Borrowed Words - sunrisesinthesuburbs - Good Omens (TV) [Archive of Our Own] (2024)

Chapter 1: and I never think of him, except on midnights like this

Chapter Text

So I peered through a window

a deep portal, time travel

all the love we unravel

And the life I gave away

New York City, January 8th, 2024

Hello angel,

long time no see. Well, long time no… write? Read? Whatever. I haven’t done one of these in a while. Remember when I used to write you every 15th of the month? Of course you don’t, that was rhetorical. But I do, I remember. I don’t know why I stopped, honestly, I blame it on the passing of time, as I blame many things on.

I am back now, you could say. I haven’t written to you in six whole months, that’s a new record. Not that I didn’t think of you in those six months, as pathetic as that sounds. Twenty three years, and I still think about you every time I see a bow tie, or a painting, or a cinnamon roll. I know it’s pathetic, utterly embarrassing, you can laugh.

I cannot tell you, in good conscience, that I still love you: no love can survive twenty three years of no contact, not even whatever we had going on. But you are still there, in the back of mind, lingering like dust in an attic opened a few times a year. You’re still there, barely out of reach, and if I hold out my hand I can touch you, I can hear you, I can smell you, and I feel something warm inside my chest. It’s not love, but it is definitely something: nostalgia, surely; regret, possibly. I don’t regret you, of course. I never could.

Ah, I got a little bit carried away. I’m a bit out of shape, you see, I haven’t written anything in months. It felt fair to try and end my slump by writing to you, as if your intangible presence would help me sort out the mess that my life has become. I know it’s selfish, and I know this is not real and the ‘you’ I’m writing these letters to probably doesn’t exist anymore, but it is about comfort, you see? You are the only part of my life that no one has tainted, spoiled, ruined. You only exist in my memories and for that you are safe, you are comfortable, you are peaceful. Just like you were when you were actually real.

See, that happens sometimes, the missing you. It’s not nearly as soul crushing as it was in the beginning, but it still happens. Especially around the holidays, Valentine’s Day, the beginning of Spring, in front of a Renaissance painting, in bakeries, whenever I see vintage cars. It’s hard not to remember everything, in those moments, and that is when I miss you.

It’s not painful, not anymore, more like bittersweet. Hell, a f*ck ton more bitter than sweet, but you get the point.

I decided to write this letter today because I am back in the hospital. Just a routine check up, don’t you worry, but I hate this place. I am waiting for my doctor in his fancy office and the nurse who just escorted me here from the waiting room has blonde, curly hair and a really nice smile and, well, you can see where I’m going. It’s funny, and a little bit twisted, but I thought about you, suddenly and unexpectedly. With everything else going on, I didn’t have time to think about you, and now there you are, in the corner of my mind you’ve been living in for the past decades, demanding attention. Really, terrible timing.

I hate typing on my phone, dreadful thing, too many typos and too little space, this is a mess. Hell, let’s do this game: what would you ask me, if you were real?

'How are you, dear?’ (Do you still call everyone dear? I hope so. It was annoyingly endearing.) Well, let me tell you, I am not fine. I feel like sh*t most of the times, and my hip hurts like a motherf*cker most days than not. Could be much worse, though, at least I’m walking.

‘Are you working on something?’ No, I am not. I haven’t been working on something for a very long time, and mercifully no one has given me sh*t for it, yet. ‘Yet’ is the key word there, let me tell you: a proper sword of Damocles, that word.

You know what you’d probably ask me? ‘Have you eaten anything?’ I can almost hear you, if I try hard enough, your exact cadence, your posh accent, you snob bastard. I have forgotten the exact shade of the colour of your eyes, but not your stupid enunciation and your perfect grammar. You should have been the writer.

Ah, I shouldn’t have written that, now my mind is spinning. You should have been many things. I am a selfish prick, as you probably remember, and the first thing I thought you should have been is mine. Thank God you will never read these letters.

sh*t, doc’s here. I should tell you about him, sometime soon, he’s a bloody infant. You would have laughed.

It’s one of those days, I miss you.

Not yours,

C.

After being in a hospital for a while, the antiseptic smell should not come as a surprise. And yet, the moment his nostrils fill with the smell of bleach and otherwise unspecified cleaning products, Crowley shivers.

As the door of this fancy office of this fancy private clinic swings open, he abruptly closes the notes app on his phone, making sure he's sent the file to his email address first. Why he does that is a mystery: he doesn’t even know what to do with that sappy, existential nonsense, it’s not like he can put any of it in one of his books, and it’s not like he’s going to send anything anywhere. Still, he has his special folder on his laptop, labeled ‘Personal do NOT touch’, in which files have been piling up for years and years. He even typed out the first letters he’d written by hand all those years ago, just so he could stash them in the same place.

