boy, you read fast.” 

(No – he just doesn’t read at all. But Aziraphale doesn’t need to know that). 

“Comes with the degree,” he says, instead. “Can’t study Theology and expect to enjoy books at a slow pace.”

“Theology?” Aziraphale looks impressed. “I can’t say I’d enjoy any of those books, at whatever pace I might read them.”

Crowley drops an elbow on one of the stacks, and leans on it. 

“No? And yet you seem like such a proper, Bible-enthusiast gentleman.” 

“And you seem properly wicked, but here we are,” He takes a beat. “What’s with the red hair, anyway?” 

Crowley is kind of taken aback by the random question. Well, firstly, he’s completely surprised (and delighted) to hear Aziraphale call him wicked, but then he can’t even rejoice in that for too long, because he has to quickly settle down and find an answer that’s appropriate. 

“What, you don’t think it suits me?” Crowley pouts a bit, only because he knows it makes him look soft and somewhat irresistible to some (well, most) people. “You’re one to talk, anyway. No one is that blonde naturally.”

Aziraphale grabs a book from underneath Crowley’s arm and Crowley kind of falters forwards, losing his balance. He laughs at the absurdity of it, at the fact that Aziraphale looks actually annoyed by Crowley’s comment, or at least annoyed enough to act out in this small, childish way. 

“Blonde is a perfectly normal and natural choice,” Aziraphale scoffs as if he’s defending his honor, lips pursed tight together. “I’ve always been blonde. I just like to freshen it up. You, on the other hand…”

“Red hair is my brand,” Crowley shrugs. “And I was born ginger, you see? Copper, almost. But I got tired of the teasing, and I figured a deep red was a bit more… stylish. Can’t imagine myself coloring it any other way anymore.”

He doesn’t quite understand why he offers so much of himself in such a little burst of words, but there’s something about Aziraphale that makes him feel at ease to do so. He never really brings up his teenage years with anyone – the word teasing a nice substitute for bullying – and he only realizes now that he’s a bit nervous Aziraphale will inquire further about it. 

But Aziraphale doesn’t. He just tilts his head, considering the words, and then he says, 

“Well, then, to answer your question – It does suit you. Suits you just… fine.” 

“Aw – just fine?” Crowley pouts again, and Aziraphale shakes his head, stifling down a laugh as he keeps scanning more of Crowley’s books. “I was hoping you might say I look dashing.”

He never uses that word, not really, but Aziraphale definitely looks like someone who would have it in their vocabulary. 

“Oh – I would’ve said you look quite astonishing, but that would hardly be professional of me.”

Astonishing? 

Jesus Christ – Crowley liked to flirt with strangers from time to time, but he never really got as good as he gave. This, however? This was great. 

“No, no – don’t try and be professional for my sake,” Crowley grins. “Be honest, always – and we’ll be golden.”

Yeah, tell me I’m astonishing – tell me you want to have me right there between the PS’s and the PZ’s – we could make those fantasy novels shake and fall from the shelves. 

“I’m afraid complete honesty would make us cross a line – from unprofessional to downright scandalous,” Aziraphale is purposely whispering now, not just keeping his voice low, and Crowley gulps, leans forwards, drinks in his words. “And I do try so hard to be… respectable, at work.”

“Fuck respectable!” Crowley almost shouts, and then he quiets himself when he notices Aziraphale’s shocked expression. “Sorry, sorry – Just — Ngk.”

He takes a breath, then tries very hard to find enough words to string together to make a coherent sentence. 

“I just mean – I’m all for scandal! Really,” and then, when Aziraphale gives him a disbelieving look, “ Honestly. You can shock me any day. Or – Well. You can always try. I won’t tell a soul.” 

By now Aziraphale is done scanning and stamping the books, so he’s just standing there, smiling at him. 

Crowley kind of grunts and clears his throat. He feels a bit out of his depth, suddenly. It’s the silence that’s almost oppressive, the thoughts in Aziraphale’s mind unavailable to him that make him feel smaller than he actually is. 

“I’m just saying. I’m not easy to scandalize. I’d very much enjoy seeing you give it a try.”

It’s easy to miss, but Aziraphale bites the inside of his bottom lip. Crowley raises his eyebrows at it, his gaze fixated on it, his cock definitely interested in it. He hadn’t been wrong; for all the prim, proper, polite, innocent aura Aziraphale emanates, there’s also a deep, carefully concealed, filthy pit of wild thoughts and fantasies. Crowley is sure of it now, just looking at him, just hearing him talk so confidently and effortlessly of scandalous thoughts, and lack of respectability. 

“I’ll – keep that in mind,” Aziraphale says, simply, and Crowley’s shoulders kind of slack down. He’d been hoping for a monologue of improper thoughts. “You should… Get back to your studies. Saint-Augustine, I believe I noticed? Not an easy read.”

Crowley stutters his way through some phrase or other, picking up his books, and if he feels defeated for a moment, by the time he gets back to his seat, he’s smiling to himself like an idiot. 

Forget about a sliver of a chance, forget about harmless fun.

If Aziraphale had confirmed anything just then, it wasn’t that he was unavailable to his flirtations, but rather that he was incredibly receptive to them.  

___

Aziraphale doesn’t just scan books, or catalog them, or shelve them back where they belong; he’s also there for any other task, as required. 

It seems that helping people use the printer is one of those tasks. Crowley notices him get mad at paper jams, or cursing people out for trying to send a print job repeatedly when it’s only taking a while because it’s a ginormous file, and it’s always adorable the way he tries so hard to conceal his anger, but inevitably ends up looking at people like he’d rather they vanish right out of existence. 

The printing stations are set up at the front, near Aziraphale’s desk, and Crowley doesn’t usually have much stuff to print – or, if he does, he’s tech-savvy enough to get the printer to spit them out by himself – but he decides on a random Sunday night that he’ll definitely need the clerk to help print out a couple hundred pages of some text he doesn’t even intend to read. 

(He knows it’s wasteful for the environment – but shut up, alright, he doesn’t care). 

Aziraphale is scrolling through his PDF with a quizzical look on his face, looking back at him like he’s a bit crazy. Crowley smiles, innocently enough.

“You need… all this? In print?”

“Sure do,” he says. “Please, and thank you.”

“You know it’ll cost you, like… fifty pounds? At least?”

Oh. Well, fuck. Alright. 

“Ah – Huh – Sure, that’s fine,” he says, although it very much isn’t. “School comes before all, and everything.”

Apparently before food for the week, but that’s a problem for another day. 

“Right, well… Did you want double-sided? And portrait is fine?”

“Yeah – Sure. Whatever works.”

Aziraphale messes around with the printing settings and then he asks Crowley to type in his log-in details so that the outrageous price can be charged to his account. Crowley does exactly that, but as he leans forward to get his fingers on the keyboard, he gets a waft of Aziraphale’s scent; a very tasteful cologne with earthy tones, hints of pine and musky oak. Crowley shuts his eyes and inhales deeply, and it takes almost everything in him not to snap his head and attack the man’s neck with his lips. 

“Damn you smell good,” he allows himself to say, because really there was nothing subtle about the way he savored it, and at this point, might as well let him know it. “Very good. Damn.”

Aziraphale mutters something under his breath, most likely a very soft-spoken thank you, but Crowley finds himself more focused on the way he loosens his collar a bit, then looks around them in somewhat of a panic, as if the old lady perusing the Atlases, or the teenage guy playing some game on his laptop, will take notice of all this unabashed flirting. 

Crowley laughs at it; he can’t help it. 

“Oh, c’mon, don’t get shy on me now,” he slams the enter key to send his document off to the print gods. “I just like a man who smells good. Who doesn’t?” 

Aziraphale doesn’t grant him an answer. He just walks towards the printer, waiting for it to make a noise to confirm Crowley’s document is en route, and then, when it doesn’t, he sighs, walks back to Crowley’s computer and opens the print queue, all the while looking a bit clueless about it all.

Again, it’s delightfully adorable. 

“You’ll get it to work, right? I really need this thing.” 

Crowley is usually a pretty decent customer — always understanding of malfunctions and technical difficulties — but after weeks of observation, he knows the printer is a bit of a sensitive thing for Aziraphale; and he guesses right when he figures that his fairly useless comment will coax a reaction out of him. 

“Will I get it — I’m trying! And I’m sure you wouldn’t spend that much money if you didn’t really need it, trust me.” 

Crowley kind of chuckles at himself internally, because — well — maybe Aziraphale shouldn’t be so sure. Outwardly, though, he just nods his head, very solemnly, and thanks Aziraphale again for his help. 

“You can thank me when your Hellish document prints,” he scoffs, “This printer’s really the bane of my existence…”

After two restarts of the computer, and a ridiculous amount of paper jams, Crowley’s document does end up printing in its entirety. Crowley grabs the stack of loose leaves, and he still doesn’t quite know what he’ll do with it, but still, he shoots Aziraphale a very warm, very appreciative smile. 

