Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

So.

The worst had happened.

The most awful, terrible, unthinkable thing that could have happened… had happened. For real, this time.

And Crowley hadn’t disintegrated. He should have, at the very least. If you happen to make a fool of yourself to such a life-ending degree, you should just discorporate on the spot. As an evolutionary courtesy. A self-destruction fail-safe, like secret messages in spy movies, so you can save yourself at least some of the resulting shame.

But no, Crowley was still here.

Feeling empty. Unclogged. Uncorked. Loose and pliant.

No, not loose. Limp. Which, when you’re equipped with a dick and currently in bed with the man of your dreams, is less than ideal. Unless you’ve already used said dick, properly and thoroughly, and are now enjoying a well-deserved rest.

Wait.

Wait.

Wait.

Wot.

Rewind.

Man of your dreams?

Fuck. See?

In the aftermath of his own personal big bang (in the universe-expanding sense, not the shag-of-your-life one), Crowley was thinking things. Thoughts were floating on the black canvas of his closed eyelids like feathers falling in slow-motion all around him, only he couldn’t catch them even if he tried. His body was too relaxed and heavy to cooperate.

No, he could only stare at them and watch them fall. Slowly, little by little.

If he’d moved after he’d stopped sobbing like a blessed ninny – which had taken way longer than he’d ever be ready to admit – it was only thanks to Aziraphale, who had insisted they properly snuggle under the covers.

To be fair, he hadn’t used that particular word, but it was what they were doing. Aziraphale lying on his back, Crowley nestled against his side in an attempt to make himself as small as possible, his head hidden under the blankets and his eyes firmly shut.

He was way too aware of his body to ignore what it was doing or what it was touching, and maybe he wouldn’t have had the strength to do it even if he’d wanted to.

Because snuggling into Aziraphale’s arms was– Satan help him, but it was nice . The angel (ngk) was so warm and soft, and he smelled so good and familiar, and with his head so close to his chest Crowley could hear his heart beating steadily just a few inches away. Most importantly, Aziraphale had never stopped carding his fingers through his hair and softly scratching the nape of his neck with his perfectly manicured nails, insistently at first, now more absentmindedly.

So, nyeah.

The worst had happened.

Crowley had cried during sex like a bloody pillock. Like a fainting maiden. He remembered watching a movie where the female protagonist dies right after having sex, and even that wasn’t as embarrassing as this. Because she, at least, dies. She wasn’t there to endure the shame of it all. You see where he was coming from?

It wasn’t even during sex per se, considering how quickly it had been. Good, yes, but quick. Crying because you’ve just had the shag of your life he could understand, but this? Crying because you’re so emotionally constipated that being shown a modicum of gentleness and care can only result in the complete loss of your bloody marbles?

No, this was bad. Life-altering bad. Monumentally ba–

“Will you stop muttering?” Aziraphale’s voice cut into his musings.

To add insult to injury, Crowley felt the shift in the air when the blanket was lifted from his head, breaching the sanctity of his wallowing temple. The nerve. Couldn’t Aziraphale see that he was busy?

He scoffed, or at least tried to. Truth be told, it came out more like a whimper than anything coherent (or even dignified). “Don’t mind me. ‘M just having a moment.”

Aziraphale tutted, his fingers still caressing Crowley’s hair. “You’ve been mumbling for what feels like hours.”

“I don’t mumble.” He wasn’t, right? There was no chance in Hell he’d just said all of that nonsense out loud… was there?

“Don’t fret,” Aziraphale said softly. “I could barely understand most of it.”

Had he heard Crowley referring to him as the man of his dreams? Fuck’s sake. It was quite clear that his precious dignity-saving filters, honed to perfection during the years, had been tragically obliterated along with his faculties.

Besides, it wasn’t even true! Crowley had never dreamed of a man (nobody should), and he would never begin to either. If someone had asked him what his dream partner looked like, he would have laughed it off, then said something cutting, and probably troubling. The sort of comment his therapist would tilt her head to the side and hum to. Crowley hated that with a burning passion, it was basically the reason why he’d stopped going.

Fuck, it had been ages since he’d last spared a thought for his therapist.

“You didn’t like her?” Aziraphale asked.

Fucking Hell. Was he still mumbling out loud?

“Yes,” came Aziraphale’s reply.

Crowley let out a whine. “Stop listening to my thoughts.”

“Do they qualify as thoughts if you say them out loud?” Aziraphale sighed, then adjusted his hold on Crowley and arranged the blanket around his shoulders. No more hiding, then. Well, it was nice while it lasted. “I didn’t like going to mine either.”

“Yeah?”

“Yes. I couldn’t stop thinking about my parents finding out and berating me for wasting my money like that, even though at that point we weren’t on speaking terms anymore.” 

They hadn’t exactly talked about it, but Crowley had sort of gathered that Aziraphale hadn’t grown up rich or even having things of his own. It explained why he was so hellbent on mending his stuff to death – clothes, bags, electronics – and so peculiarly attached to his earthly possessions. When you grew up with that mindset, Crowley supposed, it was hard to shake it off, and even harder to believe that speaking to a professional about your mental health didn’t qualify as a frivolous expense.