It was nice to get it out, though, as always. And he misses pouring his heart out to a blank page, without worrying about editors and publishers and hypothetical movie adaptations. Those letters are his, and his only. The books, nowadays, are for others.

He’s ungrateful, and he is aware of it. The books are what paid his nice (and expensive) lifestyle, his extravagant flat in Manhattan, his writing retreats (read: paid holidays) in Italy, France, Portugal, and the vintage car. He starts, a sharp pain spreading from his leg all throughout his lower body. They also paid the surgeries, and the follow up appointments, and the rehab.

“Everything’s looking good, Anthony.” His surgeries were performed by a kid, much to Crowley’s initial worry. Everyone in his team assured him he was the best Orthopedic Surgeon in the East Coast, and that he was not as young as he looked. Crowley remembers the first time he saw the doctor, with his dirty blond curls and childlike enthusiasm, and he remembers how utterly f*cked he felt. “What are you, fourteen?” He had barked, high on painkillers and sorrow. “I was fourteen when I graduated from Yale.”

That managed to shut him up for good.

He still looks just barely out of high school, in his opinion, but Crowley is on his feet, and he is standing and walking without assistance now, so the kid is actually good. Everyone else before Dr. Adam Young had refused to even take a look at his scans, let alone attempt a surgery; they all deemed his case as “hopeless”. The kid disagreed, of course.

Perhaps it was the recklessness of youth, perhaps it was a stroke of genius, Crowley doesn’t care. Dr. Adam Young promised him he would walk again, and now, a year after the accident, Crowley walks. He came here walking on his own two legs today. Nothing short of a miracle, some would say. Miracles don’t exist, though. Crowley walks because he has a bloody good doctor, and that’s it.

“How is the pain these days?” Adam asks him, once he’s done with his motor skills tests.

“Fine.” Crowley replies, way too fast. Another thing about Dr. Adam Young is that he hates lies, and he somehow manages to read right trough Crowley’s. “I want the truth, Anthony.”

What is he supposed to say? That he sometimes wakes up in the middle of the night in cold sweats, feeling like his leg is about to fall off? That he gets flashes of pain so sharp and so sudden and so intense he has to grip something hard, until his knuckles turn white?

“I’m managing.” He says, and that is true. “This is my life now, it doesn’t get better than this.” And that is another truth. Walking is enough, he can get through the pain. He sure as hell doesn’t want to get hooked on opioids, and Adam knows that perfectly well.

“I know where you stand on pain management medications.” The doctor starts, choosing the words carefully. “But I have to take into consideration your quality of life.”

Crowley laughs mirthlessly. “My quality of life is better than I thought I would ever get.” Better than I should ever get, he thinks, but doesn’t say.

Adam frowns, and Crowley realizes he is about to go on one of his rants about his psychological wellbeing. “I’m fine, Adam, really. I promise you, I can live with that.”

To convince him, he hops off the examination table and offers Adam a little dance, with a twirl and everything. His hip screams, but Crowley is really good at ignoring those screams.

His little charade earns him a little smile. “Fine, I’ll believe you.” Crowley grins, satisfied, but he has the feeling the conversation is not over. Adam gets up from his stool and circles his desk, full of books and folders but somehow still incredibly tidy, and sits on his chair. The view of the City behind his head is mesmerizing.

Crowley loved New York City from the moment he stepped foot in it, two decades ago now. He had a degree in English and Creative Writing from the University of London, a ridiculously small amount of savings and a dream (and a fair amount of heartbreak, but that is en entirely different story), and the City gave him everything.

He was working as a barista in some godforsaken, soulless chain when he scored his first deal. Apparently, for some reasons Crowley ignores to this day, someone at Morningstar Publishers liked his draft and wanted to offer him an actual deal, actual money and an actual possibility of seeing his very own book on a shelf. Miracles don’t exist, but that came very close.

‘A tale of stars and succulents’, his debut novel, was a success. The New York Times called it an ‘instant classic’, and Crowley was skyrocketed into fame. More deals came after that, more books, some movies too. It stopped being fun after the fifth book, ‘Driving through fire and other remedies for a sore throat’: that was the last one of his books with an interesting title, something Crowley picked himself against the advice of his publisher, and the last book with a plot, characters, and twists that felt real, raw, captivating. The two works after that one were rubbish, he knows. A money grab, something crafted specifically for Netflix or some other industry shark. There was no passion, no fire in them, they were just stories: Crowley didn’t write stories, he wrote lives. And then there was the Accident.