“Don’t know what I’d have done without you,” he says, and then, fuck it, he winks. “See ‘ya.”

He’s not staying at the Library to study this time, there’s a lot of chores that need doing at home, but he makes sure to swing his hips a bit more dramatically than he usually does as he saunters off. 

He can only hope Aziraphale’s eyes follow him, and by the time he reaches the door, he can’t help it; 

He looks back, bringing his chin to his shoulder, and he does it just in time to see Aziraphale blush a bright red, and quickly tear his gaze away. 

___

Midterms are coming up. It’s not exactly the ideal time to be constantly distracted by filthy thoughts of bending the Library clerk over the counter, taking him right there, or falling to his knees and making it a personal mission to have his throat feel sore in the morning, but Aziraphale is just… a bit too captivating, and Crowley hasn’t felt this captivated by anyone, or anything, in a long, long time. 

He should really find some other place to be productive, but he’s gotten used to his spot at the library. He likes the window, and the chair, and the view he has on the front desk, of course, but he also likes the plants that are scattered there. Real plants, too, not those dreadfully fake ones that people get because they’re too lazy to take care of them properly. Crowley almost feels an emotional connection to the little branch of Geranium that’s growing from a coffee mug on the corner of his table; somehow, it’s always in bloom, and it’s just a nice thing to look at when his brain is not cooperating with his work. There’s also a pot of English Ivy, with its vines falling almost all the way to the floor, sitting on a shelf right beside him, and Crowley praises it for its good work every time he finds his seat. The thing grows fast, and he tells it he loves it every chance he gets.

So – He likes the plants. He hasn’t named them or anything, that would be ridiculous, but he does pluck some yellow leaves from time to time, and makes sure to angle them towards the sunlight. It’s nothing much, really, but he takes care of them, a bit like they’re his own. 

The only thing he does not do is water them. That’s Aziraphale’s task, apparently; Crowley discovers as such when, one night, a bit before closing time, he notices him walking around with a watering can. 

“We’ll be closing soon,” he whispers to Crowley as he gives the Geranium far too much water. Crowley cringes, but he doesn’t interfere. “Have a good night.”

Crowley nods, and he watches him walk further off to drown some other plant, intent on not working for however many minutes he has left before security makes its rounds. He’s far too preoccupied by the light bounce in Aziraphale’s steps, the click of his shoes echoing in the quiet space, God – the way his shirt riles up a bit when he stretches out, on his tiptoes, to reach a pot that’s sitting a bit too high on a shelf. 

I could reach that easily, Crowley thinks, but really, it’s because part of him longs to be Aziraphale’s shadow, and do everything for him. 

As he finally leaves the Library, Aziraphale is back at his desk, packing his bag, turning off his desk lamp. Crowley considers waiting for him outside, offering to walk him home, anything to get something going beyond whatever silly game they’ve been playing; but despite how forward they’ve both been about their interest so far, there’s something nagging at him that stops him from being that bold. 

Maybe he just feels it deep in the hollow of his bones, that it’s not the right time. It’s one thing to flirt, but it’s quite another to risk rejection from someone you have to see almost every single day. 

Crowley loves the library.

He thinks he likes Aziraphale. 

God — don’t let me ruin this now, please. 

___

His plants are gone. 

Well, not his plants. And they’re not gone. They’ve just been replaced. Crowley spots the Geranium on some other desk while he’s on his way to his regular spot, and he notices the English Ivy, too, near the front door now; by the time he sees the pitiful things that have been put in their place, he’s fuming. He drops his bag on the chair, and walks with a very determined step to the front desk. 

“Aziraphale – what have you done?”

Aziraphale is standing behind the counter, talking with some other person, but Crowley doesn’t bother standing in line. He just arrives there and says this. 

“Ah – Huh – Crowley, excuse me, if you’ll just let me –” 

“What’s she looking for?” Crowley interrupts, and then the woman stutters something about Jane Austen, so Crowley waves her off, “Second floor, third shelf on your right. Now shoo.”

The woman seems a bit flabbergasted, but she does, at least, shoo off.

Aziraphale, on the other hand, looks utterly appalled. 

“You – You can’t do that!” He scoffs. “That’s not how you… talk to people.” 

“Well, I don’t work here, do I?” He rests his elbows on the counter, then leans forward so he can speak more clearly without having to raise his voice. “But – Listen. Why did you go and switch pots around?!” 

“Pots?”

“Plants. The plants in my spot. Not in my spot anymore. Did you do that?” 

Aziraphale breathes out a sound of understanding, and then he chuckles, only a bit mocking. 

“Yes? Is that… a problem?”

“It’s – something! You know, I actually grew a liking to them – they’ve supported me through midterms, honestly – and now you just went ahead and messed up the whole vibe of my study spot!”

“Shh, Crowley, quiet,” Aziraphale reminds him that he’s being a bit loud, and then, he looks genuinely apologetic when he says, “I wasn’t aware you cared so much for them. I just…”

Aziraphale stops himself before he finishes his sentence. 

“You just – what?” 

“I just… I just realized the plants in your vicinity were doing so much better, for some reason,” Aziraphale sighs, and then he looks almost ashamed when he says, “I’m really having a hard time keeping the rest of them… happy. And you… you seemed to do the trick. Somehow. But – you know – don’t ask me how. Cause I don’t know. ” 

The angry veil on Crowley’s face sort of falls. He feels the harsh lines of his forehead soothe themselves, slowly, and then he gets a bit of a smile on his lips, a squint in his right eye. 

“Is that so?” He asks. “You know, I think you might have an easier time if you actually let them dry out , before you flood them.” 

Aziraphale lets out a short laugh, and he looks a bit exasperated for a second, but nothing overly dramatic. 

“Ah — Well, I just don’t have much of a green thumb,” he sighs, “Didn’t think there was such a thing as too much water.” 

“Well, there you go,” Crowley smiles. “I’ll… argh. Fine. I’ll deal with the, honestly, quite pathetic Spider plant you dropped off on me.”

“Really? Do you believe you can save it?” 

The thing’s got more brown leaves than green, and its roots are bursting out of its pot from all sides, but Aziraphale looks so delighted at the prospect that Crowley should be able to bring it back to life, that he can’t bring himself to give a fair diagnosis. 

“Yep. Sure will. You – you just… you don’t touch it. You… plant reaper.” 

Aziraphale laughs, loud and bright, and immediately, he brings a hand to his mouth to quiet himself down. Crowley realizes then how lovely it is to make him laugh; not a shy, polite chuckle, but a burst of happiness in his eyes, even a bit of surprise at the sound coming out of his own mouth. 

Crowley says something else about taking the plant home to re-pot it if they even want to stand a chance at saving it, and Aziraphale is all happy; of course, of course, thank you. 

Just as Crowley’s about to head back to his seat, the woman who’d previously been talking with Aziraphale comes back from upstairs. Her steps are loud and heavy and, as she reaches the counter, she’s obviously perplexed, if not downright angry. 

“Jane Austen isn’t where you said! It’s all historical books about Athens.” 

Crowley hides a laugh in the crook of his elbow, and he escapes before Aziraphale can unleash holy hell upon him. He does send a deathly glare his way, but Crowley only winks back at him.  

He’s got far better things to do than gardening, far more important things, if he’s honest here;

Still, as he leaves the library that night, he grabs the little pot, with the pitiful little plant in it, and brings it home. 

___

On Friday nights, the public library is almost completely devoid of people. It starts getting empty by late afternoon, and by the time Crowley comes back from the little coffee place down the street, where he often grabs a turkey sandwich for dinner, he’s almost always the only person left in the building (save from Aziraphale, of course). 

It’s late October. It’s Friday night. Crowley feels a bit mischievous; he gets that way when Halloween approaches, doesn’t really know why, but he does. He bought a little box of 12 specialty chocolate pieces at a store nearby, and although he hadn’t really planned on eating any of it at the library, by his second hour of reading, he finds himself taking it out of his bag. 

He looks around. There’s really no one else. Aziraphale is deeply focused on his computer screen. 

He opens the box. The thin cardboard lid makes a faint woosh as he pulls it off. Red tissue paper covers the delicacies, and with careful hands, he peels it off. He slides the box at the corner of his desk, hoping it’s hidden enough from view, but he’s not exactly subtle when he pops a piece into his mouth. 

It’s delicious: a crunchy exterior with nougat and caramel inside that melt right on his tongue. He doesn’t usually have a sweet tooth, but barely has he swallowed it that he finds himself grabbing another one, and another. 

He doesn’t realize anyone has noticed until he hears someone clear their throat right beside him. He jumps, startled, his mouth still full of chocolate, and when he looks up to see Aziraphale standing there, he smiles at him, licking the brown residue off his front teeth. 

“Oh — Hi,” he says, deciding it best to act completely oblivious. “It’s a fine evening, innit?” 