“I also didn’t like that they seemed to know more about me than I did,” Aziraphale continued.

“Right? They look at you like they have x-ray goggles or something. And they say cryptic stuff that’s supposed to make you think.” He fucking hated thinking, especially about himself. “They also give you homework. ‘S why I stopped going.” Alright, so there was more than one reason. Sue him.

“What was it?”

“I was supposed to write down all the bad things I thought about myself during the day, then try to write something nice next to them.” You can write down ‘great hair’ only so many times before you end up feeling like an absolute twat. Not to mention, his hair needed maintenance, it wasn’t just naturally perfect. Like many other things about him, it was a con. So, you see, that didn’t even count.

“Your hair is great,” Aziraphale countered, because apparently Crowley was still mumbling out loud. “The loveliest shade of red I’ve ever seen.”

Crowley groaned weakly. “Stop kicking me when I’m down. ‘S not very angelic of you.”

“I’m just saying. If you ever wanted to try again, I could help you come up with nice things to say.”

“Nah. I can make up my own stuff.” He was good at that, he didn’t need a ghostwriter for his therapy homework, that would have been too pathetic even for him.

“Oh, but I wouldn’t be making stuff up. I rather believe that’s the whole point.”

Crowley opened his eyes, realising just then that he’d kept them closed until now.  He tilted his head back to look up at Aziraphale and found him already staring at him with the hint of a soft, smug smile curving his lips.

Since that blessed blast had swept away everything in its path, including the bloody cupboard where he’d been hoarding his feelings (some positive, most of them negative), the warmth rising in his chest was now free to spread to every part of him unobstructed, making him tingle all over.

It wasn’t unpleasant either.

Because Aziraphale was gorgeous. Resplendent. Luminous. Everything that was good in life. It was like having the sun in your bed and– Fuck , he’d literally asked him to write a song about being fucked by the sun, hadn’t he?

Aziraphale’s lips parted as though gearing up to say something, but his grumbling stomach beat him to it. “Oh,” he said instead, free hand flying to his belly as he blushed furiously. With no clothes between them, Crowley saw it creep down to his chest. “Awfully sorry. I’m afraid my hunger is getting the better of me.”

Crowley couldn’t take his eyes off of him. “What time is it?” How long had Aziraphale stayed there, just lying next to him and soothing him without making a fuss? And Go– Sat– Someone knew how good he was at making a fuss.

“Must be almost eight by now.”

“Let’s have dinner,” Crowley heard himself say, pulling himself up so Aziraphale had no choice but to remove his hand from his hair. Crowley felt a bit dizzy as he did so, like this newfound lightness needed some adjusting to. A new balance of sorts.

“That’s a splendid idea,” Aziraphale agreed. He was pouting, a wistful look aimed at Crowley’s hair, which– er, no, let’s not go there yet. “What would you like? I can whip–”

“No.” Crowley sat on the edge of the bed and reached for the sweatpants discarded on the chair next to Aziraphale’s carefully folded clothes. “I’m going to make you dinner. You stay here.”

“But there’s no need–”

“I know. I want to.” The moment he said it, he realised it was true. So true, in fact, he almost felt dizzy again. He pulled on his trousers and stood up, refusing to believe that the universe would be so cruel as to make him faint on top of all the reputation-destroying events he’d already suffered in the last two hours.

“Crowley, I assure you that I–”

“Aziraphale,” he shot back. “Let me make you dinner. Let me– ngk. Let me take care of you for once, alright? Stop fighting me.” He was quite proud of himself for getting the words out without crumbling on himself. Or crying, because that was apparently a thing he did now. Expressing his emotions. On the outside. Disgusting.

Aziraphale gaped at him, shocked and maybe slightly concerned. Then he narrowed his eyes. “Has the orgasm dislodged something in your brain?”

“Yes. Isn’t that the point? Big explosion of chemicals flooding your neurons? Va-voom, you’re a new person!”

Aziraphale arched his eyebrows. “Well, in a way.”

“Then stay here and let me– just let me, yeah?”

Aziraphale seemed ready to put up a fight, but in the end he just sighed, his soft chest heaving deliciously. Crowley could not believe that he hadn’t even tried to bite him there. Such a waste.

“Alright.”

“Great. What do you feel like?”

“Anything, really. Even a sandwich would be nice.”

“Right.” Crowley nodded before leaning over the bed to place a kiss on his cheek. “I’ll be back.”

He didn’t quite process Aziraphale’s surprised intake of breath and its baffling cause until he was already halfway through the door. Then he stopped, turned on his heels and stared at Aziraphale dumbfounded. 

“S-sorry. Jesus, fuck,” he spluttered, flushing like mad. “Was that alright? I should have asked first.” Not that he knew he was going to do that before he actually did it, or even after, but…

Aziraphale was impossibly pink, hands fidgeting in his lap. Crowley had to admit that it felt good, not being the only flustered idiot in the room. They’d just gotten each other off – well, Aziraphale had done most of the work for the both of them – and here they were, getting their metaphorical knickers in a twist for a little peck on the cheek! Ridiculous.

“It’s quite, ah, alright,” Aziraphale managed to say. “Feel free to…  erm, you know.”

