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“Crowley, darling?”
Crowley looks up from the rosebush they are in the middle of disciplining and turns towards the cottage. Aziraphale is leaning out through the kitchen window, wearing the same outfit she’s worn for the past two centuries only now tailored to better fit the current body she’s sporting. She’s discarded the jacket, vest and bowtie, and with her shirt sleeves rolled up she looks a real treat. Crowley is always happy to ogle their wife, and lets their eyes roam down her form, taking in the gorgeous curves as far down as they can see.
Aziraphale coughs pointedly. Crowley looks back up and meets her eyes, an impish smile taking over their face.
“Yeah, angel?”
Aziraphale rolls her eyes. “We are going out for dinner tonight, aren’t we?”
“Yep. Your friend opened her new restaurant in London, didn’t she? I got us reservations.”
When Crowley says friend what they mean is closer to child.
Emma had been a teenager when she was kicked out of her house, more than three decades past now, and she’d wandered London until she landed on the doorstep of a certain bookshop in Soho. Aziraphale had been quick to help, offering new accommodations, helping her get a job and introducing her to new friends her age.
Almost two decades after first meeting Aziraphale, Emma met her now-wife in a visit to the bookshop.
Aziraphale had received an invitation, not only to the wedding a few years back, but also to her new restaurant’s grand opening back when the days were ticking down to Armageddon and she’d been unable to attend (to the restaurant, not the wedding). But now, close to a year since they’d survived the end of the world, feeling safe and finally settled in their new cottage, they’d found the time to visit.
“Good.” Aziraphale nods. “I have a request for you, then.”
Crowley raises an eyebrow. “A request?”
“Yes, please. I would like some fresh lavender for this evening, would that be possible?”
“Would that— Yes, that would be possible,” they turn and stare towards the back of the property, where the wild lavender shrubs line the stone wall at the edge of the garden. They haven’t gotten around to working on them yet, and there is part of the wall that’s fallen and needs to be fixed as well, but there is an abundance of lavender. Crowley can easily get some for their wife if she wants.
Aziraphale beams at them.
“Thank you, dear. I very much appreciate it. A small boutonnière, nothing much I don’t think. And maybe a small arrangement to gift dear Emma? But not necessarily lavender, that. I trust your expertise on which flowers would suit best.” She pushes herself up from the window frame. “I’ll leave you to it, then. Do give yourself time to get ready this evening, Crowley; remember we’re leaving at seven.”
Crowley rolls their eyes. “Got it angel. Not getting lost in the garden again.” Crowley smirks. “Promise,” they add.
Aziraphale tuts but Crowley sees her smile as she turns away, and with a smile of their own they get back to work with the roses. They’ll have to leave the daffodils for another day to take care of some of the lavender today. Maybe they can finish working with the rest of the rose bushes tomorrow instead and take a break early, take a nice long shower instead of miraculously removing the dirt... That does sound like a good idea, and maybe they’ll be able to tempt Aziraphale into showering together too.
Well, then. Crowley grins as they stand up from next to the rose bushes and walks over to the back of the garden in search of some lavender. Better finish up early with the garden because they have plans.
Crowley stands, naked, in front of the still steamed-up mirror in the bathroom and considers their options. They took a shower—alone: Aziraphale had kissed them sweetly, pushed them into the bathroom and closed the door in their face, the bastard—and now they need to choose an outfit for the night. With a wave of their hand and barely a thought the mirror is pristine and visible again. Crowley studies their figure while they think.
Emma’s new restaurant is one of those fancy but comfortable ones, so they should dress appropriately, nothing too elegant but not too casual either.
They squint at the mirror and make their breasts grow a size or two.
But then again, Crowley has gone to the Ritz in jeans and leather jackets before.
They turn to one side and the other, look at their profile.
What matters to them is not the place or dress codes or anything else; all that matters to Crowley are personal aesthetics and, sometimes, to match Aziraphale.
They frown and with a wave their breasts are back to their previous size.
Not that they’ll admit wanting to match Aziraphale.
They study their profile again and shrink their breasts a bit more.
