Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“Goodnight, Angel.”

Crowley stared at the phone. Hell he was bored. He’d thought the fourteenth century had been bad, but that was nothing compared to these endless weeks of… nothingness. Even the phone was unusually silent. Normally he’d get at least one or two marketing calls a day. Crowley made a point of signing his landline up for every marketing list going, because as far as he was concerned messing with telephone salespeople was one of the little joys in life. He took great delight in seeing how long he could keep them on hold whilst he “just answered the door” or “went to check on the dinner”. Keeping them talking endlessly before completely failing to buy anything was also highly entertaining.

His record was just under an hour.

Now though there were no marketing calls being made. Companies were still scrabbling to work out how to get their systems working from home and failing spectacularly. It wasn’t even his fault. He hadn’t been lying when he’d told Aziraphale he didn’t have the heart for it. He really didn’t. He’d done stuff like that mostly so he had something to keep the powers that be of hell happy, and now he didn’t need to do that anymore he’d be buggered if he was going to lift a finger to help them. Actually now he thought about it he was a bit offended that Aziraphale had suggested he would be out there doing the work off his own back. What would be the point? Did the angel really think that he would go around doing evil for the sake of it? For the fun of it maybe – on occasion – when it was actually funny, or when the humans were being far too stupid and just asking to be tricked, tempted or otherwise made fools of, but on the whole he didn’t actually want to make people to be miserable. What was the point? They made enough misery for themselves.

Crowley blinked. He’d been staring at the phone for five minutes, which was a new low point as far as he was concerned. The day he’d spent staring at his plants he’d at least been able to convince himself he was watching them grow, and being under his gaze had terrified them into reaching new heights of lushness, which was an added bonus. The phone though just sat there. And Aziraphale didn’t ring back.

Bugger.

He couldn’t take this any longer. He shouldn’t actually have asked. He should have just turned up on Aziraphale’s doorstep. What was it the humans said? It’s easier to ask for forgiveness than permission? Well the angel was very good at forgiveness, it came with the job description, and Crowley was pretty sure he wouldn’t have turned him away.

He probably still wouldn’t if it came to it. That “absolutely not” hadn’t sounded particularly convincing. Crowley had at least tempted him into saying yes. Aziraphale had wanted to say yes.

Crowley allowed himself a brief smirk at that one. Tempting the angel was a lovely hobby. Shame opportunities for doing so were so limited when they weren’t allowed to see each other.

Crowley realised he was still staring at the phone.

Well, that was that. If he stayed here any longer he was going to go mad. Maybe he already had gone mad.

He had a flicker of conscience as he hauled a case of rather good wine out of his building and into the waiting Bentley. He didn’t really like doing things that Aziraphale told him not to do. Especially when he knew those things were going to upset the angel. He didn’t like upsetting the angel, it made him feel far more guilty than a demon had any right to feel.

Still, it was only a brief flicker, because Crowley was so bored that he was going out of his mind. And Aziraphale wouldn’t want him to go out of his mind, so actually he was helping Aziraphale to do good wasn’t he? And that made it all right, didn’t it?

He carefully ignored the fact that helping a demon not to lose their mind probably didn’t appear on the list of ‘official good deeds recognised by heaven’ and climbed into the Bentley.

It’s not like he was going to leave once he got there anyway. As far as he was concerned once he was in the bookshop he was going to stay there. It was better than napping until July. And it was infinitely better than staring at the phone.

Yes, Crowley decided, he would stay with Aziraphale for the rest of lockdown, or at the very least until one of them annoyed the other enough that Crowley had to storm off. It was always him that stormed off, he reflected, as he did 90mph through the empty London streets. Aziraphale mostly just looked at him hopelessly when they argued, as if he couldn’t quite believe how unreasonable Crowley was being, which was ridiculous as far as Crowley was concerned. If Aziraphale was so reasonable, he wouldn’t have said no to Crowley coming over, would he?

It was odd arriving in an empty Soho. Shutters were down, shops were empty and silent. Some of the streetlights were doing that weird flickery thing they did at dusk when the supposedly high-tech sensors decided it was dark enough that they needed to come on, and then, seemingly startled by the sudden illumination, turned themselves off again, only to repeat the whole process on a loop until actual nightfall. It was a flaw the humans had designed into the system all by themselves. Presumably by accident. Crowley doubted there was any actual difference in the amount of evil in London now he wasn’t working for hell.

The bookshop was the only oasis of light on the street.

At the sight of the steady glow and the familiar façade Crowley found himself internally battling with an inner sense of contentment that suddenly made him want to drop to his knees and weep with relief.

Aziraphale was in there. Crowley was home.

Crowley, still in the front seat of the Bentley, pulled himself together and jammed a pair of sunglasses over his eyes. What the fuck had that been? He really was losing his mind. Probably he’d got here just in time to save himself from madness.

Feigning a level of nonchalance he wasn’t sure he really felt he sauntered over to the bookshop, balanced the case of wine under one arm and knocked on the door. He wondered briefly what he was going to say, and realised he probably should have planned something clever, but then Aziraphale pulled the door open much quicker than Crowley had been expecting, and looked at him with an expression that was half petulant and half resigned.

“Get in here, right now before someone sees you,” he hissed, in a voice that left no room for a clever reply. And when Crowley did nothing but give him a look that suggested he rather thought the angel had gone mad, Aziraphale grabbed him by the arm and yanked him into the shop.

“You were expecting me,” Crowley drawled, having spent the few seconds that Aziraphale had been checking that the street was empty and making sure that the door was locked tight and the blinds were down, recovering his sense of equilibrium. He was mildly annoyed at apparently being so predictable.

“You’re a demon!” Aziraphale sounded put out, but only mildly, “And you never listen to me!” Crowley got a brief glare and then the angel turned away, fussing around, lowering the rest of the blinds, as if he thought someone might suddenly appear at one of the windows and discover his shameful breaking of the lockdown rules.

“I don’t never listen to you.” Crowley threw his sunglasses down on the counter and dumped the wine on the emptiest bit of surface he could find. “I listen to you all the time.”

“When?” Aziraphale glanced over his shoulder.

“Well…” Crowley scanned his memory and gave the angel a look he hoped was equal parts scathing and triumphant, “You fed the aspiring thieves some cake. There see. I listened.”

“You know that’s not what I meant,” said Aziraphale, who had now finished with the blinds and was approaching the abandoned wine with a gleeful look. “But I’ll forgive you.” He plucked a bottle from the case and regarded it with increased glee. If that was even possible. Crowley wasn’t sure it was possible and had to turn away because when Aziraphale looked like that it did funny things to his thoughts and for some reason seeing Aziraphale now after weeks of not seeing him – which was incidentally now he came to think of it was the longest time he’d gone without seeing the angel since the whole business with the antichrist, was already doing funny things to his stomach, and to his body in general if it came down to it, and he couldn’t actually cope with anymore.

“Got any glasses?” he asked, to cover his confusion. But the weird ache that had started in his chest had done something to his voice and it came out lower than he intended. And then he saw that there were already two glasses on the table, and a corkscrew, and his brain short circuited because how the hell did Aziraphale know him that well?

The smug look on the angel’s face as he fussed over to the table and started opening the wine at least had the happy effect of kicking Crowley’s brain back into gear.

“Think you’re smart, angel?”

“I’m intelligent. And I know you.” Aziraphale’s voice was so self-satisfied that Crowley gave up and accepted the glass of wine Aziraphale handed him without another word. And then when Aziraphale pointed to one of the chairs he slouched into it and watched Aziraphale sit himself neatly down in the other one and realised that he didn’t actually care whether Aziraphale had outsmarted him because being here was so many times better than sitting in his flat by himself, or napping until July. Frankly Aziraphale could have said or done just about anything and Crowley wouldn’t have cared. He’d still have ended up sitting right here, with the angel opposite him, sipping on a rather good red wine, and listening to Aziraphale prattle on about his cake-eating thieves and watching all the little familiar hand gestures and facial expressions that made up the angel’s endlessly fascinating presence.

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Two weeks later Crowley still wasn’t bored. And they still hadn’t argued. There was nothing to argue about, in fact. Just a familiar routine to look forward to each day, one that Crowley would have sworn would have bored him senseless if anyone had suggested it to him just a few short months ago. Now though it was comforting. Like a heavy blanket that had settled on his shoulders and wrapped him in a sense of ease and contentment that he couldn’t ever remember feeling before. When he gave it any thought he wondered if it was just that the angel radiated a general angelic aura of peace and contentment that suffused the bookshop and affected even his demonic sensibilities, or whether it was in fact that he just liked being here with Aziraphale.

Either way, the blanket was probably tartan.

Each day he would come downstairs to find Aziraphale already fully dressed and primly seated at the table drinking tea, and he’d fling himself into the chair opposite and miracle himself some coffee.