“Crowley…” Aziraphale shakes his head, “Seriously?”

“What?” He shrugs. “I’m being careful, I swear —“

“Careful doesn’t cut it,” Aziraphale is scolding him, and Crowley shouldn’t find it so exciting, but God help him, he does. “You know better.” 

“Yeah, yeah, alright, but —“ Crowley suddenly has a thought. “Want a piece?” 

He grabs the box and offers it up to Aziraphale. He shakes it a bit to tempt him further when he notices clear hesitation displayed on his face. 

“I know you want tooooo,” he drags out the word, wiggling his eyebrows. “C’mon, just one, and I’ll put them away. They’re delicious.” 

Aziraphale looks around a bit panicked, as though Crowley’s offering him drugs or something, and it’s absolutely ridiculous how cute it is. 

“Have you ever done one bad thing in your life?” 

Aziraphale scoffs, but he’s wriggling his hands together, and he’s looking at the remaining chocolates in the box with very, very clear interest. 

“You can’t bribe me…” he says, but it’s hardly convincing, because he has the allure of a man who can definitely be bribed with sweets (if the sudden excitement in his eyes is anything to go by). Crowley chuckles. 

“Not a bribe. A peace offering.”

Aziraphale scoffs again, but he leans forward to inspect the chocolates better. 

“Oh, is that one orange? I do love orange…” 

Crowley shakes the box some more. The chocolates rattle inside, and Aziraphale suddenly urges him to stop.

“Alright, alright, maybe just one…”

Aziraphale grabs his desired piece by the fingertips, and Crowley leans back, far too satisfied with himself. He does try not to look too proud, lest it makes him look cocky, but there’s a grin stuck on his face, and he can’t help but nod his head appreciatively when Aziraphale lets out a faint moan, biting down on the chocolate. 

“Gosh, that’s sinful… Where did you get these?” 

“A couple doors down the block,” Crowley beams. “Want another?” 

“Ah, fine, maybe just another…” 

By the time Aziraphale walks back to his desk, there’s only two pieces of chocolate left in the box. Crowley doesn’t put it back in his bag as he leaves, though. Instead, he carries it to the counter, and he drops it off, without saying a single word. 

___

Gosh, that’s sinful…

Crowley would feel quite pathetic replaying the moment in his head, over and over again, if only he had an ounce of shame left in his body. 

But he doesn’t. And he’s laying in bed, well into Saturday by now, and every time he closes his eyes, he sees him. Aziraphale with a near obscene expression on his face as he delights in the taste of the chocolates, Aziraphale making sounds that have no right being uttered on the main floor of a public library, but most of all, Aziraphale being bad, if only a little. 

He thinks about him bringing the last pieces home, too; thinks about him enjoying them in the privacy of his own place. Thinks about him thinking about him as he eats them. And he wonders what his home might look like. Aziraphale looks like a comfortable vintage couch, what with the way he dresses, and Crowley can only hope his home is just as cozy, and warm, and welcoming. He probably has books everywhere. An antique grandpa clock, maybe. Thrifted pieces of furniture that are mismatched, but that still somehow all fit together quite nicely. Definitely that. 

Crowley’s never curious about these things usually. His curiosity for people often stops after he’s discovered what they hide beneath their clothes. And — fine, of course, he’s curious about that too, he wonders what Aziraphale might look like, bare naked and spread out on his bed — but he finds himself more enticed by what he might look like in the mornings. Wearing nothing but a bathrobe, or a ridiculous pajama set. Blowing the steam off a warm cup of coffee with tight, pursed lips. Getting out of the shower with wet strands of blonde curls clinging to his forehead.

Crowley wants to unravel the thread that is Aziraphale and inspect every little fiber of his being. 

It’s almost overwhelming, but he decides not to think about it too much, especially now that his brain is still flooded with these thoughts, and his hand is instinctively tracing a path down his body. He gently palms himself, and he’s not thinking about it. His hand slips underneath the waistband of his boxers, and he’s not thinking about it. He languidly strokes his cock to life, and he’s not thinking about it. 

(When he finally comes, hot and heavy in his own briefs, he’s definitely thinking about it). 

___

Crowley has to write something like three thousand words on Post-Reformation Europe. 

Even Calvin’s earliest theological texts promised salvation to those who suffered for God’s sake…

He’s bored with himself before he even gets a couple of hundred words on the page. Still, he powers through, and by some miracle he actually gets a bout of inspiration going. Four hundred, five hundred, a thousand words: his fingers are flying across the keyboard of his laptop. Click click click and he’s got two thousand words already. Most of it is probably bullshit, but he’s past the point of caring. 

When Crowley finally looks up from his screen, he’s quite perplexed, because his gaze is met with a surrounding darkness that he’s never seen before in the library. The neon lights are off, and, sure enough, there’s not another soul around. 

Well — that’s not exactly true. Crowley glances towards the front desk and sees the faint glow of a lamp, the stocky silhouette of Aziraphale hunched over a book. 

He’s still very much confused when he makes his way over. He gives a light tap on the counter with his knuckles, and when Aziraphale looks up, he asks, 

“What — What’s going on?” 

Aziraphale gives him a warm smile. 

“Oh — The main floor lights are on a timer.”

“What?”

“They automatically shut off at Eleven. Turn back on at Seven. I’m sure you know how timers work?”

It dawns on Crowley then that it is a little past Midnight, and that the reason there is no one else around is simply because the library is closed. 

He ignores Aziraphale’s jab. 

“But so, you’re — you’re closed! Why are you still here?” Why am I still here? “You should’ve told me. I don’t want to be a bother.” 

“Oh, it’s no bother,” Aziraphale gestures to his novel. “And you just seemed so focused.” 

“But — usually security lets me know —“

“I told them it was alright,” Aziraphale interrupts, then shrugs. “I have nowhere to be. Honest.” 

Crowley sort of grunts, unconvinced, but more than anything, he’s quite startled that Aziraphale would do such a thing for him. 

“You shouldn’t have,” he grunts again. “Let me get my stuff. I’ll be out of here in a snap.” 

Aziraphale tries to reassure him again, tells him not to worry, that’s it’s perfectly fine, really, but Crowley’s already throwing long strides of his legs to get back to his seat, to shut his laptop, to get his bag, to grab his coat. 

When he gets back to the front, Aziraphale is waiting by the door, keys dangling in his hand. 

“After you,” he says with a polite wave, and Crowley mutters a very embarrassed thank you. 

The cold night air almost slaps him in the face. Immediately, he buries his chin further into his scarf, and truly, he should be rushing back home, he should be striving to escape the cold. But no. He buries his chin into his scarf, and he waits for Aziraphale to lock the doors. 

“Which way are you going?” He asks before he can blink and change his mind. 

“Huh — this way,” Aziraphale tilts his head towards his left. “You?”

“Same. Yeah,” he pauses. “Care if I walk with you?” 

“Not at all,” Aziraphale shoves his hands into his pockets, and he starts walking, and for a second Crowley just keeps standing there, but eventually, he catches up. 

“I can’t believe I didn’t notice the lights turned off,” Crowley laughs at himself. “I’m sorry, honestly –” 

“Ah, stop it,” Aziraphale chuckles along. “I promise, I have no qualms kicking people out. If I let you stay, it’s truly because I didn’t mind.”

Crowley considers this, and suddenly, he’s reminded of their first conversation. 

“Right. And to think you almost threw me out for a piece of gum.”

“It was a very unreasonable amount of gum,” Aziraphale protests. “I could hear the wrapper from my desk! And then – then you had the audacity to be arrogant about it.”

“Me? Arrogant?! Never!” Crowley smiles through his obvious lie. “It’s just fun to see you get a bit flustered, that’s all.”

Aziraphale scoffs and he tries to say something, but he ends up nervously shaking his head and picking up his pace, cheeks rosied (though, if that’s from the cold or from his words, Crowley can’t really tell). 

“See! Like that,” Crowley sounds overjoyed. “I can’t help it. You’re just so…” 

He stops himself before he says the rest. He can’t say cute. Not that he’s shy, or scared to be honest about it, but he can’t just go ahead and say cute. 

“I’m so… what?” Aziraphale sounds ready to be offended, a sharp edge to his tone. “Quick to anger? Easy to toy with?”

“No! No – You’re…” Ah, bloody fucking hell. Might as well. “Cute,” he sort of grunts it out. 

Aziraphale stops walking, and there’s laughter in his eyes when he echoes, “Cute?”

Crowley spins on his feet. He looks around them, at the night sky, at the buildings. He grunts again. 

“Sure – Yeah. S’what I said.”

Aziraphale chuckles a bit before he resumes walking. Crowley finds himself sighing in relief. Christ, why is he so nervous suddenly?

“It’s not every day a grown man gets called cute,” Aziraphale laughs, still. “I’ve had people tell me I’m rather elegant, or maybe I look sophisticated… But… Cute? Really?”