Crowley tries on a dress first. An old favourite, black and tight to accentuate their figure, but it’s not what they are looking for today. Trousers feel too uncomfortable, a blouse unthinkable, jeans too restricting. Another dress, and another, and a fourth one too and none of them feel right.
Crowley’s reaching their limit, about to either miracle up their old robes from Eden or to just go nude instead and cause a scene, when there’s a knock at the bathroom door.
“Crowley, darling? Everything alright?”
They slump against the vanity worktop and let their head hang, eyes falling closed. “Fine, angel. Just trying to pick an outfit.”
“I could feel the miracles, yes. Do you need any help?”
“Hngk. Didn’t you want your outfit to be a surprise?”
“Yes, but I’m not dressed yet.”
With a lazy wave of their hand the door opens. “Hurry, don’t let the cold in,” they say without moving or opening their eyes, and they hear Aziraphale walk in and close the door behind her.
Warm hands find their shoulders and massage their way down their back until they reach around them and Aziraphale wraps them in a hug, her front to Crowley’s back. They nuzzle back into her and tip their head backwards as well, still not bothering to open their eyes.
“Hmm. Are you naked?”
“Yes, well.” She presses a kiss to their shoulder blade. “I did tell you I wasn’t dressed yet.”
Crowley smiles, opens their eyes and turns around. They wrap their arms around her and press their chest to hers, nuzzling down into her neck. She tightens her arms around them and presses a kiss to the top of their head, and they hold each other. It’s minutes before they move, Crowley moving back only enough to seek her mouth with theirs, to which she responds with an encouraging hum and kissing them back softly, sweetly, as she runs her hands over their bare back.
When they finally pull apart Crowley takes the opportunity to look at her. She’s wearing nothing but her underpants and bra, and they let their hands roam appreciatively over the curves of her stomach, sides and breasts.
“Gorgeous,” they say, and she swats at their hands before pulling them into another, shorter, kiss.
“Flatterer,” she says. Crowley can’t help the smirk and wink, which prompts a roll of her eyes. “Now then, you were having trouble choosing an outfit?”
“Mmm yeah. Nothing feels right. Trousers are right out but so are dresses.” They offer a nonchalant shrug. “Might just have to go naked.”
“You wicked thing, you shall do no such thing,” she warns, but she’s smiling and Crowley smiles back. “What about a skirt?”
Crowley considers this, turns in her arms to look at themself in the mirror. “That could work.” They look back at Aziraphale over their shoulder. “With what on top, then?”
Aziraphale tilts her head, studies them in the mirror for a moment.
“How do you feel about that white shirt of yours? With one of your black skirts and your high heel boots, if you feel up to it?”
Crowley raises their eyebrows. “Not bad, angel. I like that.”
Turning back to the mirror Crowley snaps their fingers, once, twice, three times. The boots are black, sleek and shiny, and come up mid-calf. The flared skirt is also black and comes down to above their knees. The dress shirt is white with red buttons, seams and the insides of the cuffs and neck, perfectly tailored to their body and tucked neatly into their skirt.
It’s not a bad look.
Crowley turns this way and that, looking at themself in the mirror, and hums appreciatively.
“Well done, angel. I really do like it.” They turn towards Aziraphale and watch as she looks them over; up, down and up to their eyes again. “Like what you see?”
“Very much so, darling. But I have one more suggestion, if I may.”
“By all means, angel. You put the outfit together, I’m open to more suggestions if they’re as good as this.”
Aziraphale smiles, snaps her fingers once and lifts her hand to offer them a garment. It’s a tie, black, and upon closer inspection they find a subtle flower pattern in a dark bluish-violet colour. They raise an eyebrow and look up at her.
She blushes faintly but doesn’t avert her eyes. “It’ll match me,” she says, and Crowley feels their face soften into a smile.
They snap once again and the red details on their shirt change to match the flowers on the tie, which they hand back to her. “Tie it for me?”
“Of course,” she smiles and steps closer.
She wraps the tie around their neck and measures both sides to the proper length before looking up at them, grabbing a fistful of their lapels and pulling them in for a kiss. Crowley goes willingly, wrapping their arms around her middle while she wraps hers around their neck and buries a hand on their hair.
When they part it’s with a sound, part whine and part moan, falling from Crowley’s lips as they try to chase after her once more. She stops them with a hand on their chest and a tut.