On the first day Aziraphale had tutted at that.

“I’ve got perfectly good coffee in the kitchen,” he’d said. And Crowley had scoffed at him and Aziraphale had tutted again and sipped his tea and everything had been exactly as it should be.

After the tea, which was usually accompanied by cake, or brioche, or whatever Aziraphale latest creation was, the angel would wash up, by hand, which rather amazed Crowley. Why bother? Some days he thought about miracling away the dishes before Aziraphale could go through his ridiculous charade, but he couldn’t quite bring himself to, because the angel seemed to get some odd kind of satisfaction from completing the task by hand. So Crowley would just watch him. Sometimes he’d pretend to read the newspaper whilst he watched him, but mostly he just stared at him in fascination. Aziraphale either didn’t notice or didn’t mind. Either way he never said anything.

Dishes cleaned, dried and carefully put away, Aziraphale would then fuss around his shop a bit, usually moving stacks of books or sorting through manuscripts. As far as Crowley could tell there was no rhyme or reason to what he was doing, but he also knew Aziraphale wasn’t stupid, so he was presumably doing something. After some time of this he’d generally settle down at his desk to write, or do his accounts, or he’d position himself in his favourite armchair and read the paper, or a book.

During this part of the day Crowley would sprawl across the couch and read himself. Aziraphale had given him a small pile of books he’d said Crowley might enjoy and so Crowley was reading them, with varying degrees of enjoyment and attention, mostly because he didn’t want to offend the angel. He wasn’t doing it very quickly because he spent a good deal of time watching what Aziraphale was doing instead. He liked watching him read books in particular. The fascinating array of expressions which passed across Aziraphale’s face were enough to keep him entertained for entire mornings, and the way he’d let out a little gasp when he came to something particularly scandalous should probably have been illegal. The time he’d read a sex scene (Crowley had assumed it was from the angel’s reaction at the time, and had made a point of checking afterwards when Aziraphale was out of the room to confirm his suspicions) had been a particular highlight. Crowley had stored away in his memory the mixed look of embarrassment and fascination on the angel’s face and the way Aziraphale’s fingers had flexed on the arm of the chair and the way he’d squirmed slightly at a particularly raunchy bit, to get out and examine at a later date. Possibly when he was bored again.

He wasn’t bored now.

Occasionally one of them would make tea, or hot chocolate for them both. In deference to the angel’s warning look the first time Crowley had offered to do it, he always made them by hand, without a single miracle. Unless you counted the ones Aziraphale seemed to be doing on a semi-regular basis to keep the supplies in the kitchen stocked up. Aziraphale never went out and never had anything delivered and even Crowley knew milk didn’t last two weeks and keep restocking itself without some sort of miraculous intervention.

The rest of the day would be filled with more reading, or listening to music (mostly Aziraphale), or napping (mostly Crowley), or watching Aziraphale (definitely Crowley), or baking (definitely Aziraphale). It was all perfection. Aziraphale claimed he was trying to perfect his sourdough loaf, but Crowley, who did eat, although not as often as Aziraphale, had tried them all and could find no discernible difference. They all tasted good as far as he could tell. So did the cakes he tried. Aziraphale having apparently taken to baking like a duck to water.

In the evenings Aziraphale would sometimes cook, if the mood took him. Although he claimed this was not a new skill. Apparently he’d taken night classes. Not just once either. Repeatedly throughout history he had apparently sought out and taken instruction from some of the best chefs in the world and it appeared this was the one area where he’d managed to get his brain into the 21^st century.

Crowley hadn’t known any of this until after he’d tried the first meal that Aziraphale had produced. The angel had watched him take a bite with such an expression of eagerness on his face that Crowley had already decided that he would swallow the food and say it was delicious, even  if it had tasted worse than the food they tortured people with in hell (there was a whole variety of food related tortures – some of which Crowley had suggested after observing the things humans forced one another to eat. Of course, he’d taken all the credit). As it happened though the sensation that spread across Crowley’s tongue was nothing short of divine and he’d been so surprised he’d very nearly spat it out, and in the end had made a ridiculous noise that could only be described as “ngh” and swallowed quickly.

“Oh, you like it,” Aziraphale had sighed, looking delighted, and just a tiny bit smug. Crowley had tried to sneer, but it wasn’t a very good effort.

It had turned out that everything the angel cooked tasted glorious. Crowley supposed it made sense. The angel liked food. And Crowley wasn’t sure if he felt guilty or glad that he’d tempted the angel into the sin of gluttony all those thousands of years ago. Mostly glad he usually concluded, because food made the angel very happy and there was nothing Crowley liked more than Aziraphale being happy.

Every evening they’d draw the blinds and play chess, or sit at the table and drink wine. Sometimes in silence, but often with conversation, that seemed to flow so easily between them. More easily than Crowley had thought it would after two weeks with only each other for company and nothing to do outside the small microcosm of the world that was the bookshop. He’d always known he liked Aziraphale and craved the angel’s company, but he’d known it in a vague sort of way, in the same way that humans seemed to crave chocolate or ice cream. As the days slipped past he was starting to realise he craved it in the same way that a drowning human craved just one more gasp of air.

It frightened him.

It frightened him more and more as the days went on and he felt himself slipping on the edge of a precipice with absolutely no idea what was at the bottom. Sure he could fly, but it didn’t really help because he knew that once he fell there was no way to ever land on the top again no matter how hard he tried. It scared him silly because it reminded him of the other time he’d fallen, except that time he had known exactly what was at the bottom, but hadn’t realised how near the edge he was until they’d pushed him.

No one would push him this time, but he could feel himself slipping anyway and he couldn’t let himself tumble over another edge.

He dealt with it by getting drunk.

He quite liked getting drunk. Especially with Aziraphale. The angel was a funny drunk and when Crowley was drunk he didn’t have to worry about why he found the angel so funny. Tonight though he was well aware that he was getting a lot more drunk than Aziraphale was.

He’d drunk lot more than usual, whilst Aziraphale had been more restrained. Crowley had reached that happy place where his thoughts were slightly blurred and where he felt he might be a bit off balance if he tried to stand up. It was a place where he didn’t have to think, except perhaps about whatever Aziraphale was wittering on about right now and possibly about how to pour more wine without spilling it all over the table. He managed the latter on the second attempt. The former was anyone’s guess.

“Yes, well the thing is it’s all because of bats,” was what Aziraphale was saying right now. Crowley searched his immediate memories for some context, but found none. He re-evaluated how drunk the angel was.

“Bats,” he echoed and squinted reflectively at the angel. “Can’t stand ‘em.”

“And pigs of course,” continued Aziraphale. “Or was that in that film you made me watch?” Ah well, that at least explained what he was on about. Crowley had made Aziraphale watch Contagion, partly to prove to him that humans could think up ways to cause pandemics without any interference from hell at all.

“Pigs was the film,” he drawled, waving a dismissive hand, before rethinking and adding, “Or maybe that was the bats.” He paused. “Can’t stand bats. Always flapping their horrible black wings in your hair.”

A room full of bats featured in hell’s list of more unusual tortures, but even drunk he decided it was best not to add that.

“Bats are useful,” Aziraphale announced, “They contribute a lot to the ecosystem.” Aziraphale was still sitting primly in his chair even whilst slightly tipsy, and Crowley furrowed his brow at him.

“Horrible black wings,” Crowley muttered to himself as he took another sip of wine and then added, “Like what?” as the angel’s pronouncement filtered through to his brain.

The angel cleared his throat daintily. “Guano, I believe,” he said and his face took on that delightful expression he used when he’d said something that he felt was a little bit rude, but was trying to pretend he didn’t really think that at all because he didn’t want to appear stuffy. Crowley leered.

“Besides,” Aziraphale said severely and rather suddenly, frowning at him in consternation, “You have black wings.”

“Not ten… not techlall… not really,” Crowley slurred, he waved his glass at Aziraphale and then added, “And I don’t flap them in people’s hair.”

“What do you mean, “not technically”?” said Arizaphale, looking offended. “You do. I’ve seen them.”

Crowley stared at the angel until it occurred to him that his mouth had betrayed him and that Aziraphale was nothing if not persistent and then he waved his finger at the angel again. It was the hand holding the glass, so he spilt some of the wine in the process. He paused to gulp down the rest of the contents and then to lick the wine off his fingers and when he looked back at Aziraphale the angel was looking at him with a slightly panicked expression, almost as if he expected Crowley to explode any moment.

“What?” said Crowley. The angel made a noise that somehow sounded like a cross between a squeak and a growl and looked even more panicked. Crowley wondered if the angel had gone mad and staggered to his feet.