Crowley’s the one with the rosy cheeks, now, and it’s definitely not from the cold. 

“I’m not going to say it again,” he decides out loud. “Take it or leave it.”

“Oh, I’m taking it!” Aziraphale beams, and then he slides his arm underneath Crowley’s, before he shoves his hand back in his pocket. They’re hooked at the elbows as they walk, now, and Crowley’s eyes widen in shock – he even coughs from the sheer surprise of it all – but he doesn’t make a move to get away. “Such a stunning man telling me I’m cute ? Please.” 

“Stunning, now, hmm?” Crowley resorts to jokes, only because every other brain cell he has is busy freaking the fuck out. “Something wrong with astonishing?”

“Stunning, astonishing, breathtaking… I could go on and on.”

Crowley finds himself speechless for what might possibly be the first time in his life. He’s had bold encounters with men before – a clear offer on the table after a drink is bought at the pub, sure – but there’s something about this, here, with Aziraphale, that feels… different. Precious, almost. 

He swallows a lump that mysteriously formed in his throat. 

“If you’re serious…” he says, but he quickly realizes that he doesn’t know what to end his sentence with. He lets it trail off, watching the puff of steam his hot breath conjures up into the chilly air very intensely. 

“About? My attraction to you?” 

Crowley’s feet stop working. He ends up standing dead-smack in the middle of the sidewalk, breathless, and Aziraphale only notices once he feels a resistance where they’re still connected by the arms.

He doesn’t seem to realize that Crowley’s head is currently imploding. 

“Erm –” 

Aziraphale smiles at him, calm and patient, even in this earth-shattering moment. How is he so calm? Crowley searches his face for a long, long time, trying to find an answer to that question, before he dares to approach him with the very, very clear intent of kissing him. 

He takes his time, leans in slowly; he wants to give him an out, despite how desperately he hopes that he won’t take it. But then, but then, Aziraphale’s gaze darts down to his mouth, he licks his lips in anticipation, he holds in his breath, and after that he sighs, a bit dream-like, and it’s all the confirmation Crowley needs. 

He rests a cold hand against Aziraphale’s neck, right below his jaw, and he pulls him into a slow, soft, delicate kiss. Their lips meet, and it takes a bit of fumbling before they find an angle that fits them both, but oh, when they do, oh – it’s wonderful. Sublime. Crowley pushes until their chests connect – he feels Aziraphale’s lungs rise and fall with each intake of breath through his nose – and his hand dives further to hold on to the nape of his neck. He deepens the kiss when he’s there, pulls Aziraphale’s hair a bit to get him to part his lips, and then he swipes his tongue across the gap, gets a proper taste of him. 

He hasn’t only fantasized about this; he has dreamed about it. So, now, he can’t help it; he coaxes his tongue in, and he keeps pushing, until finally Aziraphale’s back hits a wall, and he makes a sound of surprise, almost like a squeak, but it’s quickly swallowed by Crowley’s mouth. He refuses to pull back, not for a moment, not even for a second. He wants to savor this, he thinks; wants to remember it, wants to go to bed tonight with his lips still tingling from the feel of it. 

With one hand still buried in Aziraphale’s hair, the other finds a place to rest on his waist. It gives him more leverage, and he uses it to pull himself flush against him. The kiss turns sloppy then, a bit messy. Crowley moans; Aziraphale is really good with his tongue, and that revelation triggers a massive flood of filthy thoughts. 

He slides a thigh between Aziraphale’s, locking himself there, keeping him close, even as their lips pull apart. 

Suddenly, the night doesn’t feel so cold anymore. Aziraphale’s eyelids are heavy, his lips are still parted open with the ghost of their kiss, and the sight makes Crowley feel warm all over, like there’s a furnace inside his chest spreading fire to each and every one of his nerves. His hand twitches against Aziraphale’s nape, and fuck it, he dives in again, gives him a chaste kiss to seal the deal. 

“Breathtaking?” He says it like a question, whispers it with his mouth brushing against the skin of Aziraphale’s cheek, and then he moves closer to his ear, drags his lips along the way, lays a kiss on the hard line of his jaw, “I’ll take it.”

Aziraphale laughs and his head falls forward, finding a place to hide in the bundle of Crowley’s thick scarf. 

“I fear breathtaking is not the right word anymore,” he says, soft and content. “This…” 

Crowley patiently waits for him to find the so-called right word. 

“This… This is divine. You – You are divine.”

___

This is a notice to remind you that the following titles are three days late. Please bring them back to the Loans Desk and settle the associated fines. 
- Aziraphale, Administrative Support Agent, Buckinghamshire Public Library 

Crowley blinks at his laptop. He reads the email again. And again. And another time, just to be sure. 

This… no.

Really?

Really?

The fine is something absurd, like three dollars. The books are ancient. No one else even needs them. Sure, Crowley could’ve renewed them, but… Really?

He laughs in disbelief as he pushes himself off his seat. Aziraphale knows he’s sitting right there, Crowley knows he knows. He watched him come in. They smiled at each other like proper idiots . And still, he decides to send him a bloody email? About a three dollar fine?

He’s still laughing to himself when he makes it to the main counter – or, well, the Loans Desk, apparently. He raises an eyebrow at Aziraphale, and says nothing. 

“Yes?” Aziraphale says, all innocent, and Crowley cocks his head to the side, widens his eyes. 

“Anything I can do for you?”

“Oh, many things I can think of,” Crowley grins, “But first – Apparently, I am indebted.”

“Oh!” Aziraphale nods his head. “Indeed, you are. Do you have the books?”

“Do I have – Aziraphale. An email? Seriously?”

“What?” And oh, he even has the nerve to look genuinely confused. “It’s how we reach out to people. It’s very standard practice.” 

Crowley leans forward, so-much-so that his legs are practically dangling off the counter. 

“Standard practice? Aziraphale. We snogged. Two days ago. Did we not?”

Aziraphale gets off his chair and moves closer, tries to push Crowley off the counter, but he’s very intent on staying right there, so the attempt kind of fails (not that Aziraphale was really using any of his strength). 

“Crowley –” Aziraphale chuckles. “Please, just – stand properly. I can’t talk to you like this.”

Crowley rolls his eyes but he complies, falls back on his feet, straightens out his shirt. 

Aziraphale lowers his voice. 

“Yes, we snogged, I remember it quite vividly,” he says, far too casually. “But that doesn’t give you a free pass on late fees.” 

Crowley can’t help but laugh at this. 

“Oh no! And to think that was the privilege I was most counting on!” 

“Crowley —“ 

“I thought you’d let me eat anything here, and play music on my speakers, and be outrageously late bringing back my books, and —“ 

Aziraphale laughs, a delightful interruption, and then he waves him off with a frantic hand; although, Crowley has a sneaking suspicion he really meant to flip him off, instead.

“Y’know — I don’t even read ‘em.” 

Aziraphale’s smile sort of freezes on his face. 

“What?”

“Don’t read ‘em. Nope. None of the books I’ve borrowed. Not a word.” 

Aziraphale snorts, and his eyes go a bit wild, because of course he finds this sudden confession incomprehensible. 

“Sorry — What? You haven’t… read…” 

Crowley waits for him to come to a rightful conclusion, but Aziraphale can obviously be daft sometimes, because the only conclusion he comes up with is a question. 

“But — Why?!” 

It’s Crowley’s turn to snort. 

“Was really hoping for a snog.” And more, but he doesn’t say that. 

Anyway — What he said is plenty. Aziraphale gasps and he chuckles again, though it’s more from shock than because Crowley said anything funny just then. He shakes his head, a blush rising up his neck — yes, yes! — and then he says, 

“I don’t believe this,” but the smile that splits his face almost in half seems to suggest otherwise. “Seriously?”

“Dead serious.” 

“Really?”

“Yep,” his lips smack on the p.

“You’re messing with me.”

“Am not.” 

Aziraphale rolls his eyes, shakes his head again — it’s so bloody fucking cute, Crowley thinks he might melt — and then he grabs a piece of paper from somewhere, scribbles something on it with a pen. 

He slides the paper across the counter space. It’s neatly folded in half. When Crowley opens it, he finds a series of digits, written with a careful hand. 

A phone number. 

His phone number! 

Fucking — Yes! Yes! If they weren’t in a damn library, Crowley would shout in glee.

He tries to suppress his grin, but it ends up making him smirk in a very obvious way as he tucks the precious phone number into the tight pocket of his jeans.

“Right on,” he says, and the simple act of parting his lips to speak leaves him beaming. “You can definitely expect a call from me. Or a text. Or a picture.” 

Before Aziraphale even has a chance to react to the scandalous implication, Crowley turns around and leaves. 

It’s only when he’s back in bed that night that he realizes he never even paid the damn three dollar fine. 

___

Are you coming in to study today?

Nah. Can’t be bothered. Bed’s too comfy. 

Don’t be lazy. Aren’t finals coming up?