Adam takes a deep breath before speaking again. “Anathema told me you don’t want to go to Connecticut.”

The sound Crowley makes can only be described as a growl. “Do I look like a Gilmore Girl to you?”

Anathema Device is Crowley’s agent, PA, and probably only friend. She’s from Malibu, of all places, but hates summer, and is a self proclaimed occultist who apparently sees auras and can hex people. She is annoying, caring, incredibly smart and never takes no for an answer.

“You do know she is right, do you?” Adam tries again. “You need to get away from this city.”

Anathema has been telling him to get away ever since he regained consciousness after the Accident. And his answer has always been the same: absolutely not. He is nothing without New York City, he can’t imagine living anywhere else, not anymore. He doesn’t know who he is without the chaos and the polluted air and the overflowing streets. Crowley and this city are now irreparably intertwined, and he cannot leave without bleeding.

(Immediately after the Accident, while high on morphine and hooked to too many machines to count, he thought of London, the first and last time he’d ever missed it. It wasn’t the city he was missing, though. He wrote a letter that day.)

Anathema wants to drag him to some small town in Connecticut to ‘reconnect with nature’ or some witchy sh*t like that. She says it would be greatly beneficial to his writing, that learning how to appreciate a quiet life will heal something inside him. Obviously, that is all a bloody lie: there is nothing inside him that can be healed with gazebos and coffee shops.

“I don’t, Adam, I like the City. My whole life is here, I do not need to run away from it.” He believes what he is saying, but he is aware that it sounds like a lie, and Adam notices too.

“It’s not about running away, it’s about a change of scenery.”

“Why are you even talking to Anathema about me?” Deflection and avoidance, Crowley’s best tricks. That’s what his therapist always says.

“Because we are on your team, in case you forgot.” Adam leans a bit forward, and lowers his voice. “We care about you.”

Why? Crowley wants to ask, but bites his tongue in time. Instead, he settles with a shrug, and a bitter: “I have way too many babysitters.” Another one of issues, as his therapist puts it, is the inability to believe people can actually care for him, not because they are legally required to or because he pays them to, but because they want to. It is an issue he is working on, but he hasn’t made much progress. So, as he usually does, he chooses aggression. “I don’t like people on my team to gossip behind my back.” He practically barks.

Adam is unfazed. “You know perfectly well that is not what we do.” He tilts his head. “You are a grown man, Anthony, you can do whatever you want with your life. We just want you to think about it.”

Bloody child prodigy who always knows how to handle him. And Crowley knows the witch waiting outside the door will bother him with the same damn thing. “If I promise to think about it, will you let me go?”

This earns him a real smile. “Only if you swear you’ll think about it.” He says, as he extends his pinky.

Crowley can’t stop the smile uncurling on his own lips. “Good Lord, you really are a child.”

But he pinky promises nonetheless. Sometimes, he thinks about Adam Young, M.D., who became a board certified surgeon before the age of thirty. What kind of childhood did he have? He was probably writing essays while his peers were singing Twinkle Twinkle Little Star, and that makes Crowley’s heart clench. Whenever he gets the chance, Crowley indulges in his childlike enthusiasm.

They say goodbye after the ridiculous scene, and Crowley leaves the office with his usual folder and some more recommendations.

Anathema gets up from the plastic chair in the waiting room as soon she spots him. No matter how many times Crowley tells her he doesn’t need her help walking anymore, she still offers her arm, and her support. He rolls his eyes, but locks their arms anyway.

“Why are you conspiring with my surgeon?”

She shoots him one of her infamous look from behind her thick glasses, but doesn’t say anything until the elevator doors close. “Why won’t you even think about it?”

“You can’t answer a question with another question.”

“You are insufferable.” Crowley smirks. He truly is.

Anathema Device is just as insufferable as he is, though. That is the only reason why she is the only person from Before the Accident who is still in his life.

“I don’t understand why you won’t even consider it.” She says, while they step out the elevator and into a lobby that smells like chemicals and unnatural cleanliness. Crowley feels nauseous, and hurries his steps to get outside faster, ignoring the complaints coming from his hip.

Once they are outside, Crowley breathes in the crispy air of early January. Well, to be honest, there is nothing crispy about the air in Manhattan. He breathes in some smog and the rather unpleasant, however peculiar smell of the sewer.

“Look at me, Nath.” He finally says. “Do I look like Laura Gilmore to you?”