“Watch,” he said and opened up his wings, which were, as he had told Aziraphale, not technically black. In fact, they were white. This time Aziraphale’s noise was definitely a squeak of surprise and he pressed backwards into his chair looking at Crowley’s wings in horror. It wasn’t an expression Crowley liked seeing on the angel.

“But I’ve seen them,” he said, helplessly, “They’re black. They’ve always been black. Well, not always. Obviously. But you know. Always since you… since we… since….”

He trailed off. Crowley didn’t feel inclined to help him and anyway he was too busy concentrating on staying upright. It turned out he was more drunk than he thought and contrary to what might be expected, the wings weren’t helping when it came to matters of balance. If anything they were hindering things.

“No.” Crowley shook his head. “I just…” He concentrated, vaguely hoping he could still do it whilst drunk, and black spread across his wings, bleeding across the feathers like an ink stain until it reached the tips and his wings were deep shadows in the dim light of the bookshop. He shook them a little, and then leapt sideways to try and catch a stack of precariously balanced books that started to topple. He missed and instead hit the nearest bookshelf with a muffled “ow”.

Aziraphale was still looking at him in a funny way. But this time there seemed to be more surprise – which was at least an improvement on horror – and disappointment, which wasn’t.

“But why? Why didn’t you ever show me before?” The expression bled into hurt and Crowley cursed. Firstly at himself for getting drunk and even telling Aziraphale in the first place, and secondly at himself for never telling him before, and thirdly at himself for even bothering with the whole stupid charade in the first place.

Of course he’d had to back then. Back in the beginning it wouldn’t have paid to stick out like a sore thumb in hell. Having wings was unusual enough. A lot of demons didn’t. In hell wings were mostly the province of those who had been of angel stock and who had switched sides. Their wings were black. Actually black. Crowley had made discrete enquires of more than one of them and was as certain as he could be when demons were involved that they were telling the truth.

His had stayed white though, after he’d been cast down. For whatever reason when he’d been remade and his eyes had changed and the pain had stopped, his wings had still been stubbornly white and the only thing he could do was keep them hidden. That hadn’t been unusual luckily, you rarely saw a demon with their wings out. Where was there to fly to in Hell? It’s not like there was a nice blue sky and rolling hills to soar over.

Then he’d been made corporeal and sent to earth and he’d found that up here the colour of his wings was his choice. Everything was his choice. Except apparently his eyes. So he’d kept the shape he’d been used to for all the uncounted time before the beginning and made sure that whenever he unfurled his wings they were black.

And he’d lied to Aziraphale.

But he was a demon. He was supposed to lie. What did Aziraphale expect?

“Show me again.”

Crowley stumbled away from the bookcase stood in front of Aziraphale, who had twisted his chair round now and was regarding him thoughtfully. He let the colour bleed out of his wings, until they were pure white again.

“I can’t do that,” Aziraphale said after a minute of staring.

“Have you ever tried?”

“Yes.”

Well, that was surprising. Crowley swayed on the spot, trying to fit that one into his world view and totally failing.

“Why?”

Aziraphale looked pained. “Because of the Arrangement. Sometimes I’d do your jobs for you and it helps to look a little bit more like a demon when doing that sort of thing. I could never do the wings.”

Crowley looked at him in disbelief. He’d never tried to look more like an angel when doing his share of Aziraphale’s work, but then the Arrangement had always come more easily to him than it had to Aziraphale.

“You should look after them better.” He’d no idea where that came from, but it popped out of his mouth without the agreement of his brain. He wobbled unsteadily on his feet again and Aziraphale looked at him petulantly.

“Vanity,” he said and waved an accusatory finger towards Crowley.

Crowley snorted and raked his eyes over the angel’s body with its perfectly tailored clothes and perfectly manicured hands and perfectly curled hair. To his surprise when his eyes settled back on Aziraphale’s face the faintest glow of pink had suffused the angel’s cheeks.

Another thought occurred to him and he opened his mouth to express it, but also another part of him decided that this was also a good time to put his wings away and the sudden shift in his own centre of balance threw him off completely and he pitched forward practically into Aziraphale’s lap.

He caught himself on the back of the chair, his arms forming a cage around Aziraphale’s head and his face inches from the angel. He peered blearily into the angel’s startled eyes and said conversationally,

“You’re not drunk, angel.”

“No.” Aziraphale attempted to sit up a little more primly and then made a gesture which suggested he was trying to push Crowley away, but without actually touching him. Crowley gave him a look of consternation.

“I sobered up, if you must know,” said Aziraphale. “I can’t deal with… with…” he made a vague gesture towards where Crowley’s wings had been, “this, whilst I’m drunk. Anyway I wasn’t drunk. I was merely tipsy.”

“You’re sssso vain, angel,” Crowley hissed, ignoring this pronouncement, “Look at your perfect… perfect… mmm…” He was feeling suddenly incredibly drunk. More drunk than he had done a minute ago. He wasn’t convinced it was just the wine now. Being this close to Aziraphale seemed to have shut down parts of his brain. He leant forward and sniffed in what might have been the vicinity of the angel’s face. “You smell nice.”

“Crowley!”

“Hmm?”

“Stop it, Crowley.”

This time Aziraphale did touch him, shoving a hand against his chest to propel him upright again. Unfortunately he’d underestimated Crowley’s state of drunkenness and hadn’t shoved hard enough, which meant that Crowley merely rocked away from him slightly and then rocked back again, this time completely failing to balance himself on his hands and instead pitching forwards into the angel’s lap with a muffled groan.

“Angel!” he slurred, accusingly, “I’m very drunk.”

“You need to sober up.” Aziraphale sounded strangely panicked and Crowley raised his head to peer blearily at him.

“Wassa matter?”

“Get up!” The angel’s eyes seemed to be darting round the room, as if he expected someone to leap out any moment and give them a telling off about the compromising position they were in. “You’re very drunk!”

“I jus’ said that.” Crowley frowned and tried to form a coherent thought, but instead ended up slurring, “You smell nice, angel,” and dropping his head onto what he thought would be the back of the chair, but which mostly turned out to be Aziraphale’s shoulder.

“Crowley.” Aziraphale sounded exasperated now, so Crowley made an effort to concentrate on the situation at hand.

“You need to sober up, Crowley.”

Somehow Aziraphale had managed to get the two of them to their feet. Or at least he was on his feet. Crowley sagged against him and squinted at the room, which seemed to be spinning.

Aziraphale tutted and looped his arm around Crowley’s waist, holding him upright as easily as he had the last time Crowley had got into this state.

“Strong, angel,” Crowley muttered affectionately and tried to get his legs sorted out. What was it he needed to do?

Aziraphale made an exasperated noise in the back of his throat and started dragging him towards the stairs.

“You need to sober up, or go to bed,” he chastised, “And walk. I’m not carrying you.”

Oh yes, that was it.

They reached the stairs and Crowley concentrated on climbing them. He was annoying Aziraphale and he didn’t like annoying Aziraphale. Well actually he enjoyed annoying Aziraphale very much, but not like this, and now that the smell of the angel wasn’t completely filling his senses his scattered thoughts seemed to be coming back together. What had even happened?

“There. See. You’re fine. Now go to bed.”

They’d reached the door of the room Crowley had been sleeping in for the last two weeks and as Crowley reached unsteadily for the door handle, he felt Aziraphale’s arm drop from his waist.

“Thank you, angel.” He turned and his breath caught in his throat because Aziraphale didn’t look exasperated anymore. He looked soft and tender and full of concern, as if Crowley’s comfort and welfare were the singular most important thing in the world.

The angel was utterly, breathtakingly beautiful and without thinking Crowley leaned forward and pressed a kiss to his cheek.

“Oh!” The noise was one of surprise, but not displeasure and Crowley turned away, pushing open the door of his bedroom and stepping through, letting his last words slip out just as the door swung shut behind him.

“Goodnight, angel.”

Chapter Text

It wasn’t exactly that they pretended it hadn’t happened. It was just that neither of them mentioned it and neither of them felt the need to say anything else about it.

The next day Crowley had slunk downstairs and made his coffee by hand because he didn’t trust himself to miracle any. He had fallen asleep without sobering up and he had woken up with a killer headache that he didn’t trust himself to get rid of just yet. Aziraphale had sipped his tea and looked torn between glaring at him disapprovingly for the state of utter disarray Crowley knew he was in and smiling approvingly at the fact he hadn’t miracled his coffee into being.

After he’d washed up Aziraphale had stepped up behind him and threaded his hands into Crowley’s hair, and just as Crowley had been about to ask the angel what the hell he was doing, he’d felt a wash of healing light suffuse his body. His headache had gone, along with all the other odd little feelings of not-rightness, which the corporeal body seemed to foist on its owner when it imbibed too much alcohol.