Crowley realised with a little start that he did know. “Do it again?”

“Yes. But only if you feel like it.”

“‘Kay. I might.”

“Good.”

“Nyeah. I’ll just…”

“Go.”

“Yes, that. Er, bye.”

Bye?! For fuck’s sake, hadn’t he suffered enough?

He launched himself through the door and all but dashed in to the kitchen, barefoot, half-naked and entirely fucked (also strictly metaphorical, unfortunately).

And yet, as dire as the situation was, Crowley didn’t feel… bad. Not really. He felt… well, all felt-out, if that was even a thing.

He checked the pantry and the fridge, considering his options as he took the time for some much needed introspection, marvelling all the while at how airy and spacious his mind was. Feelings didn’t need to squeeze through the mess or squirm for his attention anymore. They were there in plain sight. He could see them. Feel them. Not only was there nowhere they could hide – no cupboards full of rubbish or mountains of emotional debris – he didn’t even feel the urge to get them out of his sight anymore. 

Huh.

That was new.

It probably wouldn’t last either, but still.

After putting a pot of water to boil on the stove, he went to retrieve his phone from the recording studio, where everything was exactly as they’d left it. The music stand turned away from the glass wall, the headphones hooked on its edge along with his henley, his sunglasses just lying there. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d looked at them and saw them for what they were (eyewear) instead of what he used them for (armour he couldn’t quite function without).

He unblocked his phone and was faced with the instrumental base of the song about Lust still ready to be played. Golden Hour, it was titled.

Crowley took a deep breath and tried not to shy away from the events of the past two hours. He still felt a twinge of shame at his poor performance, true, but on the other hand he didn’t feel like running away, changing his identity and starting a new life somewhere else, maybe opening a goat farm. It must count for something, right?

He opened his Spotify account, scrolled through his playlists and selected his most recent one. He connected the phone to the audio system and, as he went back to the kitchen, he pressed play. The opening riff of Rusty Angels by Black Sabbath filled the cottage (at whatever the proper volume was, if you can believe it – but he was still going to cook half-starkers, so whatever survived of his reputation as a demonic rockstar was safe… for now).

He washed his hands, put some salt in the water, then took out another pan, a packet of tagliatelle, cream, parmesan and two lemons, and he got to work, letting his hands take the reins as his mind idly wandered back to Aziraphale.

He probably shouldn’t have – he didn’t want to think too hard about it, not yet – but it wasn’t like he had any control over the flow of his thoughts. As it was, he could only watch them bob like little corks on the surface of his awareness as they passed him by.

The softness of Aziraphale’s hair. The warmth of his skin against his own. The taste of his mouth. The gentleness of his touch. His voice low and breathless as he whispered ‘you’re doing so well’.

Crowley’s stomach clenched and he fumbled with the wooden spoon he was using to stir the pasta until it slipped from his grasp and cluttered to the floor.

Well, fuck. So much for liking rude people, Crowley thought as he angrily picked it up and washed it under the tap.

So, that was a lie. Always had been. Must have been, judging from the way he’d literally felt like his insides were melting when the words had poured out of Aziraphale’s mouth. Stars exploding in his head, nebulae being created in front of his eyes and all that jazz.

He sat with this new discovery as he quickly popped into the cellar for a bottle of white wine, a Chardonnay, and realised that, all things considered, it wasn’t much of a groundbreaking discovery. He always knew there was something missing. Something he craved more than anything even though he could hardly put a name to it.

Was it really kindness that did it for him? To be cared for?

Satan down below. Did Aziraphale care for him?

That was stupid, of course he did. Would have been nice to be able to pretend otherwise, just to preserve his sanity, but for some obscure reason… he did.

As he uncorked the wine and let it breathe on the counter, the lyrics of the song playing in the background trickled into his ears, making them turn pink.

If you swallow just a little pride

You might find a little love inside

Open up and let somebody in

‘Cause if you need somebody, you know it’s not a sin

Crowley stilled in his search for the colander, a sneer taking up residence on his face. He scoffed and looked up. “Really?” he asked no one in particular. “Bit on the nose, don’t you think?”

Irked, as if the playlist wasn’t his own doing, he skipped to the next song – Angel by Judas Priest – which didn’t help much, only he was too busy thickening the sauce to spare a second to change it.

When I close my eyes I hear your velvet wings and cry

I’m waiting here with open arms—Oh, can’t you see?

Angel, shine your light on me

Still embarrassing, plus it spurred an objectively terrible comparison between Aziraphale’s arms and the wings of an angel, but Crowley did feel a little better at that. If nothing else, he wasn’t alone in how pathetic he was, and this was Judas Priest. He was in good company, see? Maybe he could start a club – pathetic old rockstars thinking about angels.

He stirred the pasta in the pan until it turned perfectly creamy, then he put it in a bowl and topped it with grated lemon zest and fresh parmesan, as well as a pinch of black pepper. He unearthed the collapsible bed tray he’d spotted the night of The Ankle Incident as he frantically scavenged for tea.

Accompanied by The Angel and the Gambler by Iron Maiden (Do you feel lucky or do you feel scared?), Crowley placed the pasta on the tray along with cutlery, a napkin, a wine glass and the bottle of Chardonnay, and slipped his phone in the front pocket of his sweatpants.