“Now, now, darling.” She fixes their lapels, straightens their shirt where she’s rumpled it. “As lovely as this is, I do have to get dressed if we want to make it on time.”
“Bu– But– Hngk!”
“Yes darling. And look, you’re dressed now, all that’s left is your tie. Let me.” She straightens the tie, measures both sides again, smiles up at them and ties it expertly with barely even a glance. “There now, all done.” She takes two steps back and eyes them over, head to toe.
“Stunning,” she says. “You look beautiful, my love.”
Crowley closes the distance between them with a choked whine and she catches them with open arms. They bend down and bury their face into her neck while she pets their hair and coos softly into their ear. After a few moments they mumble something into her skin.
“What was that, darling?”
With a sigh Crowley pulls back just enough to stand taller once more and rest their chin on her lovely, short, soft curls. The same exact haircut she’s worn for as long as they’ve known her and it fits her so well. They reach up with one of their hands to tangle in the curls at the back of her head and she sighs, tilting her head back minutely into the touch. They pull back to look her in the eyes only to get distracted by the sudden desperate urge to kiss her forehead. And her nose. And her cheeks. And her lips—
Aziraphale chuckles into their mouth and allows them to kiss her sweetly for a moment before breaking them apart. She smiles, bright and radiant up at them, and Crowley has to resist the urge to kiss her again.
“I said, you can’t do that to me,” they finally say, and she laughs again.
“Can’t do what, darling? Tell my beautiful wife how stunning they look?” Crowley whines again and pulls her into a tighter hug, pressing her face to their chest in hopes to silence her. Because Aziraphale is a bastard this only encourages her more. “Tell them how handsome, elegant, exquisite they look? Striking, radiant, dazzling. Fetching, captivating, resplendent. Tantalising, smashing, superb—” She laughs the words into their skin and presses kisses to their neck between each.
“Shut up, shut up, shut up!”
Crowley’s burning bright red up to their ears, helpless to do anything but hide their face into their wife’s shoulder and hang on for dear life. She shakes with laughter and Crowley strengthens their hold on her.
“I’m sorry, my darling. I’m sorry,” she kisses apologies into their skin, not at all sorry if the way she’s still laughing is any indication, and Crowley grumbles incoherently some more. With one last kiss to the side of their chin she pushes them off her shoulder with a hand on their cheek, seeking eye contact. Crowley goes willingly, lifting their head only enough for their eyes to meet hers without untangling from their hug. She smiles at them so wide it must hurt her cheeks, and they feel their frown smoothen.
“Bastard,” they pout.
“Only a bit,” she beams. “But really, dear. You’re my wife, it’s my job to tell you how lovely you look.” Crowley’s receding flush reddens again and they groan.
“That’s it,” they say. “‘M done with you, off you pop.” They slither out of her arms and, placing both hands on her shoulders, start carefully pushing her backwards toward the door. “Go get dressed, go read a book, whatever you like, but I’m done here.” With a thought the bathroom door opens and Crowley ignores Aziraphale’s laughter in favour of keeping their scowl in place. “You go bother someone else, I’ve got my hair to take care of still and can’t have bastard angels interfering with the process.”
With one last backwards step and a cackle Aziraphale moves out into the hallway and Crowley sticks out their tongue before closing the door in her face. They hear her retreating laughter down the hallway towards their bedroom, and Crowley allows themself a moment to slump into the door.
Damn, she really is a bastard.
With a shake of their head they walk up to the mirror again and, as expected, find an undemonically soft smile on their face. They don’t bother to do a thing about it, knowing they’re alone in the bathroom with no one to see, so there is really no need to hide or fake annoyance about it.
Admiring their outfit again Crowley has to admit that Aziraphale has a good sense of style that she simply has chosen not to use for the past eight centuries or so. A pity, but then again she does love doing her own thing. And Crowley wouldn’t be caught dead admitting it, but they do like how she looks. Not that tartan is stylish, or that old coat of hers does her any favours, and Crowley is fully aware they’re biased, but they do like it anyway.