Aziraphale’s hands had slipped out of his hair and Crowley had felt a shudder ripple through his body, right down to his soul, and tried to look like he hadn’t felt anything at all. The angel didn’t seem to have noticed though, he just smiled benevolently, if a little oddly, and drifted away to his books.

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The days rolled on the same as before. Aziraphale read and baked, and Crowley read and watched Aziraphale, and reflected it was a good job that demons and angels didn’t have to worry about their weight or their health because between the lack of exercise and the amount they were eating, not to mention drinking, they would have had a serious problem. There was nothing else really to do.

Crowley still wasn’t bored.

On one of the days, which had by now blurred into one, a lady Aziraphale referred to as “Maggie from the record shop” dropped by and Aziraphale had made Crowley hide behind the bookcases, as if he was some sort of guilty secret, which Crowley supposed he was really, although he doubted “Maggie from the record shop” would have really cared. He’d sneered at Aziraphale once Maggie had gone and sulked around in the kitchen, poking at the ridiculous number of shiny gadgets Aziraphale seemed to have for making delicious things to eat.

There had been another day when Aziraphale had been most put out about his bread making, complaining that his sourdough starter wasn’t growing as it should do and it was ruining his bread making efforts. He’d shown it to Crowley and explained what it was. What it was was apparently alive, but not sentient. Crowley had wrinkled his nose at it and told Aziraphale that it smelled disgusting and looked like slime, which was true, and the angel had glared at him and fretted about whether he’d accidently killed it by giving it too many flowers, or it might have been too much flour. Crowley wasn’t clear on that point. And he didn’t care. But he did care about Aziraphale and he was good with things that were alive and couldn’t answer back.

He’d waited until he was sure the angel was asleep that evening and then gone and had a little word with the bowl of slime. The next morning Aziraphale couldn’t understand why the thing had, in his words, “perked up remarkably, look it’s practically overflowing its bowl,” but Crowley thought the effort had been worth it for the delighted look on the angel’s face.

He hadn’t got drunk again though. Instead he was dealing with the Aziraphale problem by pretending it wasn’t a problem and not thinking about it very much. A few times his mind had gone back to that drunken kiss and he’d berated himself, not just for the sappiness of the very undemonic gesture, but also for the fact that he’d kissed Aziraphale. He’d kissed an angel. What was he thinking? What had the angel thought?

But then he reminded himself that it had only been on the cheek. He’d been very drunk and it had been a very platonic kiss and friends kissed all the time didn’t they? Certainly human friends did. They were always kissing each other on the cheek. Sometimes multiple times in a row, which Crowley had never understood. Surely once was enough to make the point?

And Aziraphale certainly knew humans kissed each other like that. He’d seem them do it too and he knew it was platonic. In fact, Crowley had seen the angel kiss people on the cheek before, when he was trying to pass as human, especially when they were in Europe. So he’d know a kiss on the cheek didn’t mean anything, wouldn’t he? And he’d known Crowley was drunk. And he hadn’t mentioned it again. So that was all right then, wasn’t it? Crowley had kissed Aziraphale on the cheek, which was weird, but not a problem. Not a problem at all.

Usually at this point he would go and put some music on Aziraphale’s gramophone, just to drown out the chattering in his head.

It was ridiculous. He was being ridiculous.

Thankfully Aziraphale seemed to be oblivious to the whole thing. Which was why it was all right. Wasn’t it?

------------

“Vanity.”

“Sorry?”

“You are being vain, my dear.”

Crowley still thought the accusation was a bit rich coming from the angel, but Aziraphale was wearing that half smile he gave sometimes when he thought he was making a good point, and he was looking at Crowley over his newspaper and wearing a pair of glasses, which Crowley knew he didn’t need, but which Aziraphale seemed to wear sometimes for the look of the things. If that wasn’t vanity, Crowley didn’t know what was.

“It’s not vanity,” he said, glaring at the angel half-heartedly, because he’d suddenly started wondering where his own glasses were. He hadn’t actually worn them or even seen them since he arrived at the bookshop and no doubt they were now lost under a pile of papers somewhere. He glanced around vaguely and added, “They work better when they’re groomed.”

He was sprawled on the couch, his wings out, one of them draped behind him and the other held out in front of him so he could see it and rearrange the feathers, and pluck out any that were looking a bit tattered, and get rid of anything that shouldn’t be there. In this case quite a lot of dust, which he could only assume was from when he’d fallen against Aziraphale’s bookshelf whilst drunk.

“That’s total nonsense,” said Aziraphale.

“Nonsense?” Crowley raised an indignant eyebrow towards Aziraphale and then returned his attention to his wing. He plucked out a slightly bent feather and dropped it over the side of the couch. It dissolved before it hit the ground. Crowley had no idea where they went, but new, straighter ones grew in their place.

“You’re a demon. You talk nonsense all the time.” Aziraphale sounded equally indignant.

Crowley scoffed and ruffled some of his feathers with his fingers to get the dust out, before smoothing them back down carefully until they lay straight and sleek. He frowned in concentration as he began on the next section and wondered if the angel was going to leave him alone.

“Anyway it is nonsense.”

Apparently not.

Crowley ignored him and a few minutes later he heard a tut and the rustle of the newspaper as Aziraphale flicked it back upright and resumed his reading.

It took him several hours to groom his wings to his satisfaction.  Sometimes he’d be aware that Aziraphale was watching him surreptitiously from behind his latest reading material and he wondered what was so fascinating. It occurred to him sometime in the afternoon that maybe Aziraphale was watching him for hints about how to make his own wings look better. That thought made him smirk to himself, and then there was an odd sort of choking noise from the angel and Crowley didn’t catch him watching again.

Once he was done Crowley stood up and stretched luxuriously, flaring his wings as far as he could in the confines of the bookshop and then twisting and turning them about, letting the colour leech from white to black and back again to help him see any flaws. Once he was satisfied they were perfect he flicked them away and looked over at Aziraphale to see the angel watching him with a very odd expression on his face.

Really he was being ridiculous.

“Come here.”

Crowley hadn’t actually expected the angel to do as he was told. Aziraphale only usually did as he was told when Crowley put on his serious voice. Or after several minutes of arguing about the why of what he was being asked, but this time the angel rose to his feet as if he were being pulled by a string attached to chest and Crowley blinked in surprise. He was pretty sure he hadn’t used his serious voice.

“Show me your wings.”

“What? No! Why?” Aziraphale looked scandalised, which was slightly closer to the reaction Crowley had expected, although he’d expected more stubborn than scandalised if he was being completely honest. He was particularly amused by the fact that Aziraphale was clutching his book to his chest in the same way an old maiden aunt might clutch her pearls upon hearing that her niece had run away with a sailor.

“Come on, angel, I’m not asking you to strip naked for me. Show me your wings.”

The angel’s look of absolute horror increased ten fold.

“Certainly not.” He looked Crowley up and down and added. “And I’m certainly not getting naked for you either.”

“Oh for heaven… for hel… Ugh! For somethings sake, angel! Stop being so bloody stubborn for once in your life!”

That seemed to at least stop Aziraphale from dithering around looking scandalised, for he pulled himself upright and lowered the book.

“I’m not stubborn!” he insisted, taking a step towards Crowley and lowering his voice, “Besides, someone might see.”

Crowley glanced around and gave the angel a look which conveyed just how ridiculous he was being right now.

“Why are you talking so quietly angel? Think someone’s going to overhear you? Maybe one of the hundreds of people milling around out there in the middle of lockdown? Besides it’s a bit late now isn’t it? Unless you think my wings are invisible?”

“Crowley. You’re being silly.” Aziraphale pulled himself up a little taller and adjusted his waistcoat in the way he thought made him look like his was the final word on the matter. Of course it rarely was as far as Crowley was concerned.

“Look if it makes you any happier,” Crowley concede and snapped his fingers, causing the blinds to lower and the overhead light to flick on.

“There. Happy?” When Aziraphale merely frowned and opened his mouth with what Crowley knew would be another objection he rushed on and said, “Look for once in your life just do as I ask will you. Show me your wings.”

“Fine, if it makes you any happier.”

Aziraphale put down his book carefully on the side table and then spent a fussy few minutes taking off and hanging his jacket and waistcoat before coming to stand in front of Crowley and dipping his head in what Crowley considered to be an unnecessarily dramatic way. Before he could mention it though, the angel’s wings emerged and Aziraphale looked up again.

“There. Happy?”

“Sit down.” Crowley pointed at the sofa.

“Why?”

“Angel!”

With a huff Aziraphale seated himself primly at one end of the sofa, one wing draping over the armrest and the other spread along the back of the seat. Crowley stalked over and flung himself down onto the sofa next to Aziraphale, but facing the spread wing. Aziraphale’s eyes went wide.

“What are you doing?”