He made his way back to the bedroom, careful not to drop anything, and found Aziraphale still sitting in bed, now propped against the pillows. He must have moved and popped into the living room at some point because he was wearing his tartan dressing gown.

Is this what it felt like to find a blessed star just randomly sitting on your bed?

“Here we go,” Crowley announced, feeling extremely silly as he did so. Safe to say, he had never thought about stars in bed or done anything as compromising as cooking for someone, least of all himself.

“Oh, that smells heavenly, what is it?” Aziraphale’s eyes were glittering, shoulders already wiggling in anticipation as Crowley moved the bottle to the bedside table and placed the tray in his lap.

“Lemon pasta.”

“Really?”

“Really.”

Aziraphale looked flabbergasted. “How did you make it so creamy?”

Crowley shrugged and poured the wine in his glass. “You just strain the pasta before it’s cooked, and you finish cooking it in the pan along with the sauce, adding pasta water as needed.”

“Oh, my,” he murmured, eyes only for his dinner.

Crowley couldn’t help but smirk to himself as he rounded the bed to retake his place next to him, shoulder to shoulder. “Go on, then. Try it.” 

Aziraphale glanced in his direction, looking almost surprised to find him so close. “Oh, but I’m waiting for you.”

“I’m right here.”

“No, I mean, where’s yours?” He gestured to the pasta, brows adorably furrowed. (Adorably… fuck off, brain.)

“‘M not hungry.”

“Oh, nonsense. I can’t eat while you sit there and watch.”

“I like watching you eat. Very interesting noises.”

Aziraphale’s lips parted on a soft gasp, cheeks dusted with pink and eyes roving over Crowley’s face as though searching for a reason to call 999. “So you’re just saying things now, are you?”

“I’m trying this new thing called being too emotionally knackered to lie. Very enlightening.” Only it wasn’t a matter of trying so much as having no other choice.

“Well, you have to eat something all the same.”

“Maybe later.” He wasn’t hungry for food, but Satan help him if he couldn’t wait to find out if his pasta would coax any of those delicious moans out of Aziraphale.

“Very well, then. We’ll have to share this,” Aziraphale decided resolutely. “It’s a lot of pasta anyway. You didn’t weigh it, did you?”

“Look who’s talking. You don’t even know what a portion is, you always cook more than you need.”

“I cook the exact amount that’s needed.”

“Are you taking the piss?” There were always leftovers in the fridge. Crowley knew because he was the one making them disappear afterwards. “You cook enough for two people.”

Aziraphale lifted his eyebrows and levelled a haughty look at him, eyes flashing in annoyance. “Exactly.”

Crowley lifted his finger, ready to protest and maybe provide all the evidence to the contrary that he’d collected over the past weeks, when the meaning of Aziraphale’s words suddenly clicked.

His face fell, mouth slack. “Wh– I– You… you cook for two.” 

“Yes.”

“So those leftovers…” This certainly gave the word dumb a whole new meaning.

“Yes.”

“And the threatening notes, the ridiculous drawings…”

“You sort of are the poster boy for reverse psychology, my dear, if you don’t mind me saying so.” That said, Aziraphale expertly scooped up a forkful of tagliatelle and brought them to his mouth.

Crowley, who had been waiting for this moment like a kid waits for Christmas morning, was nevertheless taken aback by the sound that rumbled low in Aziraphale’s throat. He couldn’t decide if the happy wiggle that came with it was lessening or increasing the brain-melting effect of the display. Either way, he felt something like pride stir in his chest knowing he had been responsible for it. He was making Aziraphale moan like that.

“Oh, Crowley, this is delicious!” Could you bottle that Oh, Crowley? Or, better yet, inject it directly into his veins? Asking for a friend…

“Should I be offended by how surprised you are?” He wasn’t. He was… Hell’s sake, he was pleased as punch.

Aziraphale scoffed a little. “You certainly didn’t give me any indication that you could cook.” He twirled more pasta around the fork and fed it to Crowley, who decided to give his self-loathing a day off and accepted it without a fuss. Aziraphale was right, it was very good.

“Here, try it with the wine,” Aziraphale pressed on, handing him the glass. “It’s even better. You’ve paired them perfectly.”

Crowley indulged him. With the way Aziraphale was glowing, he wasn’t sure he could have denied him anything at the moment. “Yeah, ‘s good,” he admitted. “Don’t get too excited though, it’s one of the, like, three things I can make. Luc taught me.” He reconsidered his words immediately. “I mean, not really, I just learned by watching him.”

“Who’s Luc?”

“My longest failed relationship? He was a chef. Five Michelin stars and everything. Giant tosser, though.” First time Crowley had seen him, Luc was screaming bloody murder against his staff in the open kitchen of his famed restaurant in London. There was something about an angry Frenchman that somehow had done it for him.

With hindsight, he really should have stuck with therapy.

Aziraphale’s eyes grew wide. “You were with the chef of Les Enfers?” He was shocked, but not too shocked to stop eating and feeding Crowley forkfuls of pasta.