Anathema laughs at that. “First of all, it’s Lorelai.” She frees her arm to look at Crowley directly, and he hopes she doesn’t notice his hiss at the sudden loss of support. “And I don’t want you to move there and open a coffee shop, Crowley. I want you to spend a month or two in peace, surrounded by nature.”

Crowley has heard this exact speech before, too many times to count. He heard this speech while he was laying on a hospital bed, only allowed to consume ice chips and too tired to protest; he heard this speech after yelling at his first physical therapist, a sweet girl he brought to tears after a single session; he heard it again on the floor of his apartment, after his second or fifth bottle didn’t help with the pain and the only contact in his phone who didn’t hate him was this woman.

Every single time, he said no. “Is it because I haven’t written anything in years?” He asks this time. He knows publishers will start asking, or rather demanding something from him. Everyone has been patient, After the Accident, but no one is patient forever.

Anthony J. Crowley, New York Times best selling author and pioneer of the new wave of thriller fiction, never went this long without producing something, a novel, a short story, even a damn script. Crowley, a forty five year old man who used to swear he would never lose his accent to America, has never had a writer’s block, but he also never was involved in a near death experience, a crash that could (and, frankly, should) have been fatal. But how long can he justify his inaction and stillness with his trauma? How long till everyone who’s waiting for him just moves on? His fans, his publishers, even Anathema won’t stay forever, no one does.

“Do you think I only care about your writing?” She replies finally, shaking him from his thoughts.

“It is what pays your bills.”

“My bills are payed by the Device’s Family Fund, you wanker.”

He can’t not laugh at that, despite everything. “You saying ‘wanker’ is literally traumatizing.”

Anathema comes from money, Crowley has always known this. Her family fortune is based upon a book of prophecies that became so popular in the 1980s it now pays for three or four mansions around the world, boarding schools for all of the Devices children and Anathema’s career as an agent for a failing author. This is what having the better version of Nostradamus as your great-great-great-great aunt gets you in this world and in this economy.

“Crowley.” Anathema gets serious again. “I know you don’t believe me, but I know it will do you some good.” Some good, she says. It’s not that Crowley doesn’t believe her, it’s just that he doesn’t want to. It is sad, perhaps, but it seems that there is nothing in this universe that can motivate him anymore. All he wants to do is survive, day by day, let time pass and hope it doesn’t hurt too much at the end. Christ, perhaps he should ring his therapist.

When Anathema looks at him this way, though, with her big, brown eyes all pleading and fond, he almost believes he can do something good again. ‘Almost’ is the key word. “This City will do me some good, too. It’s all she ever did.”

“No, it’s not.” She replies immediately, the fondness gone and replaced by fierceness. “This city scrubs you clean, when you’re not even dirty to begin with, and then spits you out again.” Californians have an ancestral hate for the Big Apple, one of the many American quirks Crowley came to understand in the past twenty three years.

“You will never move on if you don’t put some distance between you and this place.”

What if Crowley doesn’t want to move on? There is something about pain that becomes familiar, even comfortable after a while. Moving on would mean more bleeding, more straining, and Crowley isn’t strong. Crowley is just tired.

When he was in university, he had this Professor for his Creative Writing course, who other students often deemed various degrees of insane. Crowley adored him, obviously, as much as he could be irritating on his worst days. “If you want to make something valuable,” he used to say, “you need to ask yourselves every single question you can think of. Push, push and push until you are satisfied with the answers you come up with.” That changed Crowley’s life, other than his writing. One thing about his books is that readers reach the end thoroughly satisfied, because all of their questions have been answered, implicitly or not.

It has been a while since Crowley has applied this logic to his own life. Why? Why is he so tired? And of what? And why does he feel like he’s asleep even when he is awake? Why is he so stubborn, all the time? Why does he never listen to anyone? Someone else asked him these questions, forever ago. He thought he had answers, back then, but now he thinks he was wrong.

“Take me home.” He says to Anathema, still waiting for her reply. “If you want me to think about this, I need my couch.” He tries to go for lighthearted, but comes across as strained. Anathema sees right through him, but decides to call the car anyway.

“You usually tell me you’ll think about it just to shut me up.” And, well, it is true.

There is something different today. Crowley absentmindedly touches his phone in his back pocket, remembering the words he wrote a few hours ago.

Someone told him, forever ago, that his biggest fear was growing old and looking back at the past full of regrets, and realizing he lived his life as a passerby.

(“I don’t think that will happen to you, angel.”

“How can you be sure?”

“I’ll be there to make sure of it.”)