“Proving that I’m right.”

“What about?”

“About it not being vanity.” He paused. “Well, not just vanity anyway.”

Aziraphale tutted and rolled his eyes, but since he didn’t move Crowley took it as permission and turned his back to Aziraphale. Then he reached out a tugged at a loose feather.

“Oh!” Aziraphale jerked in surprise and Crowley rounded on him.

“That didn’t hurt!”

“No. Uh… I was just… uh… surprised.” Aziraphale was dithering again, but did settle down when he saw Crowley’s glare, so Crowley decided it was nothing to worry about.

He reached out again and tugged at another feather, using his other hand to smooth over the first section of wing so he could begin to see how to best preen the feathers. Aziraphale made a small noise that sounded like, “mpfff”, which Crowley ignored, because the angel was clearly determined to fuss today.

Crowley worked methodically. At first Aziraphale let out the odd surprised sounding squeak, and he made a funny noise when Crowley started raking his fingers through the feathers to fluff them up properly, but Crowley refused to acknowledge him and kept his back resolutely turned and eventually Aziraphale fell silent and still, presumably irritated that his grumbles weren’t getting him any attention.

Crowley had worked his way along three quarters of the wing before he forgot he was supposed to be acting huffily and turned to glance at the angel’s face. Except he couldn’t see much of it because Aziraphale had turned his body so that he was twisted away from Crowley, or at least as far round as he could get without moving his wing.

What he could see was that Aziraphale had his eyes closed and he was leaning one of his elbows on the arm of the chair and apparently biting down on the knuckles of that same hand. From what he could see he couldn’t decide if the look on Aziraphale’s face was boredom, distress or resignation. Possibly it was all three.

What the hell was wrong with him?

“Aziraphale?”

The angel jumped visibly and though he didn’t actually turn towards Crowley, his expression definitely moved more towards distressed.

“What are you doing?” Crowley asked. Surely the angel wasn’t still sulking?

“Nothing.” There was a pause during which Aziraphale seemed to realise more was expected of him. “Nothing. Just thinking about something.”

Crowley gave up. Let him sulk if he wanted to. He’d get over it soon enough.

He took his time over the rest of the wing and when he was finished rose from the sofa to admire his handy work. He’d definitely done a good job. The feathers practically gleamed with sleekness.

“There. Done. See? Much better. Other one now.”

“No!”

Crowley recoiled in shock. Aziraphale sounded angry. And the angel had leapt to his feet and was glaring at him with his fists clenched by his side and the angriest expression Crowley had ever known the angel to direct towards him. For the first time Crowley noticed that at some point Aziraphale had removed his bowtie and that the angel’s cheeks were flushed with a delicate pink, visible even in the dim light of the bookshop.

“Enough, Crowley!”

The dreadful rage in the angel’s voice sent Crowley reeling backwards, until his legs hit one of the tables behind him and he was forced to stop. He’d raised his hands defensively, which was ridiculous, because he’d never once, ever been afraid of Aziraphale. But then Aziraphale had never, once, ever been this angry with him.

“Aziraphale?” he said desperately. Had the angel lost his mind?

“Oh.” Just as suddenly as the rage had come it subsided. Instead Arizaphale just looked lost and confused. Somehow all his usual poise and peace seemed to have deserted him and he radiated hurt and bewilderment as he just stood there looking at Crowley.

Crowley tried to get a grip on the situation.

“Did I hurt you?”

“Oh! I…” Aziraphale shook his head as if to clear his thoughts. “I… No. I mean… oh dear.”

Crowley frowned.

“Sorry I’m just…” Aziraphale passed a hand through his hair. “I’m very tired,” he finished, somewhat lamely.

Crowley furrowed his brow again and completely failed to find anything to say. “I’m very tired,” was what Aziraphale said to humans when he wanted them to go away, or wanted to excuse something ridiculous he said. Angels didn’t get tired. He knew that. Crowley knew that. And Aziraphale knew he knew that.

What was he playing at?

Aziraphale laughed nervously.

“Sorry.” He stepped forward and patted Crowley on the shoulder, giving him a slightly maniacal smile. “Sorry. I’ll just…”

He stepped around Crowley, or at least tried to. He’d forgotten his wings and a sheaf of papers cascaded to the floor.

"Oh, um…”

There was a faint rush of air as the wings vanished and then, without even bothering to pick up the papers, Aziraphale darted for the stairs, leaving Crowley to stare after him with a puzzled frown.

-----------

By the next day Aziraphale seemed to have got over whatever it was that had got into him the night before. Crowley on the other hand wasn’t quite sure that he had.

The look of anger on the angel’s face had shaken him to his core.

He’d seen some horrific things in his time as a demon, faces twisted with rage so ferocious that there was nothing human about them. And even worse, he’d seen the rage of Heaven, which was cold and dangerous, and seemed to drive a knife straight through your soul. But none of that was anywhere near as horrible as the look of utterly betrayed rage that he’d seen on Aziraphale’s face last night.

And the worst of it was he didn’t know why. Why had Aziraphale been angry? And why had that anger vanished as suddenly as it had come?

“I’m going to my flat,” Crowley announced as Aziraphale fussed around with the washing up. He might be trying to pretend nothing happened, but there was a definite tension in the air and Crowley needed some time to get away and think.

“What?! No!” Aziraphale actually dropped the cup he was holding and it shattered on the tile floor of the kitchen. “You can’t.”

“Well, I am.”

“You can’t go.”

Crowley raised an eyebrow.

“You aren’t meant to go outside. It’s lockdown!”

“I’m a demon.” Crowley smirked and turned and walked out of the shop. Just as the door shut behind him he remembered something and clicked his fingers. The cup in Aziraphale’s kitchen returned to the worktop, back in one piece.

-------------

There were spare sunglasses in the car and Crowley shoved on a pair as he raced through the London streets back to his flat. It was the first time he’d been outside the bookshop in weeks, but he barely noticed the outside world, because all he could see was Aziraphale and that awful look he’d given him.

What had he done?

Usually when Aziraphale was angry with him he knew why. And more often than not the anger was tempered by sadness. Aziraphale hated arguing and he didn’t like being angry. It wasn’t a natural state for the angel. The angel was gentle, and kind, and ridiculous, and everything good that Crowley felt he personally was not. Crowley hated Aziraphale to be angry or upset and last night he’d been both and Crowley had no idea why.

He thumped the steering wheel and accelerated around another corner.

The flat was just as he had left it.

Of course it was. No one had been in and dust wasn’t something that Crowley had any time for, so it never dared settle on any of the surfaces in his rooms.

Crowley liked the flat usually, but today it felt wrong. Like he shouldn’t be there. Like it hadn’t expected him and didn’t welcome his sudden intrusion into the peace it had been enjoying the last few weeks.

He growled at the place in general because how dare it behave like that. Then he sprayed the plants and took himself to bed for a nap.

He woke up around four and immediately had the sense that the place was waiting for him to leave. It wasn’t menacing as such, just an insistent pressure inside his head that told him he shouldn’t be here. He should be at the bookshop with Aziraphale.

He growled again, grabbed his sunglasses and went to check on the old lady downstairs.

Beryl was somewhere in her 80s and despite his best efforts Hastur hadn’t scared her to death several years ago when he’d broken into the building.

After Armageddon was over Beryl had asked him if he’d had any trouble from the “couple of ruffians” she’d seen in the hallway and Crowley had once again marvelled at the human brain’s ability to rewrite reality.

He hadn’t really expected her to open the door, what with the risk of infection (well, perceived risk – Crowley couldn’t actually make her ill) but she did and out of deference to the situation he backed away to the other side of the corridor.

“Oh don’t be silly love. I haven’t seen a soul in weeks, apart from the supermarket delivery driver and he’s not much to look at. It’s a terrible waste of a handsome face if you stand all the way over there.”

Crowley chuckled and took a step forward.

“Getting on all right?”

“Oh fine, love. Running out of loo roll of course, just like everyone else. Can’t get it anywhere it seems. All those idiots buying masses of it. In my opinion they’re mad. If the world does end loo roll isn’t going to get them very far.”

“I suppose not.” Crowley smirked again, and then found himself adding. “I’ve got some upstairs. I’ll get it for you. I don’t need it.” Then realising that sounded a bit unlikely added, “I’m staying with a friend. Just popped back to get a few things.”

Beryl nodded and Crowley went back upstairs. Of course he didn’t actually have any toilet rolls, but a quick miracle produced a packet and he returned downstairs with them after what he hoped was a suitable interval for searching out toilet rolls.

“Thank you dear. Are you staying with that nice young man who drops by sometimes?”

Since Crowley only knew one person who could be described as nice that had ever come to his flat, and since he supposed nearly everyone was young to an almost 90 year old, he nodded.