“Nyeah. He always said every kitchen must have some essentials – flour, spices, olive oil, herbs, parmesan, and at least two types of pasta. I never keep much at home in the way of food, and when we got together he said he wouldn’t come over if I didn’t have them. So I let him stock my kitchen and when he stayed the night he would use whatever else he’d find to whip something up. He was quite resourceful.”

He also never failed to find fault in everything Crowley did or didn’t do, had or didn’t have. Teasingly at first, in a way that somewhat managed to hide the coldness behind his jabs. Or at least that’s what Crowley had thought at the time. Maybe Luc had been sharp and cruel right from the start and he’d been too fascinated by him to notice.

“You do seem to gravitate towards very successful partners,” Aziraphale mused. “I suppose it’s the sort of people you meet when you’re successful yourself.”

Crowley shrugged and took another sip of wine before placing the glass back on the tray. “Nah, you meet all sorts of people.” He leaned into Aziraphale to accept more pasta. “But I liked the rude ones, remember?”

Aziraphale hummed, glancing at him a bit gingerly. “I do.”

Crowley tried to hold his gaze, then found himself extremely interested in the wine and its particular shade of yellow. “I think I liked it,” he heard himself say, as if the words had snuck up on him. “Feeling at a disadvantage. Setting myself up for disappointment right out the gate.” Outsourcing his self-loathing, so to speak.

“Ah. A clear case of self-sabotage.”

“Nyeah, guess so.”

“Of course, you may also have a competence kink.”

Crowley grinned. “Is that your professional opinion?”

“Might be. What do you think?”

“Heh. I dunno.”

His thoughts wandered back to the food Aziraphale had been cooking for him since their arrival on Skye. The slightly underdone stews and the vaguely overdone pasta, the breadcrumbs burning in the pan the night of their date, and, before that, the half-blackened Chelsea buns (with the best ones set aside especially for him, Crowley realised just now, not in an attempt to hide his shortcomings, but to please him).

Aziraphale’s cooking wasn’t bad, but it wasn’t exceptional either. It was just okay.

And yet, it was also the best food Crowley had ever tasted. In fact, he wouldn’t have changed it for all the fancy five-stars restaurants in the world. Unlike Luc, Aziraphale had never tried to impress him or assert his superiority. He wasn’t showing off, wasn’t trying to prove anything. It was just his way of taking care of him. And he’d done so disinterestedly, even while being shown barely any kindness in return.

In the light of his recently acquired wisdom, Crowley had no problem recognising the suspicious prickling in his eyes. Bloody Hell, was he about to cry over the hidden meaning behind Aziraphale’s half-burned Chelsea buns?

“I don’t think so,” he finally said, throat tight and voice thinning at the edges. 

Aziraphale smiled and fed him some more pasta. Even if he’d noticed how emotional he was, he didn’t point it out. “Well, you’re quite safe with me.”

Crowley nodded – of course he was safe with him – then frowned. “Wait. What do you mean?”

“I’m competent in very few things and not really successful at any of them.”

“Aziraphale, you are brilliant,” Crowley blurted out, rearing his head back with a sense of urgency. “You’re way better than any of those mouldy arseholes.”

“Oh, I hardly believe I could compete with the chef of Les Enf–”

“Yes, you could. Soulless twats, the lot of ‘em. The banker, the sommelier, Luc, all of ‘em. They sold themselves to their jobs because they want– no, need to be the best. I know because I am one of them. Or I was, I dunno anymore.”

“You’re not soulless at all,” came Aziraphale’s stern retort. “You have a lot of soul, actually.”

“Pssh.” A soul. Sounded silly when you said it like that. “Took some time to find it, though, huh?” Whatever was left of it anyway.

“No, it was always there. I would never have come here with you if I thought you were a, erm, soulless twat, as you put it.”

“Fine, whatever,” Crowley cut him off, squirming uncomfortably. “But you have more than me. And you’re clever and brilliant and good. You’re– you’re a proper angel. Those bastards have nothing on you, do you hear me? Nothing.”

Aziraphale blushed so hard even his hair seemed to turn pink with it. “Well–”

“And you’re gorgeous too.” Oh, it turned out he had some ammunition left too.

“I–”

“I mean, look at you!”

“But–”

“Oi, none of this. You know you are or you wouldn’t have given me that little after-shower show that one time.” As far as Crowley was concerned, Tits Day deserved to be a national holiday.

Aziraphale mumbled, clearly flustered. “I do try to think of myself as… you know.”

“Gorgeous.”

“That.”

“Why are you so embarrassed then?”

“Nothing, I just– I just forgot how nice it is to be told.”

Crowley’s heart made something complicated in his chest, which wasn’t empty anymore, but full of a feeling so big and warm and alive that he was suddenly very worried it would consume him from the inside out leaving nothing but a little pile of ashes in its place. Smitten, Aziraphale had said.

“I’ll keep telling you then.” As he said it, he was almost scared by how determined he felt to keep his word.

Aziraphale turned to him with a shy look on his face, his eyes bluer and sparklier than ever. “Should I say thank you?”

“Better not.” This whole day was turning out life-changing enough as it was.

“More wine, then?”

“Please.”