Meh. 

You should come. 

I should? 

Yes. It’s the right thing to do. 

Crowley smirks at his phone screen. 

Oh, I see. You misssss meeee? 

Hardly. 

Liar! 

You still have some late books, you know. 

Should I be scared? Strongly-worded email coming my way? 

You said it yourself! You don’t need them! Bring them back. 

And you call this professional? 

Professional went out the window the moment you pushed me against that wall. 

Oh, did it now?

I should think so.

I rather think you’re holding out on me. 

And why’s that? 

Still waiting for a second kiss. 

Can’t exactly grab you by the collar and eat your face over the counter, now, can I? 

… Can’t you? 

Crowley. 

Fiiiiine. I’m bringing back the books.
See u soon.

___

Remember that stupid thought Crowley had about longing to be Aziraphale’s shadow? 

Well. 

The only reason he currently finds himself on the second floor of the library, walking between shelves, is because Aziraphale is also there. There’s something about the way his finger grazes against the spine of books that makes Crowley feel a bit starstruck. It shouldn’t, it’s quite a mundane gesture, but then again, maybe it’s actually something else, something about the way he pushes his book cart along the narrow path. Or, possibly, it’s something else entirely; something about the soft yet focused expression of his face, and the little sounds of exasperation he makes when he finds a book shoved in the wrong place. 

Crowley is following along. Observing. Aziraphale keeps sending looks his way, and then, when he leans against a shelf, crosses his arms and tries to tell Aziraphale what he’s really thinking about with the use of a single look, Aziraphale blushes a crisp red and decidedly looks away.

“Crowley. You’re being quite distracting.” 

He says this in the most hushed tone, barely a decibel, because the second floor is not only a quiet space; it’s supposed to be silent. 

“Me? How so? M’not doing anything.” 

“You are. You’re being… Well, you. And I’m not used to having company.” 

“Better get used to it,” Crowley grins. “‘Cause I’ll just keep on being me.”

Aziraphale makes a sound of disapproval, shaking his head only slightly, and Crowley shuffles closer to him. 

“I could find ways to be far more distracting, you know…” 

Aziraphale bites his smile, and he shakes his head again, and then he’s suddenly a bit less careful when he slides a paperback in between two hardcovers. This is the sort of reaction Crowley lives for, the way Aziraphale can’t quite keep his composure, but still obviously tries his damned hardest to. 

“Let’s say, what if I were to…”

Crowley’s grateful that he didn’t choose to wear a turtleneck today. Instead, he picked out one of his rare button-ups, a black thin flowy thing that emphasizes the empty space between the draped fabric and his slender waist, and he quirks an eyebrow at Aziraphale when he pops the first button of his collar. 

And then the second, and the third. 

“Stop,” Aziraphale’s eyes scream panic , but his word of protest is not exactly convincing, because his gaze is transfixed on the sample of skin Crowley has just exposed to the shadows. “Crowley, please — not here.” 

Crowley pops a fourth button. The hard panes of his pectorals are revealed, taut lines and fine chest hairs, and he steps closer to Aziraphale, still. 

Aziraphale had been holding a book in his hand, but he drops it back on top of the cart when Crowley smoothly inserts himself between him and the bookshelf. He pops a fifth button, his shirt now open all the way to his navel. 

Aziraphale grabs the shirt, and maybe he meant to button it back up, because he toys with the last button, but instead, his hands dip underneath the material and brush against Crowley’s skin. He traces circles on his hip bones with his thumbs, and then he looks to his left, to his right, possibly to make sure no one is nearby. 

There’s a fascinated look in his eyes, contemplation clear on his features. Crowley waits for him to make a decision. He’s OK either way, he thinks; this bit of teasing was fun in and of itself, but when Aziraphale sighs in defeat and allows his hands to travel upwards, to press against Crowley’s chest, he’s definitely more than OK. 

He watches Aziraphale discover the hard lines and dips of his body via touch, and then, he’s the one to look-out, to make sure they’re still alone. Left, right, left: sure enough, there’s nothing else but endless rows of books.

Crowley tilts Aziraphale’s chin up by the gentle push of his index finger and he kisses him. Aziraphale resists only for a second, because it only takes that long before he succumbs to the temptation. His hands press more firmly against Crowley’s ribcage, and he goes pliant before him, softened, much like brisket on low-heat. 

Wet lips and soft passes of their tongues against one another; breathless, impossibly quiet moans transferred from one mouth to the other; the excruciating excitement of doing something they shouldn’t be doing. Crowley lives for this. He does, he truly does. He feels almost dizzy, searching for leverage in Aziraphale’s clothes and pulling him flush against him, feeling his lips swell up from the constant friction, and his cock slowly harden in his briefs. 

They’re good, they’re quiet, they’re silent. If he starts going too fast, Crowley knows he’ll stop being all that. So, he reels in his desire, his sizzling impulse to drop to his knees and take Aziraphale down to the very root, his craving for more skin and warmth and pleasure. The whole thing’s completely inappropriate and it’s Aziraphale, the most appropriate man Crowley’s ever met in his life, so it’s kind of blowing his mind. It’s very much blowing his mind. It’s blowing his mind a lot. 

He loses it when Aziraphale’s hand lingers on his chest, almost innocently at first, a caress , before it ventures to find his nipple. A faint moan escapes him when Aziraphale tugs on it, and suddenly everything stops. 

Aziraphale has pulled back, has recoiled from him like the sound gave him an electric shock. He’s panting, the sound of it almost deafening in the complete silence of the library, and there’s a definite hard bulge in his trousers. Crowley smiles, a bit devilish. Aziraphale is looking at him with the most scandalized expression on his face. Jaw twitching, eyes bulging. 

Crowley smiles wider. 

“Well, fuck, ” he whispers. “Why’d you stop?” 

It’s like Aziraphale suddenly snaps out of it. He hurries to button Crowley’s shirt back up (which, alright, Crowley would usually protest and insist that he can very well do it himself, but he enjoys the brush of Aziraphale’s knuckles against his skin a little bit too much to say anything), and then he adjusts himself. 

Crowley sees this, and his cock threatens to burst out the seam of his trousers. He finds himself grasping onto the edge of a shelf. 

“Silence,” Aziraphale says, both an explanation and a command; Crowley’s eyes widen, and he holds on much harder to the shelf.

He obeys. Doesn’t say anything. Just stays planted there as Aziraphale straightens his sweater and grabs the book he’d put away. 

By the time Crowley gets his wits back to himself, Aziraphale’s already at the end of the row. He considers walking down the path and tempting him into some more debauchery, but in the end, he fears Aziraphale will truly kick him out of the library for good, if he does.

He clears his throat to announce his departure, and he departs. 

(And then he waits downstairs, two long hours, for Aziraphale to finish his shift). 

___

“You get off at Eleven, correct?” 

Aziraphale nods. 

“Wanna head back to mine?”  

___

In strange ways, Aziraphale doesn’t look out of place.

Crowley’s flat is minimalistic not because he strived to design a cool and modern atmosphere, but rather because he just couldn’t be bothered, really, and Aziraphale, with all his soft, plush clothing and his posh airs, should look out of place. Somehow, he doesn’t (although, he doesn’t really look like he belongs, either, so maybe that’s what makes it strange). 

It’s almost like the flat had been waiting for him. It welcomes him as he more or less ignores Crowley and explores the rooms; the light seems a bit brighter, the cold corners a bit warmer. 

“Sure — Yeah, go right ahead and make yourself at home,” Crowley jokes, but really, he’s glad that Aziraphale isn’t making this whole thing awkward. He would’ve handled it, would’ve corked open a bottle of red wine and tried very hard to make his guest feel more at ease, but it’s nice that he doesn’t have to. 

He still heads over to the kitchen and grabs a bottle. Possibly, it’s to be a good host. More likely, it’s to settle his own nerves. 

He finds Aziraphale sitting on the couch. He’s not exactly lounging, but he’s got an arm draped over the armrest, and an ankle resting on his knee. 

He accepts the glass Crowley offers him with a very polite nod of his head, and Crowley lets himself fall next to him, a wave in his own cup almost making it spill. 

“You haven’t done much with the place,” Aziraphale says, leaning back as he looks at him. “But it’s nice.”

Crowley immediately hears the truth behind it. 

“Oh, you don’t think it’s nice,” a laugh bubbles up his throat, a bit rugged. “You obviously think it’s grim.” 

“No, no — It’s… simple. Refined. I like it.” 

Crowley shifts to lean his side against the back cushion of the couch. He kind of melts into it, and then he laughs again. 

“You’re too nice,” he shakes his head, takes a sip. “Thank you.” 