“Well, I’m glad one of us is enjoying lockdown.” Beryl gave him a look, and since Crowley was not in the least bit naïve when it came to certain things, he opened his mouth to say “We’re just friends.” But then it occurred to him that “we’re just friends” was a rather trite way to describe the relationship with an angel you’ve known for well over 6000 years, so he snapped it shut again.

Beryl smirked, which Crowley ignored, because he knew she was one of those little old ladies. The sort who would make dirty jokes and nudge you in the ribs and expect you to be all shocked because they were old. But everyone had been young once. Even Crowley had been young when he’d first been created – in thought at least, if not in appearance.

“Call me if you need anything,” he said, and handed Beryl a card with his mobile number on. The card hadn’t existed a moment before, and very few people had his mobile number, but he was feeling generous.

Brenda accepted the card, gave him another look and said, “Have fun.”

Crowley smiled like a snake and left.

----------

He’d only gone back to the flat after speaking to Beryl to retrieve some more wine and the sense of relief he’d felt as the door closed behind him had rather surprised him.

He liked the flat. Didn’t he?

The light seeping around the blinds at the bookshop windows greeted him and the door yielded to his hand as if welcoming back an old friend. He supposed it was really.

He dumped the wine on the floor and then stopped short at the sight of Aziraphale, who for some reason had removed his waistcoat and bowtie and was sitting in his armchair with his wings out, pulling dejectedly at the feathers of the wing he’d refused to allow Crowley to groom. It looked like he’d made an effort to do it himself, but Crowley only gave that the briefest of thoughts because Aziraphale was looking at him with a mixture of surprise and relief.

“What are you doing, angel?”

Crowley threw his sunglasses onto the table, with little regard for the fact that he was probably going to lose another pair under the paper debris that littered Aziraphale’s shop.

“You came back!” Aziraphale looked utterly delighted to see him, which was rather charming, if somewhat unexpected. Crowley, who had been weaving his way around the table so he could sprawl out on the sofa, stopped short in front of Aziraphale’s chair and regarded him curiously.

“Don’t be ridiculous, angel,” he said, “Of course I came back. Where else would I go?”

Aziraphale surprised him by shooting to his feet and for a second Crowley thought the angel was actually going to embrace him. Except Aziraphale had forgotten about his wings again and this time managed to knock over a lamp with his left wing, and a stack of books with his right one.

Crowley leapt for the lamp and caught it before it hit the floor.

Aziraphale went for the books, causing his left wing to swing round and knock Crowley backwards.

Crowley dropped the lamp, flailed and grabbed at the nearest thing he could find to balance himself, which happened to be Aziraphale’s wing.

Aziraphale made a strangled choking noise as he was pulled off balance. The books slithered unregarded to the floor and in the confusion Crowley instinctively produced his wings and used them to drive himself forward, propelling the angel backwards into his chair, where Crowley collapsed in an ungainly heap in his lap for the second time in the last few weeks.

He stayed still for a moment, panting quietly in an effort to calm down his racing heart (why on earth did human bodies do that?) Then it occurred to him that he’d just caught his entire weight on Aziraphale’s wing and that wings weren’t meant for that and that the muffled noises coming from Aziraphale probably meant it had hurt. He pushed himself upright, balancing himself half on the arm of the chair, wedging one leg between Aziraphale’s thighs.

“I’m sorry. Did I hurt you? Sorry. I’m sorry.” He ran his hands desperately over the top of Aziraphale’s wing, feeling for damage and trying to soothe the angel who was now making noises of such absolute distress that Crowley could hardly bear it.

“Crowley! Crowley, please!”

Crowley ceased his frantic movements and looked at the angel realising that he was half turned away and biting down hard on the knuckle of his index finger and that his eyes were filled with what looked like tears. He looked more distressed than Crowley had ever seen him before in their entire existence. He put his hand on Aziraphale’s shoulder and rubbed soothingly.

“Shh. Shh. It’s okay, where does it hurt?” The fingers of his right hand automatically resumed stroking the top of Aziraphale’s wing and he was so busy cursing himself for his own stupidity that he didn’t notice the change in Aziraphale’s expression.

“Crowley... oh shi…”

Aziraphale’s voice trailed off and then the angel did something that Crowley would never have predicted if he’d had an entire eternity to study that one frozen moment of time. He reached out with the hand not clamped between his teeth and ran his fingers through the feathers of Crowley’s wing.

Crowley’s vision blurred as white-hot pleasure suddenly seared through his body.

Aziraphale did it again, and Crowley flailed vaguely for a second and then pitched forward as his balance went and his mind spun and his lips ended up somewhere in the vicinity of Aziraphale’s collarbone. Or at least what would have been his collarbone if the angel hadn’t been wearing too many layers of clothing.

Aziraphale removed his hand and after a moment Crowley gained enough control over his voice to mumble, “What the fuck?” into Aziraphale's shirt. And after another moment he at least made some attempt at pulling himself into a more dignified position but that proved quite difficult because none of his muscles seemed to be working properly and Aziraphale was regarding him with an expression somewhere verging on panic.

“What the fuck?” he said again and Aziraphale’s eyes widened and he gave him that little half shrug that usually meant, “Not my fault” and “I don’t know” rolled into one. At least he wasn’t biting his finger anymore.

What had that been all about? And did that mean..?

Crowley reached out with snake-like speed and dragged his fingers through the thickest part of Aziraphale’s wing before the angel could stop him and was rewarded with a noise that left him in no doubt that it was doing exactly the same thing to Aziraphale as it was to him.

Since when had wings done that? And how had he not known?

He twisted, frowning, and scraped his hand through his own feathers. It felt no more erotic than if he’d brushed some dust off his arm.

Had Aziraphale known about this before?

No. Unlikely. If he had he surely wouldn’t have let Crowley… It dawned on Crowley that this very much explained Aziraphale’s odd behaviour the night before. He hadn’t known and had assumed that Crowley did. He realised with a start that Aziraphale must have thought Crowley was doing it as some weird form of torture, and that thought made Crowley’s insides twist.

“You…” Aziraphale’s voice was shaky, but it brought Crowley out of his reverie. “You didn’t know? Did you?”

All he could do was shake his head.

“I thought you… I mean… I realised afterwards. At least, I hoped afterwards…” Aziraphale was looking at him apologetically now and Crowley thought he was probably quite offended that Aziraphale thought so little of him that he’d dream up this as a form of torture for the angel. Except he couldn’t really get his head around being offended right now.

Did anyone know? Was it a deliberate part of the design? And if it was… then why? What was the point?

He completely missed that Aziraphale was reaching cautiously forward to run his hand lightly along the inside edge of Crowley’s wing.

“Ah! …the fuck, angel!”

Aziraphale gave him another apologetic look and shrugged again.

“I was just testing.”

“Testing? You think testing it is a good idea do you?”

“Crowley.” There was a warning in the angel’s voice. He’d pressed himself back into the chair and was looking at Crowley desperately, but well, Crowley was a demon, wasn’t he? And it would be almost a sin to waste this opportunity.

He leant forward, buried his fingers into Aziraphale’s wing and pushed his hand along towards the tip as far as his arm would reach, before bringing it back and repeating the gesture again. And again.

The angel’s reaction was priceless. And Crowley considered it well worth any of the anger he was going to have to endure later. Because the angel squirmed in his chair and muttered under his breath. Then squirmed again and tilted his head back and moaned in a way that should have been illegal and was definitely sinful.

Crowley was delighted. And possibly losing his mind a little bit because the sight of Aziraphale losing himself in such all-consuming pleasure was not something that Crowley had realised he wanted so badly until right now.

He ran his hand along the wing again and then tipped himself forward so that his forehead was resting on the chair and his lips were right next to Aziraphale’s ear because if he looked at the expression on the angel’s face a second longer he was going to lose it completely and quite possibly embarrass himself.

Instead he took refuge in reverting to a stereotype.

“Does that feel good, angel?” he drawled and was rewarded with a low hum followed by a sharp intake of breath.

The gasp probably had more to do with what he suddenly realised the angel could feel. He’d shifted his position on the chair and was straddling one of Aziraphale’s legs and he had no idea about Aziraphale’s body, but the default shape of his corporeal body was modelled around a male human and it was complete in every respect. Well, every reproductive respect anyway. Short of the actual ability to reproduce. Crowley had always assumed it was to do with sex being a sin that demons were supposed to tempt humans into, although personally he’d never gone in for that kind of thing.

He groaned. He felt the situation… and possibly his body, was rather getting away from him.

“Why the hell would I do this to torture you?” he hissed, as he latched onto the idea of being offended after all as a way to stop himself from doing things to the angel that he’d probably regret later.