With a shake of their head and a snap of their fingers their hair finds itself perfectly styled just the way they want it, and Crowley strolls out of the bathroom towards the kitchen. They’d left the flowers ready and waiting, but better check they haven’t disobeyed.
With the flowers indeed perfectly obedient, and nothing else to do but wait for the angel, Crowley sprawls on a kitchen chair, pulls their phone out of the pocket they expected it to be in—of course Crowley’s skirts have pockets. Not by design, maybe, but Crowley isn’t bound by the laws of physics, or fashion designers, and doesn’t expect their clothes to be either—and settles down.
Aziraphale, Crowley has known for millennia, is very fussy. About everything, really, but especially about clothes. She likes human-made clothes, not miracled ones. Same with the food— she claims she can taste the difference. A load of bollocks if you ask Crowley, but then again they don’t eat very often.
Point is, Aziraphale fusses. And she likes clothes and doing things the human way. Like dressing and undressing and mending her centuries-old clothes even when they’re falling apart because they are, indeed, centuries old. So if Aziraphale has an outfit planned for the evening and she has to change, Crowley is ready to wait.
Crowley is, admittedly, a little excited about the surprise outfit. They have no idea what Aziraphale has planned. They didn’t even know anything about new outfits until this morning, and they do always enjoy seeing the angel try new things.
The last new outfit Aziraphale tried, and since introduced to her daily repertoire, is what she calls her ‘retirement outfit’. Comfortable, looser trousers; a shirt she usually wears with the first couple buttons undone and with the sleeves up; comfortable shoes; and a sunhat Crowley likes adorning with flowers for her. Nothing she minds getting dirt, grime and dust on, which she now wears when working around the house or garden, or when cleaning out her library. Unlike the familiar polished shoes, shirt, bowtie, vest and jacket she adores so much, which she now mostly wears when going out into the village or on days she stays inside reading and little else. Crowley likes the new outfit very much, especially the partly unbuttoned, arms visible aspect of it.
As for themself, Crowley has also acquired a new outfit. Well, a few.
New outfits aren’t a strange occurrence for Crowley, of course not, but these differ widely from the norm.
One is what they wore earlier this morning, their gardening outfit: comfortable blue denim overalls, work boots and whatever t-shirt they grab first or miracle on each day. Another is what’s come to replace the tight jeans, vest, jacket and chainmail tie when they’re at home in the cottage with no plans for going out: slightly less tight jeans with the cuffs rolled up and a half-buttoned shirt that changes colour as it suits their fancy of the day, almost always with the sleeves also rolled up. Black, yes, but sometimes also in varying tones of greys, dark reds, blues and, occasionally, greens.
The half-buttoned, rolled sleeves and cuffs are essential too, not only because Crowley likes it that way and because they know they look good, but also because they enjoy showing off skin for their angel. They’ve caught her staring before. When their open shirt falls a certain way; when the sun catches their legs thrown over the side of the couch just right. Or when their arms strain with the effort of carrying things around. She stares and sometimes she comes up to hug them and later she always kisses them especially softly in those places; their collarbones and chest, their ankles as she runs a hand through their leg hair, their wrists and hands and up their arms all the way to their shoulders, and especially their upper back and all the new freckles that show up there, more each day during summer.
She does the same thing for them, showing off skin. And Crowley is always enraptured with her, but especially so when she’s carefree and light and so, so happy in their shared home, their garden; their own personal paradise they’ve made for themselves. And if they enjoy showing off skin for each other now that they can, why shouldn’t they? So she rolls up her sleeves and cuffs, she walks barefoot, she opens up her shirt on especially hot days, and then Crowley spends an evening kissing her silly and running their hands over every spot of her skin the sun touched that day.
It’s wonderful.
The bedroom door opens and Crowley stands in a hurry feeling the edges of their skirt brush against their legs. They look down and straighten their shirt a bit before turning and stopping dead in their tracks, hands freezing mid-movement over their chest. Aziraphale stands in the doorway that leads from the hallway to the kitchen and she looks—
She’s wearing—
She’s wearing a suit.
A different suit. A modern suit, not a two-hundred-year-old one. A modern suit perfectly tailored to her body, highlighting all her best assets, which are all of them if you ask Crowley.
None of that, however, is the cause for Crowley’s shock.