If the world were to suddenly shrink down to the confines of this bed, Aziraphale realised he wouldn’t have minded. No complaints from him. Not a peep. None at all.

Why would he when he had everything he needed right here?

A soft, warm place to lay his head on, his books just a short distance away in the next room, good wine, the best company he’d had in a long while and even art to look at, and on the loveliest canvas he could think of. A canvas that was currently sprawled on his back, half-naked, sweatpants sitting low on his hips, eyes closed. One hand tucked under the nape of his neck and the other stretched to the side and idly tapping on Aziraphale’s pillow. A different beat. Possibly a new song.

“I particularly like this one,” Aziraphale said, brushing his finger on the water lily on Crowley’s right side.

Gooseflesh bloomed under his touch, as though Aziraphale wasn’t touching warm skin, but creating ripples on the surface of a sun-warmed pond. And on himself too, as the touch immediately reminded of sinking his fingers in the perfectly shaded petals not so long ago, when he’d pulled Crowley in his lap. He still couldn’t believe he’d been so bold as to step into the recording booth, but boy, was he glad he had.

“Does it signify anything in particular?” he asked.

Crowley mumbled something under his breath that sounded like, “Pretty, ‘s all.” He lazily rolled his shoulders, keeping his eyes closed. “I always dreamed of having a big garden someday. Lots of plants and flowers.”

“Yes?”

“Nyeah. Saw Monet’s house in Giverny this one time I went to France with DLTW and I became obsessed with water lilies for a while.” He cracked one eye open and looked at Aziraphale. “You’d like the place, I think. Very colourful. Though the yellow dining room was a bit much.”

“Yellow is my favourite colour.” Especially the warm honey-gold shade of a certain someone’s eyes.

Crowley snorted and, as though reading Aziraphale’s mind, closed back his eyes. “Figures.”

“I was there years ago. The gardens are beautiful.” Before he could think better of it, he pictured Crowley walking among the luscious green, studying the colourful flowers lining the path, and himself lingering back to watch him. How silly, he reprimanded himself. “Don’t suppose you have a garden in Mayfair.”

“Pssh, no. Not even houseplants. Stopped keeping them when I became big enough to tour. Couldn’t keep proper care of ‘em, so… I started getting them tattooed instead.”

It was probably why there seemed to be no rhyme or reason in the art gracing his body. It was sort of astonishing, considering how minimalism-inclined the man was with everything else. For someone so obsessed with tidiness, his tattoos seemed to be the result of several spur of the moment decisions.

“It’s a beautiful garden,” Aziraphale heard himself say. “Full of creatures too. I like the big snake you’ve got on your leg,” he continued.

A dopey grin appeared on Crowley’s lips and he opened his eyes, turning his head to the side to look at him. “Oh, I bet you do. Just wait till he’s ready to go again.”

Aziraphale tutted. “Really, my dear?” That was an unfortunate joke, even for him.

“Why do you think I have so many snake tattoos?”

“I’m afraid you’re about to tell me.”

“So I can make all sorts of terrible jokes about them. People love ‘em.”

“Somehow I doubt it.” He paused and then chuckled. “How many times did you ask someone if they wanted to see the snake in your trousers?”

“Oh, angel, you have no idea.”

Aziraphale burst out laughing, amused and endeared by Crowley’s lopsided smile. He looked relaxed, totally at ease, unguarded even. It was all Aziraphale could do not to let that particular knowledge go to his head.

Speaking of angels, Crowley’s playlist was still playing in the background. Rock wasn’t Aziraphale’s favourite music and it probably would never be, but he didn’t find it unpleasant, not anymore. In all truthfulness, it was more because of Crowley’s habit of letting the music say the things he couldn’t bring himself to than the quality of the songs themselves, but still. The idea of him looking for angels in the music he liked best made Aziraphale feel all warm and tingly inside.

“I quite like the raven too.” In the dim lights of the bedroom, it looked almost shimmery. “Very intelligent birds, ravens. They mate for life, did you know that?”

Crowley shrugged, affecting indifference as he let his eyes roam around Aziraphale’s face. “Yeah?” 

“Yes.” But he had a feeling Crowley already knew. “Do you know what a flock of ravens is called?”

“Bunch of little fuckers?”

“Close. It’s an unkindness.”

Crowley howled with laughter, his whole body shaking with it. He looked younger somehow. Lighter too. Carefree. “Should get a whole unkindness of ‘em then,” he said when he’d calmed down.

“You barely have any space left.”

“Nah, still got a whole leg to go.” He rubbed at his eyes, then shifted to lay on his side. “I thought you wouldn’t like them.”

“Why not?”

“Tattoos don’t exactly scream old-fashioned.”

“So? I appreciate beauty in all of its forms.”

Crowley invariably flushed, which didn’t stop him from huffing out in annoyance. “Fff– Jesus. You can’t say things like that.”

“I can and I did.” Especially after all that gorgeous nonsense.

“Bastard.”

“I’ll pop to the loo so you can have a good sulk about it, what do you say?” He’d better go brush his teeth before he became too sleepy to haul himself out of bed.

Crowley’s expression turned serious, hesitant. “You’re coming back, aren’t you?” he asked, trying his best to sound cool and detached.