It doesn’t take long before one glass of wine turns into two, and then three, and the alcohol takes root. It seeps through Crowley’s veins and makes him feel a very pleasant buzz, from the back of his neck down to his fingertips. Aziraphale shares bits and pieces of what he shyly describes as a boring life, but Crowley finds that it only sounds secure, peaceful, and overall lovely. A fixed job he loves and a routine that fits him well, a close-knit group of friends that play chess, and board games, and a desire to get a dog (though, he insists that he’s been able to keep that at bay so far).

Crowley, eventually, not really knowing how or why, finds himself rambling about his high school days. He’s trying to make the story of the time he had his clothes stolen from the gym showers sound funnier than it actually is, and he’s halfway through recounting how it was the janitor who finally helped him out, when — when — 

Aziraphale takes off one sock. 

It’s a very casual thing. A finger dips underneath the elastic at his ankle, and the sock is pulled off. Then he does the same thing with the other, and he lets them both fall very carelessly to the floor. 

The underlined curve of a bare foot should not look so obscene. 

“Right —“ Crowley blabbers. “So — he found me hiding inside a closet, holding a rag over my crotch, and —“

Aziraphale starts pulling at the sleeves of his sweater. He nods his head at Crowley’s words to reassure that he’s still listening to him, but then, he also tugs at his collar, and he pulls his sweater off in what’s more-or-less one swift motion. 

He also lets it fall… somewhere.

Crowley has to take a deep breath before he can continue. Just for good measure, he also swallows a ginormous sip of his wine. 

“Erm — Yeah, so, he kind of shouted at me at —“ 

Aziraphale starts toying with the loose end of his belt. 

“At first! He kind of shouted at me at first, but then he realiz — ugh.”

Aziraphale passes the tongue of his belt through the loop near his navel, and then he tugs on it, allowing the pin to release its hold.

Crowley can’t possibly ignore it anymore. Aziraphale’s down to his white tee and his khakis, and he’s unbuckling his belt, and Crowley can’t, he just can’t. 

“Wh — I’m talking, you’re aware?” 

It’s almost a default setting for him, to bite and use snark when he feels he’s losing his footing. 

“Yes,” Aziraphale agrees, simply. “You’re talking a lot. How about you stop?” 

With that he tugs at his belt until it fully snakes its way out of every loop. Swoosh and suddenly his trousers rest just a bit looser around his waist. Crowley makes a choked sound, something between a gasp and a groan getting stuck in his throat, in-sync with the belt buckle clanging loudly on the floor. 

With a hand that’s miraculously not shaking, Crowley sets his glass down on the coffee table next to him. Aziraphale mirrors him. 

“That’s quite rude,” Crowley says, finally, but the alcohol has loosened his inhibitions, and he gets a hold of Aziraphale’s knee, spreads it towards the backrest of the couch, and forces him to sit sideways, facing him. One foot flat on the cushion, one leg dangling off the edge; it creates a very inviting space for Crowley to inch himself towards. So, he does. “You’re telling me to shut up?” 

His voice has gone down a pitch already, he can hear it, there’s a definite rumble in his throat when he continues, planting his hands on either side of Aziraphale’s body as he crawls over him, 

“Very rude,” he punctuates, and with that he wraps as much of his hands as he can around Aziraphale’s thighs, and he pulls him down further, makes him lay flat on his back. Aziraphale makes a sound , a squeak, almost, because Crowley isn’t exactly soft about it, and then he chuckles. 

“Well - someone had to get this show on the road.” 

Cheeky. Crowley drops his weight, settling himself there between Aziraphale’s legs: face to face, crotch to crotch. The cheeky look on Aziraphale’s face quickly morphs into something a bit darker; eyelids drooping slightly, a bottom lip disappearing between his teeth, and he lets out a weak moan when their hips make contact, something that could easily be argued was only an exhale of breath, but Crowley instantly recognizes it for what it is. 

He feels it, too; like there’s a hand tightening its grip around his own throat, a hand inside his throat, and it makes it hard to breathe, makes it hard to even think.

He can’t figure out a snarky reply to Aziraphale’s comment. 

So, he leans down and plants his lips on him, figures it’s enough of an answer, telling him by the brush of his tongue what he cannot manage to articulate with his words. I want you. Aziraphale sighs into the kiss, and his hips buck up, so easy to miss, if it weren’t for the immediate jolt of arousal it sends to Crowley’s core. 

They lay there kissing for a longer time than Crowley is generally used to. It feels intimate, not only because there’s the imminent promise of more – of skin sticky with sweat, and wanton abandon – but more-so because Aziraphale’s tongue inside his mouth feels like it’s trying to coax his very soul out of him. It licks around the wet mass of his own and sucks on it, and Aziraphale buries his hands deep at the roots of Crowley’s hair, scraping his fingernails gently against his scalp, deepening the kiss as if it could never be deep enough. 

Crowley feels himself pushing and pulling against Aziraphale’s firm body beneath him, smooth movements of his hips. Yet, there’s nothing very urgent about it. He just feels like he’s floating on top of the sea, like the waves coming to shore are gently bringing him up, then down. Aziraphale’s shirt starts riling up with the motion, and when Crowley’s fingers feel the warmth of the newly exposed skin, he drags the shirt up further, grasps at the soft flesh of Aziraphale’s belly. 

“Fuck,” he breathes, although he’s not sure he even says the word properly, because his mouth does not seem to want to do anything other than keep kissing Aziraphale, so he repeats, “Fuck.”

It’s when Aziraphale smiles through the kiss and suddenly grabs his ass to increase the pressure of their bodies against one another that Crowley finally starts to lose it. It’s a wonder, really, how he was even able to manage that far without tearing the rest of Aziraphale’s clothes off. He pulls away from the kiss — very reluctantly — and he looks down at where they’re pressed together, hip bone to hip bone, and he moans, he can’t help it, he moans, pained and unabashed. 

“‘Zira —“ 

Aziraphale understands the plea and immediately rushes to unbutton Crowley’s trousers. He pulls the zipper down, quick, focused and determined, and Crowley can do nothing but support his upper body with his elbows leaning against the armrest, helpless; and he watches. 

He watches as Aziraphale starts palming the hard length of him over the thin fabric of his briefs. He listens as a moan escapes Aziraphale at the feel of it. His cock twitches in delightful, wonderful anticipation when Aziraphale dares to squeeze him a bit harder, a bit more purposely. 

“Can I –” 

Aziraphale hasn’t even voiced the object of his question that Crowley is frantically nodding his head yes, and suddenly the torturous friction of Aziraphale’s hand against him turns into the overwhelming sensation of skin against skin. 

“Oh – fuck –”

Crowley's arms are shaking. He’s never seen his cock look so angry before; it pokes out of Aziraphale’s tight fist and gushes a fat drop of precome when he starts stroking him, up and down in a perfect, perfect grip. Crowley would be mortified to see that he’s so hard and needy already, if only it hadn’t felt so fucking good . It feels like his heart is beating right at the tip of his cock, like he’s about to collapse under his own weight, right there on top of Aziraphale. 

He pushes himself up a bit to allow more space between them, struggling to get his hips to rise when Aziraphale just won’t stop stroking, and in a sudden flash, he realizes that he’s not doing anything for him. 

He moves to resolve this injustice immediately. 

He leverages all of his weight on his left arm, and he manages to sneak his right hand in between them – he gets a bit wobbly, but he figures it out, he finds the skill to undo Aziraphale’s trousers with five excited fingers – and then they are effectively sharing the same puff of air back and forth as Crowley wraps a hand around Aziraphale’s cock. 

“Crowley –”

Aziraphale’s rhythm falters a bit. He stretches his neck back, and Crowley is mesmerized by this, but he also notices the muscles in his abdomen flexing. It’s hot, it’s so fucking hot, it’s the hottest thing Crowley’s ever seen. It seems that Aziraphale’s cock was always meant to belong in the palm of his hand, he thinks, somewhat deliriously. He’s always loved sex with men, and he’s imagined it plenty of times with Aziraphale, but oh, nothing compares to this, and probably nothing else ever will.

Crowley’s shoulder is aching from the feat of holding himself up, but he doesn’t care, he couldn’t care any less. He dives in and presses wet, sloppy kisses to the side of Aziraphale’s neck, before he shows his teeth, and bites down on the skin. 

Aziraphale keens, all the air punched out of him, and Crowley takes note of this – alright, a bit of pain didn’t go unappreciated – but then, his mind stops working entirely, because Aziraphale picks up his pace, hard and fast and perfect, and – 

“Don’t – Fuck, don’t make me come like this – your – your clothes –”

“I don’t care, Crowley, I don’t care – Do it, do it, do it –”

And so Crowley does. White-hot pleasure takes hold of him and he is unsure of the sounds that make it out of him, probably so obscene that it should be embarrassing, moans that are far too high-pitched for his natural tone, but it’s just something else not to care about at the moment. Aziraphale rips the orgasm out of him and he definitely hadn’t been lying; he doesn’t have a mind for his clothes. He doesn’t even bother trying to avoid the hot streaks that land on his shirt, almost all the way to his collar, or the ones that paint white strands across his thighs. 