“I…” Aziraphale hesitated and the uncertainty in his voice was enough to make Crowley look at him again. “I thought you were tempting me actually,” he confessed finally.

Oh. Well.

That was interesting wasn’t it?

For a start it meant that Aziraphale probably had been very very tempted. Although on reflection Crowley thought that was probably less to do with the fact that he was doing it and more to do with the fact that anyone was doing it. It felt so bloody amazing that Crowley was still having trouble forming a coherent thought.

“How in the world did you resist, angel?” His voice sounded more seductive than he’d intended. Aziraphale gave him that “I don’t know” look again and then just stared at him as if he was seeing him for the first time.

It wasn’t much of an answer and it had been a genuine question. Crowley didn’t think he’d have maintained such composure if their positions had been reversed. Apparently, for all that he was a silly, fussy, vain and frankly gluttonous angel, Aziraphale had a will of iron.

Crowley kissed him.

He hadn’t known he was going to do it until his lips were on Aziraphale’s and for one brief moment he couldn’t believe his own stupidity. What the fuck was he thinking?

Then Aziraphale moaned and grabbed his lapels to pull him closer, and kissed him back as if he’d been waiting his entire existence just for this kiss. Crowley was instantly and utterly lost.

He hadn’t meant to fall the first time, and he hadn’t meant to fall this time either. But he’d slipped over the precipice and found that he was falling and the best bit was that he suddenly realised there was no bottom. All he had to do was reach out and spread his wings and embrace the thrill of flying.

They kissed until Crowley was dizzy. Neither of them needed air, breathing was just a habit, but kissing Aziraphale was the single best thing Crowley had ever done in his entire existence and when their lips parted he gasped as if he’d been drowning.

Aziraphale apparently decided that now was a good time to bury his fingers back into the feathers of Crowley’s wing. Crowley jerked, and gasped and then fell against the back of the seat, twisting so that he could bury his face in the angel’s neck.

Aziraphale started stroking at his feathers and didn’t stop. He wasn’t exactly grooming Crowley’s wing, in fact if anything the angel was probably making a mess of Crowley’s careful work, but he couldn’t bring himself to care. The sensation was not as shocking as it had been at first. It was still erotic, still sending deep rolling waves of pleasure through Crowley’s body, but now it was more muted. The sort of pleasure that created a longing Crowley knew was going to eventually demand to be satisfied, but one that for now was wonderful and all consuming.

He moaned into the angel’s neck and was rewarded with a shudder. There was a second shudder when he twisted again so he could reach for one of the angel’s wings with one of his own hands, and smooth his fingers over the feathers there.

Aziraphale started making noises. Little noises at first and then louder moans. And then when Crowley shifted so that he could use both hands at once, Aziraphale’s head fell back and his eyes dropped closed and Crowley couldn’t even regret that it meant the angel had stopped his attentions because the look on the angel’s face was worth it.

“Crowley.” The angel was squirming under him again now, “Crowley, please!”

Crowley wasn’t sure if that tone had been a warning or an actual plea. He twisted his fingers through Aziraphale’s wings again and the angel pressed his lips together and his hands scrabbled at the arms of the chair, trying to find something to grip.

Crowley did it again.

“Fuck.”

Well, that was definitely worth it. Crowley wasn’t sure he’d ever actually heard the angel swear before. Aziraphale thought “bugger” was the height of linguistic impropriety. In fact, Crowley had suspected the angel was incapable of using anything more vulgar, but apparently he’d been wrong.

“Fuck, Crowley.” Aziraphale’s voice was quiet but he’d opened his eyes and was looking desperately at Crowley.

Crowley kissed him again.

And this time the angel melted into the kiss. Crowley felt an arm snake around his waist and he was pulled in closer and kissed in a way that turned his insides into jelly. He cupped the angel’s cheek with one hand and felt, rather than heard, the hum of contentment that vibrated through Aziraphale’s chest.

This was glorious. Why hadn’t they done this before?

He shifted in the seat again, cursing the lack of room and suddenly became aware that his jacket and tie had vanished. He was pretty sure it hadn’t been him that had caused that, which meant it must have been Aziraphale. And now apparently Aziraphale was undoing the buttons of his shirt.

It was even more unexpected than the swearing.

Crowley was no stranger to sex. He’d been on earth over 6000 years, walking around in a body which functioned like that of a male human, and naturally he’d experimented. He hadn’t gone in for the tempting humans into sinful sex thing, for a start he couldn’t see why the Almighty would even care who had sex and when – at least beyond a few very obviously evil acts that he would have had no part in encouraging, even if Satan himself had tortured him for the rest of eternity.

He had however engaged at one time or another in an entire range of consensual sexual acts with a range of humans of both sexes and had concluded quite some time ago that the whole thing was overrated. It tended to be messy and it didn’t seem to be any more satisfying than anything Crowley could do to himself, which in his view was an infinitely better way of experiencing that particular earthly pleasure. 

He’d also never understood the weird things humans found pleasurable. Being a demon meant witnessing some strange things and sexual kinks were right up there among what Crowley considered the strangest parts of humanity. Not the worst parts. What consenting humans wanted to do to each other was nobodies’ business but their own, but Crowley did consider such things strange, even by the standards of humanity, and his experiments with sex had never strayed beyond what would mostly be considered ordinary and vanilla.

Besides Crowley didn’t find humans attractive.

Oh he liked them in general terms. On the whole the design was mostly pleasing to the eye, if somewhat flawed. And he understood fashion, and having witnessed the whole range of beauty standards over the length and breadth of the world’s existence he had formulated his own opinion on what made one human more beautiful than another human, but it was no different than forming an opinion on what made one flower more beautiful than another flower. There was nothing sexually attractive about humans as far as he was concerned, any more than there was about flowers. Faking interest was irritating and he had never liked touching strange humans.

Aziraphale was neither a stranger, nor human.

Crowley groaned into Aziraphale’s mouth and changed his angle to allow him better access to the buttons. When the angel finally reached the last one and skated his hands back up the bare skin he’d revealed, Crowley made an undignified noise and broke the kiss.

“Angel.”

Aziraphale made a soothing noise in response and pulled him back in for another kiss.

Crowley wasn’t sure he liked how in control the angel was of this whole thing.

Unfortunately for his dignity Aziraphale chose that moment to resume running one of his hands over Crowley’s wing and Crowley realised that he’d passed the point of no return. He couldn’t stop now. That pleasure was like electric shocks through his body and it was very much demanding to be satisfied. Also his trousers were very uncomfortable.

He shifted against Aziraphale and yelped when the angel also shifted his hips so that the friction increased both the pleasure and the discomfort in a way that made Crowley groan against Aziraphale’s lips.

The angel apparently knew what to do.

Dexterous fingers worked at the fastenings of Crowley’s trousers and Crowley was vaguely aware that he wasn’t playing much of a role in proceedings, beyond passive recipient, and tried to pull himself together.

It was only partially successful. Aziraphale had got the fastenings on his trousers undone, which was at least making him a little more comfortable, but then he’d abandoned that area and resumed his examination of Crowley’s wing feathers. Crowley took the opportunity to break the kiss again and explore the angel’s jaw line with his lips. Aziraphale moaned softly and arched his back, tilting his neck to allow Crowley better access.

His hand dropped from his wing, which was unfortunate, but Crowley though the knowledge that he could make Aziraphale loose that much control with just a few kisses was well worth the trade-off.  Who would have thought the prim and proper angel would enjoy the physical pleasure of the flesh quite this much?

And why the hell hadn’t they done this before?

Of course, Crowley knew why. They should be doing it now, and who knew what was going to happen afterwards. But right now he didn’t really care and it seemed Aziraphale didn’t either.

Crowley licked at the angel’s ear and was rewarded with another soft moan. He brushed his lips down Aziraphale’s neck and marvelled at how soft and warm the angel was, and how wonderful his skin felt under his lips.

He was rather annoyed when the collar of Aziraphale’s shirt stopped him going any further and with a frustrated growl, he reached up to undo the buttons.

Aziraphale let out a gasp and then to Crowley’s surprise he found the angel gripping his hands.

“No,” he panted, and Crowley stopped and pulled away to give the angel a look of absolute horror. Oh hell…

“Crowley, no please… I…” Aziraphale looked embarrassed, which was not what Crowley had expected. He hadn’t expected the angel to stop him at all. Wasn’t he enjoying it? Didn’t he want this? Hadn’t he been joining in just as enthusiastically only a moment ago?

Fuck, this was a disaster. Crowley wanted Aziraphale so badly he could hardly think straight and the angel apparently had not been thinking along the same lines at all.

Except hadn’t the angel been the one to undo his shirt?

Crowley glanced down to check, just in case he’d imagined that and then looked back up at Aziraphale when he found he hadn’t. He opened his mouth to say something. Anything. But nothing came out. He couldn’t think of a single word to say.