Aziraphale felt his chest clench in response, warmth flooding him in a way that was already becoming way too familiar. Dangerous too. “My dear, if you believe I’m going back to sleep on the sofa after lying on this bed, you’ll have another think coming.”

Crowley didn’t look convinced and Aziraphale was suddenly overcome by the urge to give quite the tongue-lashing to whoever had made him feel that way.

“You’ll come back then,” Crowley said. “For the bed.”

“For the bed, yes.”

“No other reason?” he pressed on, arching one eyebrow and subtly cocking his hip.

Aziraphale smiled. “None at all.”

“Smug bastard.”

“We both know you like it.”

Crowley’s half-hearted growl followed Aziraphale out of the bedroom. 

He stopped to pick up his pyjamas from the living room, then made his way to the loo, where he put himself to rights after the evening’s activities. He caught his reflection in the mirror more than once in the process, each time seeing himself with the silliest smile on his face and blushing under his own scrutiny.

“Come on, old chap,” he whispered, though he couldn’t quite prevent his thoughts from going back to his second night in the cottage. When he’d stood right here, looking for signs of Crowley’s presence and wondering why his toothbrush wasn’t in the cup alongside his own. He’d scolded himself back then too, the only difference was that now Crowley’s toothbrush was next to Aziraphale’s, that he knew what sounds he made when pleasure became too much to bear, what his lips felt like against his own, the way he writhed and squirmed when he lost control of himself. 

He knew the shape of his tears too.

It felt scary. It felt like a blessing. 

His mind suddenly caught up with the song playing over the audio system.

Hear this voice from deep inside

It's the call of your heart

Close your eyes and you will find

The way out of the dark

And then,

Here I am (Here I am)

Will you send me an angel?

Here I am (Here I am)

In the land of the morning star

A little shiver went through him.

Well.

Some rock songs were clearly better than others.

On his way back to the bedroom, he stopped in the hallway to pick up Trainspotting from the side table, and then his spectacles, notebook and phone from the living room. When he joined him once more, Crowley was snuggled under the covers on Aziraphale’s side, absentmindedly scrolling on his phone.

“All sulked-out, then?” Aziraphale asked, placing his stuff on the nightstand.

“Shut up.”

“Scoot over.”

“No can do.”

Hadn’t lost his annoying touch after all. What a relief.

Aziraphale cleared his throat and mustered up his patience. “I believe that’s my side of the bed.”

“Not anymore.” Crowley burrowed deeper under the covers to drive the message home.

Aziraphale was unimpressed. “Oh?”

“Nyeah. ‘S warmer than mine. So now ‘s mine.”

“I don’t think so.”

“Well, what are you gonna do about it? Fight m– oi!” he screeched when Aziraphale pulled the covers away. “What are you–”

Without letting him finish, Aziraphale rested a knee on the mattress, grabbed Crowley by the waist and quite literally threw him on the other side of the bed. 

Crowley squeaked and flushed and spluttered, phone slipping away from his grasp as he landed back on the mattress. “H-how– Wh– Jesus fuck!”

“I think his name was Jesus of Nazareth, actually,” Aziraphale said primly, thwarting Crowley’s pitiful attempts at invading his space by trapping him under his bodyweight and pinning his wrists to the bed.

“Satan– fuck!” Crowley bellowed at him, though he couldn’t stop himself from laughing, cheeks and ears almost as red as his hair. He wriggled like a mad man, more to test Aziraphale’s strength than freeing himself in earnest, Aziraphale suspected, pushing their bodies together as he did so.

“Probably not his name either,” Aziraphale said as conversationally as he could given the circumstances. “Besides, I don’t think they’re related.”

“Shut up. Angel my arse! You can’t do this!”

“I can and I did.”

One hot angel, one cool devil, began, as if on cue, whoever was singing the song that had just started playing. Your mind on the fantasy, living on the ecstasy.

“Is this song about us?” Aziraphale wondered out loud.

Crowley ignored him, too busy with his minor meltdown. “How are you so strong? ‘S not fair!”

“Well, for a start, I don’t have twigs for arms and I treat food as both pleasure and fuel rather than an inconvenience to be endured.”

“Hell’s sake, you’re insufferable!” Crowley complained.

“Then stop rubbing against me!”

“Why? Am I bothering- bothering you?”

“What does that even mean?”

“I think you know,” Crowley shot back, a wild look in his eyes. He took a deep breath, and then, “Just so you know, I get tested every year.”

Aziraphale floundered for words and could find nothing better than, “Oh?”

“Yeah, I mean– no pressure or anything. I don’t think I can go again, not so soon. Also don’t want to cry my way through that sort of thing. Can you imagine? So embarrassing. But, you know, in case you’re interested and I–”

Aziraphale decided to take mercy on him and stop him before he could talk himself into any more circles. “Crowley?”

“Nyeah?”

“Thank you for telling me,” he said softly. Still straddling him, he let his wrists go to kneel back and reach for his phone on the bedside table. “I’ve also been tested. I have my results right here on my phone.”

Crowley snorted as he grabbed the top of Aziraphale’s pyjamas to keep him in place. “So what, you keep them ready just in case you have to show them to your oodles of lovers?”