“Oh, yes, that’s it — that’s it, fuck, yes —"

Aziraphale continues to mutter unintelligible praises, with the occasional curse word puffed out under a breath, and Crowley feels like his heart has dropped inside his guts. It beats relentlessly, somewhere deep in there, as Aziraphale’s grip on him loosens and slows, and finally a last shiver passes through him. He can’t help but whine — and Aziraphale lets go of him. 

It takes Crowley a moment to figure out how to get the oxygen back in his lungs, and through all this, he’d more or less abandoned Aziraphale’s cock. It reminds him of its presence now; Aziraphale wiggles his hips up and down in a chase for friction, and Crowley finds himself grinning. 

He kisses Aziraphale again, hungry and desperate, and then he finds his neck, his chest, his navel. By the time Crowley gets his fingers in Aziraphale’s waistband and pulls his trousers further down; by the time he lays a kiss on the tip of his cock and gently takes hold of it to tap it against his tongue, Aziraphale is not only muttering praises and curses anymore; he’s actively begging for more. 

Crowley suddenly remembers past shameless thoughts of his, he remembers he’d guessed something about Aziraphale being more delicious than a most decadent snack — and fuck, had he guessed right. 

He doesn’t hold back his excitement. Where usually he is strategic and borderline performative giving blowjobs, it becomes clear now after a few bobs of his head that he is thoroughly pleased by the thick weight in his mouth — thoroughly debauched. Crowley hums around Aziraphale’s cock and sucks him down further, he rubs his tongue against every crease, every vein it can find, and he moans when he feels it impossibly harden some more in his mouth, feels it throb. 

He looks up to watch the wreck of Aziraphale coming undone — and what a wonderful wreck it is indeed. Beautiful. There’s a lack of reserve in both his expression and the sounds coming out of his mouth that is just so contrary to how Aziraphale usually presents himself, and it’s life-altering to see. Crowley feels like he’s witnessing some kind of cataclysmic event, the heavy rise and fall of Aziraphale’s chest, his skin flushed everywhere it can be seen, the sweat in his brow; and oh, it’s a cataclysm alright. 

After a particularly gut-wrenching moan, Aziraphale floods Crowley’s mouth with his release. Of course, Crowley delights in the taste; he swallows it all and he doesn’t stop until Aziraphale is helplessly grasping at his hair, pulling him off with the obscene sound of his wet, spit-slick lips smacking together. 

Crowley lets himself fall and rests his head on Aziraphale’s thigh, his cock in full view, and he decides to admire it for a while as they both come down from their high. Eventually, he can’t resist; he brings a hand up and lightly brushes his fingers along the length of it, a bit love-sick with it, and Aziraphale shudders.

“Crowley — Oh, Christ —“

Crowley chuckles and finally he creeps upwards, until he’s comfortably settled in the nook of Aziraphale’s armpit, snuggled between the backrest of the couch and his warm body. 

“Yeah,” he breathes, a warm exhale against the skin of Aziraphale’s neck. “That’s definitely one way to shut me up.” 

Aziraphale responds by gently petting his hair, half-absently, and then he chuckles, too.

“One way?” He says, “Pray tell — What might be the others?”

Crowley heaves a sigh. 

“Oh, I don’t know, I’m just a big fan of using my mouth,” and then he smiles, remembering, “I do get a bit restless when I don’t.” 

Obviously Aziraphale remembers too, because he has the knee-jerk reaction of slapping Crowley on the shoulder, and then he laughs. 

“I still can’t believe you said that,” he groans. “Had me thinking about it for weeks after.”

“No,” Crowley gets a little too giddy hearing Aziraphale admit to this, and he raises his head to look him in the eye, “Really?”

He’d imagined that he’d made somewhat of an impression — or, well, he’d hoped — but it’s a different thing to watch the tip of Aziraphale’s nose get wrinkly, to see him look off to the side in an adorable moment of vulnerability.

“I mean, it was —“ Something on the coffee table suddenly catches his attention. “Wait, is that the plant from the library?!” 

Crowley makes a noise like a question, and he contorts the upper half of his body to look at it — and yeah, right, it is — and so he says. 

The Spider plant isn’t exactly thriving, but it’s undeniably doing much better. Sitting in a new, bigger pot, with no more rotten brown spots, or roots to be seen; and even with new buds sprouting, right in the middle if you look at it closely. 

Aziraphale marvels at this. 

“It’s gorgeous! A miracle!”

Crowley bursts out laughing.

“A miracle, really?” He rolls his eyes, feeling playful enough to act overly dramatic. “Sure. Give me absolutely no credit whatsoever, s’fine.”

“Oh, you misunderstand me,” Aziraphale’s voice goes soft, and he lays a kiss on the top of his head (if Crowley blushes at this, Aziraphale is not positioned to see it, so it’s fine). “I’m quite convinced you can work miracles.” 

It’s the most outlandish thing to say, excessively sentimental, absolutely absurd;

and Aziraphale still can’t see, but Crowley fears that he might definitely feel the warmth of the blush turned feverish on his cheeks, where it’s pressing against his skin. 

___

Crowley doesn’t “do” relationships. Not that he does that line, either; I don’t do relationships. It’s such a cliché, bad boy line, and he decidedly doesn’t do clichés. 

Still, the point stands. He’s had flings, he’s had friends with benefits, he’s had very long dry spells. In short, he’s had time to decide that getting into a relationship at the ripe age of forty-six was just not something he strived to do.

The love he finds in — and for — Aziraphale is, however, a variable he hadn’t exactly considered when he’d made this unofficial decision.

He finds it in the little things (which, again, is an awfully cliché to say, so maybe Crowley’s a bit of a cliché after all). 

It’s in the way Aziraphale giggles and kicks his feet when they’re watching a movie and something embarrassing happens on screen, but it’s also how he never hides his face when they’re watching horror flicks. Crowley sometimes finds himself cringing and looking away, because there’s gore – and then there’s gore – but Aziraphale is, somehow, always unfazed. 

It’s in the ways Aziraphale keeps effortlessly impressing him. Turns out he’s not only a good cook, he’s also an amazing baker, which Crowley believes is what really takes skills. Cooking is an art, baking is a science, and all that. One time, he comes over and Aziraphale is lost in a cloud of flour, baking donuts; and when Crowley tastes a bite of fluffy deliciousness, he ends up kissing Aziraphale so hard that they both stumble to the floor. 

More than that, though, it’s in the way Aziraphale stays predictable. His home is exactly as expected, warm and cozy and full of knick-knacks Crowley would turn his nose up at in thrift stores, and yet, he finds them endearing here. Little bits and pieces of what Aziraphale likes, scattered in every room. There are books, yes, of course, but there is also a small collection of pocket watches displayed in a glass case, and a shelf on the wall in the hallway dedicated entirely to Lord of the Rings figurines. 

It brings Crowley a stupendous amount of comfort. Aziraphale always texts him first thing in the morning, but he never simply says “good morning”. He just dives right into what’s on his mind; either the weird dream he had, or a very comprehensive review of his breakfast, or, sometimes, it’s just a little pic of him sipping his tea. What a fucking dork, Crowley thinks (and yet, he always downloads the pictures to his phone gallery). 

It’s in the way Aziraphale is so, so exciting; and so easily excited, too. How his hand wanders all the time to grab Crowley’s thigh beneath the tablecloth when they’re eating out; and how he is always too stubborn to let go, and will fight with his fork so that it assumes the job of a knife, too. By the time desserts are set on the table, he’s got his fingers hooked on Crowley’s inner thigh, and Crowley is always painfully hard. 

He just feels content next to him. With him. It’s the way they can debate for hours about the most random subjects and still end the night in blissful tenderness. Crowley ends up staying the night at Aziraphale’s a lot. He still goes to the library almost every afternoon, but now, he has a hand to hold on to, sweaty palms be damned, on the way back home. 

He loves it. He’s never had anything like it. It does scare him a bit, sure. How could it not? 

Still, in the span of a couple of weeks, Aziraphale becomes a constant in Crowley’s life, one that he can’t figure out how he ever managed to live without. 

___

Finals beat Crowley bloody. Or – well, it’s especially the week before finals, when he has to cram a shit ton of historical and philosophical texts up his ass, and he’d really, truly, much rather have something else in there. 

It’s true that he’d been rather… insatiable, as of late. Always dragging Aziraphale to bed, riding his wonderful cock in favor of reading his own boring books, bouncing and grinding until Aziraphale became a stuttering mess, flushed in the face, lip swollen from the constant abuse of his own teeth, and fuck , how is Crowley ever possibly supposed to focus on anything else? 

How is he supposed to write essays and memorize significant historical dates when Aziraphale is there, a sin in-waiting, always willing and ready and sometimes even begging to be touched and kissed and pounded into next Sunday? Crowley aches to be with him at all times. 