No, the most shocking thing about the new outfit is the colour.
Aziraphale has worn for the entirety of time a certain colour palette, and she’s stuck to it. White, cream, light greys, light browns, light blues and yellows and greens and pinks. Light. With accents, maybe, in darker tones of the same colours, or a darker trouser or overcoat, but still very white and cream-ish.
Not today.
Today she wears shiny black dress shoes with a bit of a heel just the way she likes them, deep blue trousers, a light lilac shirt, vibrant bluish-violet jacket and a bowtie the same colour, with a matching pattern to Crowley’s tie but the detail work done in black, while Crowley’s tie is black and the flowers on it are the same colour as Aziraphale’s jacket. She looks, in one word, like a lot.
Crowley’s gaping, they are aware, but they can’t seem to close their mouth. She looks... Fantastic.
The colours are a bit much, maybe, but they do complement each other surprisingly well. If you were to show Crowley all the pieces on their own maybe they’d laugh, but on her the outfit looks good. She looks good. She always looks good, but it’s been a while Crowley has seen her in something new, and in something that isn’t her usual white on white on white, and okay so Crowley is definitely biased about this but they still think she looks amazing.
They’re frozen still one moment and across the room the next, hands on her hips and their mouth on hers for a messy kiss. She responds immediately, her hands on their back and pulling them closer to her chest, kissing back just as messily and with matching enthusiasm.
“You look ridiculous,” they pant once they separate, foreheads touching while they both try to catch their unnecessary breaths.
“You seem to like it,” she smiles back, and yes of course they like it. They roll their eyes.
“You look fantastic.”
She beams. “Thank you, darling.”
“Who taught you colours like this?” They ask, partly because they’re curious and partly to be a brat. She swats at their arm and then rubs lightly the same spot.
“You really do like it,” she asks instead, not raising to the bait.
“I do,” they assure her. “You look good. Really, really good,” and they lean in for another kiss. Less sloppy this time, less shock and more reassurance, but not any less deep or passionate than the last one.
They kiss her cheek when they part, and her forehead, and the other cheek. And they lift a hand and kiss her knuckles, her palm, the pad of her thumb. The back of her hand and what little of her wrist the shirt and jacket don’t hide. She watches silently as they repeat the process with her other hand and as they press another round of kisses to her cheeks and forehead. She stops them before they start the cycle anew, capturing their lips with hers. It’s soft, this kiss, quiet and tender. She nips at their bottom lip and they groan into her mouth, hands slipping into hair and fisting into shirts, arms hugging each other and pulling closer, closer, breathing each other in.
It’s beautiful. Every kiss they share is beautiful, and this one is too. It’s theirs.
By the time they pull away from each other for good the sun has inched its way closer to the horizon and they’re ten minutes past the time Aziraphale wanted them to leave. Crowley grins but wisely doesn’t comment, and instead they stare enraptured as the angel straightens her bowtie, jacket and shirt and tucks it back into her trousers properly. She sneaks a glare at them but it quickly turns into an appreciative look as they start fixing their own tie and shirt and tucking it back into their skirt.
Crowley has a flickering thought about rowdy teenagers, except they’re beings older than time itself and decidedly not interested in sex, simply fond of physical contact. And kisses. And the feeling of skin on skin. And okay, maybe they’re not too far off, but that’s not something Crowley wants to think about.
With a shake of their head they vanish the idea and focus back on the now and on their beautiful, radiant, astonishing wife. Damn, this whole retirement thing has really turned them into a sap.
Crowley turns back towards the table with a thought and picks up the flowers they’ve prepared.
“I get why you asked for lavender now,” they say, showing off the little bouquet for her to inspect.
Aziraphale smiles and walks closer, leaning down to sniff them up close and press a kiss to the side of their hand. “They’re perfect, darling, thank you. You really do have a good eye for flowers,” she says. “Put it on for me?”
“Uh, ye— Yeah, sure. Where? On your—”
“On my lapel, yes.” She lifts her hand to it. “You can pin it here,” she points.