Besides, Aziraphale was looking down at Crowley’s chest, the expression on his face more covetous than embarrassed, and that was even more confusing.

Then Aziraphale’s eyes snapped up to meet Crowley’s and when he saw the look on his face, to Crowley’s endless surprise, the angel’s expression melted into an affectionate smile.

“Crowley, you’re being silly,” he cooed, and then, whilst Crowley was still trying to work the whole thing out, Aziraphale gave him the most wickedly depraved grin Crowley had ever seen on the angel’s face.

He blinked.

Before he could ask what was going on, Aziraphale had propelled them both out of the seat, and flipped them round, pushed Crowley back down into the chair, climbed on top of him and started kissing him.

It was all so unexpected that Crowley didn’t even have time to yelp in surprise. Instead all he could do was tilt his head and return the kiss and snake his arms around the angel’s waist, because apparently for whatever reason, he wasn’t allowed to undo Aziraphale’s shirt.

“Wings.” Aziraphale broke the kiss briefly to gasp out the word, which forced Crowley to break it in order to gasp out,

“What?”

“Wings!” Aziraphale had taken the opportunity to pepper kisses along Crowley’s jawline and in between managed to fit in the words. “Put. Your. Wings. Away.”

Crowley did as he was told.

The moment they were gone, Aziraphale slipped off his lap and pressed Crowley back into the chair with a hand to his chest and gave him another wicked smile.

“Crowley,” he said. Somehow he made it sound almost reverent.

Then he ran his hands down Crowley’s sides, and Crowley suddenly found that the angel was covering his chest in kisses, licking and nipping at the skin and generally doing things that Crowley would never in a million years have ever expected from Aziraphale.

He was completely and utterly lost.

He had no idea what was going on. Or why. And he was drunk on the sheer heady pleasure of the feel of the angel’s lips and hands on his body. He gritted his teeth, groaned, and tried not to think about how utterly embarrassing this was going to be afterwards.

Aziraphale’s nails scrapped at his skin and Crowley shuddered and gritted his teeth harder in an attempt not to make anymore noise than he already was doing.

It didn’t really work because Aziraphale worked his way down his torso, reached the waistband of his trousers and tugged. Crowley raised his hips obediently wondering what the hell the angel was planning. Surely he wasn’t going to actually…?

“Fuck!”

Apparently he was. The moment Crowley’s cock sprung free, Aziraphale had pounced on it and twisted his hand around the shaft, and lathed his tongue across the head and Crowley hadn’t been able to stop the word tumbling out of his mouth.

The angel pressed his forehead against Crowley’s stomach and Crowley heard him chuckle gleefully. The fucking angel was actually enjoying himself by surprising Crowley more than anyone had any right to. And now he was sitting there, still wearing most of his clothes, whilst Crowley was half naked and very much Aziraphale’s control.

He felt Aziraphale tug on his trousers again but frankly Crowley wasn’t sure he had the strength to move again, so he tipped his head back against the chair, closed his eyes and let everything except his shirt dissolve back into the firmament from which he’d created it.

Aziraphale tutted.

“Really my dear,” he murmured, and Crowley stared down at him through half-lidded eyes.

“What are you doing, angel?”

Aziraphale raised an eyebrow and gave him another of those wicked smiles.

“Oh I think you know what I’m doing,” he said and then dipped his head, wrapped his lips around Crowley’s cock and took the entire thing in his mouth.

A human wouldn’t have done that. They’d have choked, or gagged, or just stopped far earlier, but Aziraphale wasn’t a human and Crowley heard himself groan, his fingers scrabbling desperately at the fabric of the chair, in a vain attempt to hold onto the last vestiges of his sanity.

Aziraphale’s lips glided back up, all the way to the head and Crowley whimpered as the angel looked up at him.

“Crowley,” he murmured, and this time there was no mistaking the reverential tone and Crowley just didn’t even know what to do with that. The look the angel was giving him, as if this moment right here was the single most important moment of his existence, was too much, so instead Crowley took refuge in looking up at the ceiling and trying not to whimper again.

Hell, this was simultaneously the most embarrassing and most amazing situation Crowley had ever found himself in.

He felt Aziraphale shift, his fingertips fluttering over Crowley’s thighs.

“Angel.” The word slipped out on an exhale, more of an endearment than a simple description and he heard Aziraphale hum in delight.

And then… Aziraphale worshipped him.

It was the only way Crowley could describe what happened next. The angel’s fingers and lips and tongue ran over his skin, leaving trails of pleasure everywhere they touched – and Aziraphale seemed to want to touch everywhere – and Crowley had no idea that being touched could ever feel this good. It felt like the angel wasn’t just touching him but pouring absolute devotion into every little gesture and Crowley had never felt so desired in his entire existence. The sheer heady thrill of it all combined with the physical pleasure sent him spiralling out of control until all he could do was pant and groan and squirm underneath Aziraphale’s ministrations. His fingers flexed reflexively, clutching first at the chair arms, and then at Aziraphale’s shirt, until finally he did something he’d always wanted to do and buried them in Aziraphale’s ridiculous hair.

“Angel. Angel, please,” he groaned. Crowley didn’t even care that he was begging – he couldn’t take anymore of this. His entire being was thrumming with desire and if he didn’t get some sort of relief soon he had no idea what he was going to do.

Thank goodness the angel wasn’t inclined towards torture. He made a soothing humming noise in his throat and immediately took Crowley’s cock in his mouth.

Crowley’s eyes rolled back in his head and he instinctively slid his hips forward on the chair as Aziraphale’s lips slid down his cock all the way to the base.

“Fuck,” he gasped, and then, “Fuckfuckfuckfuck. Angel, fuck!” as Aziraphale started licking and sucking over the whole thing, and scraping his teeth over the head, and doing something Crowley couldn’t even comprehend with his fingers and generally turning Crowley into a helpless, whimpering mess.

Crowley hadn’t known that this could feel quite like this. Heat was pooling in his groin and his whole body was thrumming with pleasure and he clutched at Aziraphale’s hair, twisting it through his fingers in a way that might have hurt if Aziraphale had been human.

“Angel… oh…” It was overwhelming now, completely all consuming. Surely the human body couldn’t take this? He was going to shatter, or explode, and it was going to be a very inconvenient discorporation indeed, and it was so bloody good he couldn’t bring himself to care.

“Oh shit, angel. I…” It was too much. “Aziraphale, please!”

The angel twisted his tongue and did something deep in his throat and Crowley really did explode. He felt his body empty its release down Aziraphale’s throat and he writhed and moaned and cried out in sheer ecstasy, as wave after wave of heat and pleasure and feelings he didn’t even have words for poured through his body.

Aziraphale hadn’t let up his attentions and each new movement drew fresh moan from Crowley’s lips until he was practically sobbing, his vision blurred and his thoughts shattered, muscles tensing as he tried to both take more and put a stop to the hedonistic pleasure that seemed to last for an eternity.

He was dimly aware of Aziraphale’s hands on his chest and hips, holding him down as he strained against them. Crowley had no ability right now to fight against the angelic strength that held him easily in place and so Aziraphale continued licking and sucking at Crowley’s cock until the demon ceased his writhing and collapsed into the chair, finally spent.

“Fuck,” he breathed and tried to collect his scattered thoughts, which was a bit tricky because Aziraphale had taken his cock out of his mouth and was now licking it clean and making little noises of pleasure as he did so.

Crowley tried to speak and was embarrassed when all that came out was an incomprehensible noise. What the fuck had the angel done to him? He managed to pull himself a little more upright in the chair, which made Aziraphale cease his ministrations and look up at him, and Crowley came undone again.

“Aziraphale.” His hand fluttered to the angel’s shirt and he tugged helplessly. Aziraphale wrinkled his brow and Crowley gave a little whimper of disappointment. How could the angel not know what he wanted – needed – right now?

“Aziraphale,” he murmured and tugged a little more urgently, and this time he was rewarded with one of the more delighted smiles the angel had ever given him and then, finally, Aziraphale climbed back into his lap and brought their lips together.

It was glorious. Kissing the angel was everything that Crowley had always wanted, even though he hadn’t known in any real way that it was what he wanted until tonight. He sank into the kiss, and ran his tongue over Aziraphale’s lips, and then when the angel moaned, licked in a little further, savouring the way he could taste his own salty tang on the angel’s tongue.

He could have carried on kissing him forever, but eventually Aziraphale pulled away and stood up, in one smooth movement that took Crowley by surprise.

“Goodnight, Crowley.”

Before the demon could react Aziraphale was gone and all Crowley could do was watch him ascend the stairs, still fully clothed, leaving the demon naked apart from his open shirt, sprawled in the armchair and very much wondering what the hell had just happened.