It’s bad when they’re in either of their flats, Aziraphale walking around wearing nothing but plaid pajama slacks — emphasis on nothing, because Crowley can always see the outline of his cock through the thin fabric — but somehow it’s even worse at the library. Maybe it’s the fact that Crowley just has to sit there and try to concentrate while he knows Aziraphale is so very near, still bruised under the collar from his own relentless mouth, still adorning red marks from his scratches down his back.

The library is kind of like sullied ground now. Not that they’d done anything too unbefitting, just a little groping in dark corners, maybe some stolen kisses in the elevator, but it’s like they have a history here, and it reminds Crowley of all the times he thought this could never possibly become a reality. All the teasing and the flirting and the eye-fucking that he honestly believed would lead to nothing. 

But this isn’t nothing. As Crowley sits in the library, stretching his arms out, looking back at the front desk, then at his laptop, and back again at Aziraphale, at the mere suggestion of his presence behind a screen and a couple of plants, he knows this isn’t nothing. It isn’t nothing because one glance his way and Crowley feels almost otherworldly. Like he’d have the power to travel across galaxies if it meant finding his way to Aziraphale. 

It’s late. There’s no one around. Aziraphale told him to be good and focus on his studies, that he’d be just over there, reading his book, but Crowley doesn’t really feel like being good. He feels like a menace, like a force; 

he feels wicked, almost. 

After he’s stretched his arms out – after a joint popped in his lower back and he feels satisfied enough – it is without much thought that he drops a hand on his lap. There is some thought, however, when he looks back towards Aziraphale and sees that he’s watching him. He’s rolled his chair to the corner of his desk and his head is properly poking out of the thin foliage of his plants, two eyes set on him, unwavering. So, naturally, Crowley’s hand wanders to suggest the beginning of much less innocent fondling, fingers digging in slightly, before they release the flesh of his thigh and find a place to rest right atop his crotch. 

He turns his face to hide his smirk when he starts gently palming himself. He knows they’re alone, he isn’t worried about getting caught, so all that’s left is thrill and excitement. He decides not to look back at Aziraphale now that he knows he’s been seen; the urge to sneak a glance is almost overpowering, yes, but he doesn’t. Instead, he idly drops his other hand on his keyboard, pretends he isn’t teasing his own cock to life underneath the desk, and feels his smirk swallow up half of his face. 

He can imagine the proper indignation on Aziraphale’s face. The gasp he most likely made, and how he’s probably just about frozen from shock at the moment. And why hasn’t he come over yet? Why hasn’t he shouted at him from across the main floor? What’s he waiting for? 

Crowley plants a foot on the wall before him and he pushes against it until he’s dragged his chair further out. With the movement, his head drops back, and he tilts it towards Aziraphale, finally feeling far too curious to keep on pretending he isn’t doing all of this for him. 

A torrential wave of arousal crashes inside Crowley’s guts when he sees Aziraphale shoot up from his chair, and he can’t help it, he quickly undoes his trousers and slips a hand past his waistband before Aziraphale can get a chance to stop him. 

Just watching him come over is enough to make Crowley’s cock impossibly hard. Aziraphale is almost fuming at the nostrils, heavy steps on the carpet so unlike his usual demeanor, and his hand scrunching up the fabric of his trousers near his thigh tells Crowley everything he needs to know. Aziraphale is most definitely worked up. 

First thing he does as he gets near is grab Crowley’s arm. Possibly, it’s to force him to stop moving – his grip is strong and demanding – but oh, it’s so incredibly attractive that Crowley only shudders and moans, and keeps on flicking his wrist. 

“Crowley –” Aziraphale digs his fingers further in, and fuck, Crowley is sort of panting now, focused on the pain, on the pleasure – 

“Crowley, the cameras –”

That does give Crowley pause. Only for a moment, though, because then he licks his lips, shrugs, and just as he’s about to pull his cock out to really give the security guards a show, Aziraphale suddenly grabs him by the jaw; large fingers on his cheeks pressing up, he tells him very strongly to stop, and – 

Crowley comes. He didn’t mean to. He’d only now properly wrapped his hand around his hard length, and there was the titillating beginning of a climax prickling under his skin, sure, but he certainly hadn’t been ready to shoot his load in his trousers. Really, he’d meant to turn himself on a bit, turn Aziraphale on a lot, and then, maybe, he’d been hoping for some… repercussions, back home. 

But not this. Even Aziraphale seems taken aback by the sudden shiver that goes through him, the sudden buck of his hips, the surprised moan that escapes him, and the tell-tale wet spot growing, evident even through the dark cloth of his trousers. 

“Oh – oh – fuck,” Crowley mutters, because really, fuck, and Aziraphale still hasn’t let go of him, hand secure around his chin – and he’s never been rough like that before. The simple fact of it simultaneously sparked Crowley’s fuse and got him to explode, quite literally. 

“Crowley,” Aziraphale whispers his name as if there is still any need for being discreet. “Did you just –”

“Y – Yeah, yep, sure did,” Crowley says, although he struggles a bit because his lips are pursed together by Aziraphale’s grip. Aziraphale notices and finally releases him. “M’just as shocked as you are. Honestly.” 

“I doubt it,” Aziraphale scoffs. “You – You can’t do that! Why did you even –” 

“I was bored,” Crowley chuckles, though he knows it’s merely an attempt to hide the blooming embarrassment in his chest. He really hadn’t meant to come so fast. “Weren’t you?” 

“I — I — Crowley. ” 

“Fine! I’m sorry.” 

“You have finals next week.” 

“I know! But a man’s gotta relax at some point, don’t you think?”

“Yes, and we’ve been doing an awful lot of relaxing recently. Get back to studying.” 

“Right, right, I’ll just — pop over to the loo, then, take care of —“ 

“No.” 

Crowley gulps. 

“No?”

“No,” Aziraphale smiles, but he looks more like the devil than anything else. “No, you’ll stay right here where I can see you, you’ll sit in your mess, and you can squirm for hours for all I care — maybe then you’ll learn not to do it again.” 

“Aziraphale!” 

Aziraphale shrugs, and then he has the fucking nerve to give Crowley three gentle pats on the cheek, before he turns around and leaves. 

And the most unfair thing about all this:

Crowley starts getting hard again.

___

Crowley ends up passing his finals in a haze of sleepless nights and espresso shots. For a first semester back to school, he doesn’t think he did too bad. Aziraphale claims he did amazing, but really, he’s hardly qualified to know if Crowley convincingly argued his thesis, or if he properly formatted his Works Cited page. He’s just always eager to compliment him – Crowley, dear, you are clever, honestly, the way your brain works amazes me, and I admire you so much, you know, it mustn’t be easy, but you’re doing it – and Crowley allows himself to bathe in the praise. It’s strange at first, like the water in the tub is too hot and Crowley finds himself recoiling from it, dipping a toe in then quickly pulling it back out, but eventually, his body adjusts to the temperature. He stops rolling his eyes at Aziraphale’s sweet flatteries, and he starts smiling, kissing him, praising him back for all he deserves. You’re too good to me, too good for the world, really and You deserve to be safe and warm and cozy for all of eternity (he says that last one while they’re in bed one morning, and they’d forgotten to shut the window overnight, so Aziraphale had found refuge against Crowley’s warm skin, his naked body emanating a lot of heat underneath the sheets). 

He doesn’t get his grades back all at once. So, for a couple of days, it’s a lot of shouting at his phone screen in the mornings when he sees a notification from his school email. Aziraphale is always just as excited as him, earnestly waiting for Crowley to reveal the result of his hard work, and more often than not, it’s good. It’s great, even. He doesn’t slip downwards of 75% and the feedback he gets from his professors is incredibly inspiring. He’s already excited for Christmas break, but all of this is making him giddy for the start of the new semester, still two months from now. 

“I honestly thought I would fail that one,” he says when he gets the last of his grades back. “Almost crazy that I didn’t.”

“Not crazy,” Aziraphale corrects him. “Not crazy at all. You worked so hard. I’m very proud of you.”

Crowley doesn’t try to diminish it, but he does move to straddle Aziraphale, pushing him back on the bed and fencing his thighs in with his own. 

“Didn’t work that hard…” he mutters, just because he can’t help it, and then, for very similar reasons, he leans down and kisses him. “You helped a lot, you know. Kept me on the right track…”

Aziraphale laughs. 

“Yes – I’m a very strong believer that school should always come first.”

There is no insinuation behind it, but Crowley is too quick-witted for his own good, and he’s barely formed the thought in his mind that, already, he’s smiling, 

“You should come first,” he says, voice turned sultry, leaving no room for doubt regarding what he means. “If only to thank you for all your unwavering support…”

“Oh,” Aziraphale laughs again. “I won’t argue against that…”

And Crowley laughs as he travels down Aziraphale’s body, giggles and kisses pressed against his chest, his ribs, his belly, and he hopes; oh how he hopes, that the love he feels for him can be felt through his skin.