“Right, yes.” Crowley reaches back to the table for a safety pin that wasn’t there moments before and fumbles for a moment with the little bouquet they’ve arranged until they get it to stay into the pin. Once that’s done they step closer to Aziraphale and lift a hand to the left lapel of her suit jacket. The inside of the jacket, the visible part of the lapel as well as the details on the sleeves, it’s all the same shade of blue as her trousers, which makes for a good dark contrast to the flowers Crowley pins there.
Taking another step back, Crowley takes her all in, head to toe. The shirt is light, lighter than the flowers even, and it contrasts well with the darker tones of the rest of her outfit. The blue of the trousers and accents on the jacket is a nice shade Aziraphale has worn before, if not this much, and it doesn’t steal attention away from the other pieces. And finally the suit jacket, what is admittedly the centrepiece of the outfit, in that particular shade of violet which she decided Crowley should match, and the lavender pinned on her lapel.
She looks fantastic.
She looks like she needs to be kissed senseless, or maybe that’s just Crowley’s brain being horribly biased once again, but they’re happy to comply all the same.
Careful not to crush the flowers when they close the distance between them, they get their hands on her waist and hers find their neck and shoulder and they meet in the middle. They meet in the middle just like they have been doing for ages, eras, compromising and finding middle grounds and pushing and pulling, and always, always, finding a way back to each other when they push or pull too far. Always finding a new middle to meet in. Recently their meeting in the middle has gotten much more physically literal, but there are no less compromises to make and no less middle grounds to find. They are different middle grounds and different types of compromises and when they meet in the middle now it tends to involve a much more literal, meeting in the middle, usually with mouths involved. Or hugs. But the point is, when Crowley steps up to kiss her, Aziraphale steps forward as well and meets them in the middle.
So Crowley kisses her. Crowley kisses her because she looks beautiful, kisses her because she’s so happy these days she very literally glows. They kiss her because they can, and they kiss her because she stepped forward as well and met them in the middle. And Aziraphale kisses Crowley too. Aziraphale kisses them because their skirt and boots make their legs look fantastic, kisses them because they’re wearing the white shirt she recommended and the tie she gave them to match her, and because they are the most beautiful being she’s ever laid her eyes on. Aziraphale kisses them because this is Crowley, their best friend for as long as Humanity has lived. Because they’re so happy these days. Because they smile whenever they look at their garden. Because they’ve worked so hard on it, their own personal Eden built from their love just for the two of them. She kisses them because she loves them, and because they love her, and they kiss, and they kiss, and they kiss.
“We’re going to be late,” Aziraphale says when they finally manage to part, their foreheads resting together as they both get their breathing back under control.
Her hand on the back of Crowley’s neck squeezes minutely and her thumb traces the back of their ear making them shiver. Their hand at her lower back pulls her closer into a tighter hug and she responds in kind.
They laugh breathlessly and kiss the tip of her nose. “And whose fault is that?”
“Yours, you willy serpent. Can’t keep your hands off of me, can you,” she accuses, and her smile is so bright as she does so that Crowley can’t resist the urge to kiss her again, a quick peck this time.
“Not when you look as good as this I can’t, and whose fault is that, huh?” They smack another kiss on her cheek. “So in the end it really is your fault we’re late.”
“You cheeky serpent,” she chides.
“Proudly, and you love it,” they smile.
“I really do,” she sighs. She then pulls them down by their tie, smacks a kiss to their cheek like they just did to her and steps back.
She straightens her sleeves and the front of her suit again, before glancing up at them with a coy look on her eyes.
“Do tidy up your shirt, Crowley. I believe it’s a bit rumpled.” And then, because she’s a bastard, she winks at them, turns and walks out of the kitchen towards the door. “Do remember to grab the flowers for Emma, darling. And hurry up!” she calls back, like the bastard she is.
Crowley stares open-mouthed at her retreating figure for a moment. They did choose to marry this absolutely bastard of an angel, and this situation is at least partly their fault, so they shouldn’t be surprised it’s come back to bite them in the arse in, admittedly, the best way possible.
With a shake of their head and a smile they can’t quite suppress, Crowley hurries to straighten their shirt and tuck it back into their skirt for the third time this evening, grabs the bouquet from the table and runs out the door to catch up with their angel. They have reservations to make and it won’t do to keep their wife waiting.