“Well, yes.” Aziraphale unblocked his phone. “It’s for the Grindr.”

No sooner had he said it, that Crowley bucked under him. The movement would have sent a slender man flying. “On the wot now?”

“The Grindr? The app for–”

“I know what Grindr is. No article needed. Why are you on it?”

“Do I seriously have to explain it?” It was quite self-explanatory, Aziraphale thought as he pulled up his test results and showed them to Crowley, who was too astonished to actually read anything on it.

“You use Grindr,” Crowley repeated, as though making sure he’d heard correctly. “And you know it’s not an app for fancy pepper grinders or something.”

Aziraphale scoffed. Fancy pepper grinders! “Yes, I do use just Grindr. I mean, not in a while. I download it when I’m writing a book. For research purposes, you see.”

Crowley was going through what looked like at least six separate stages of shock. “You research your books on Grindr?”

“Yes, I can’t exactly ask the cashier at Tesco to try sexual positions with me just so I can make sure they’re physically possible.”

“You’re unbelievable,” Crowley muttered, torn between pride and dismay. “So what? You just DM people and say: hullo, I’m writing a book, would you like to be chained to the ceiling so I can see in how many anatomically correct ways I can shag you?”

Well, he’d never actually shackled anyone to the ceiling, but that was the gist of it, yes. “Not in so many words, but yes. I like to be upfront.”

Crowley’s eyes grew wide. “Does this mean you’ve tried everything you wrote about?”

“Good Lord, no. Can you imagine? Doing those things with strangers?”

Crowley’s face did something complicated. “No, not really.”

Aziraphale blinked and suddenly realised he was still straddling Crowley, which was quite nice if he could say so himself – he very much enjoyed the view from up here – but probably not the best position to be at the moment.

As soon as he made a move to get off of him, Crowley let go of his pyjamas so Aziraphale could sit back on his side of the bed. He landed on something, which turned out to be Crowley’s unblocked phone.

Aziraphale was about to give it back when he noticed an app icon that made his blood turn to ice. “Crowley?” he said, voice suddenly low and cutting.

Crowley, who was still lying on his back and taking deep breaths for some reason, raised his head and let out a hoarse, “Yeah?”

“Why do you have a drug-selling app on your phone?” Without waiting for an answer, Aziraphale scrambled to get out of bed, outrage flowing off of him in huge, violent waves. “I can’t believe this! What has the world come to? Are drugs really so commodified these days? Do you just order them and get them like food? How does it work?” And then, another even more bone-chilling thought. “Are the kids your drug dealers?”

Crowley sat bolt upright. He looked like he’d just uncovered the seventh stage of shock. 

“Aziraphale, angel… I’m going to hold your hand when I say this–” Aziraphale promptly held out his hand for Crowley to take, which he did despite his evident puzzlement. “Er, thanks, I guess. It was more of a metaph– you know what? Never mind. Anyway, I don’t have the faintest idea what you’re on about.”

Aziraphale pointed to the infamous icon with a nod of his head. “Here, it says tick tock.” Actually, upon further inspection, it said TikTok, because of course. Why would a drug-selling app show any regard for the rules of the English language?

Crowley looked at him as if he was about to grow another head. “It’s one word, not two, and– Wait. Wait, wait, wait. Bloody Hell, please don’t tell me you think TikTok is an actual drug?”

“What do you mean?” Aziraphale was growing more irritated by the second. “You said so yourself. That you were on it, and that it was addictive.”

Crowley’s dismay slowly crumbled into amusement and gleeful disbelief, his mouth twitching. “It’s social media. So yeah, I am sometimes on it. To watch stupid videos, which are quite addictive.”

“That can’t be true.”

“Come on, angel, would I lie to you?”

Aziraphale was about to say something, when it occurred to him, and not without a start, that this Crowley would, in fact, not lie to him. Not about something like this.

“Come here, look.” Crowley gestured for him to join him on the bed, and Aziraphale complied, powerless to keep his distance.

He handed the phone back to him and watched as Crowley tapped on the damn icon. Sure enough, a video started playing, and then another, and another one as Crowley quickly scrolled through them as if in demonstration. Aziraphale even recognised some of the baffling, nonsensical things Crowley had said in the past.

“Oh dear. I thought you–”

“You thought I was holed up in here doing literal drugs?” Crowley was desperately trying not to laugh. He managed until he couldn’t any more, then started cackling like a maniac.

“It’s not funny.”

“Is too! It’s hysterical.”

“Hardly.”

“Come on, it is! You–”

Aziraphale wisely decided to make good use of the groundbreaking innovations they’d introduced during the evening, pulling Crowley to him and kissing him square on the mouth. Crowley moaned against his lips and eagerly parted them to deepen the kiss, then moaned some more when Aziraphale pushed him back to the bed for a more comfortable position.

“Can we snog all night?” asked Crowley, breathless and glassy-eyed, when they reluctantly pulled back to catch their breath.

“Your lips will fall off.” They were already red and deliciously swollen.

“Yours too. We can be lipless… together, if you like. ‘S worth it.”

At long last, Aziraphale thought, they seemed to have found the one thing they could both agree on.