What is he doing with his life, if not living it as a passerby? Suddenly, he’s thinking about a book. Not really a book, actually, because it is not a story, but a life: “The Unabridged Journals of Sylvia Plath”. He remembers a diary entry from 1963, because he read and underlined the passage so many times he stained the page, almost ruining it forever: “Still, when I wake up, I feel as if I were rising from a grave, gathering my moldy, worm-riddled limbs into a final effort.”

These are too many questions, too many thoughts, and he really needs to lie down.

He doesn’t say another word as they wait for the Uber. As the car makes his way through Manhattan’s usual traffic jam, his own mouth acts before his mind can counterattack. “Tell me why Connecticut.”

Anathema doesn’t reply immediately, she just looks at him with that terrible intense look only she can master, and Crowley shivers. “My grandmother met my grandfather there.” She finally whispers, averting his gaze. “He used to have a diner in this small town, Granny fell in love with both the place and the owner, and the rest is history.” She lets out a small laugh, and Crowley’s own lips curl into a smile.

“My mom lived there before settling to California, while my Grandparents stayed in the house all their lives, and me and my brothers visited every summer. I spent my best summers in that town, and when Granny, well,” a pause, and if Crowley were a better person he would reach out and put a hand on her shoulder. He doesn’t move. “The house is in my name now.” She manages after a few seconds. “Granny knew how much that place meant to me, so she left me the house.”

They sit in silence for a few minutes, as the chaos of honking and sirens outside acts as a sort of creepy lullaby. It is such a stark contrast, the sweetness of Anathema’s story and the cruelty of life happening in the City outside.

“Do you want to know what she wrote in her will?” She suddenly asks, in the kind of tone that doesn’t expect a reply. Crowley still nods, somehow unable to utter a single word.

Anathema clears her throat. “My dearest Anathema, to you I leave my slice of Eden. May it bring you and the lost souls you’ll find along your path healing and peace.”

Crowley doesn’t say anything, and Anathema breaks the silence again. “Don’t know if you noticed, but all the women in my family are witches.”

He lets out a mirthless laugh at that. “Thought you preferred ‘occultist’.” Anathema hums in agreement, before Crowley speaks again. “Do you think I am a lost soul you found along your path?”

He is not hurt, not really, he kind of fits the description. It’s just hard to be around people who recognize how broken he actually is.

Anathema, someone who never lies, is perhaps the most difficult person to be around and yet, he can’t imagine his life without her. “I do, actually.” It stings less than Crowley thought it would. “I’m just trying to honor Granny’s wishes.”

This time, Crowley lets out a proper laugh. “How gracious, Miss Device.”

Somehow, they already reached their destination, and Crowley’s building is just outside the car. Usually, after an appointment, he bolts out of the car (as fast as his hips allow him) and spends a day or two in isolation, trying (and failing) to write something, anything, and then ending up watching hours of trash television.

Today, he doesn’t move, he doesn’t even reach for the car’s handle.

(“And what if you won’t?”

“I will.”

“We’re so young, Crowley. You can’t be sure of that.”

“Fine, you’re being impossible. How about ‘I would really like to be there to make sure you’re actually living and not losing your soul in your family’s fancy law firm’?”

“That does sound very nice.”

“Just nice?”

“Rather lovely.”)

“Send me some pictures of the house, maybe.”

“Are you serious?”

Crowley thinks about it. “Yeah.” A hand comes up to the side of his face, and he almost takes off his sunglasses before ultimately deciding against it. Anathema will know he is serious either way, he doesn’t need an headache. “I am.”

Anathema’s house in New Dawns, Connecticut, looks just like you would imagine a house in New Dawns, Connecticut, to look like. There is a beauty, and a warmth, in those white walls and forest green shutters that can only belong in a small town.

There is a garden, too. In the pictures Anathema sent him the garden is not in bloom: the trees are naked and the ground is painted with red and yellow and brown leaves, and it doesn’t look sad, which doesn’t make any sense. Crowley doesn’t like fall, and he certainly doesn’t find falling leaves and trees changing colour poetic, because there is nothing poetic about dying (he remembers it all too well).

Yet, this garden looks the opposite of dead. It is the most alive thing Crowley has seen in months, hell, years even. Way more alive than whatever it is that stares back at him in the mirror, anyway.

He wonders how long it’s been since his feet have felt something under than concrete under them, how long it’s been since he felt a leaf crushing under his sole. It’s been a long time, as he loathes Central Park and all the tourists and all the happy people taking strolls. Gosh, he is such a pathetic excuse for a human being, avoiding human contact at all costs and then complaining about having maybe two friends. (One friend, he only has one friend, and she is on his payroll. The other one only exists in his head.)

The windows in his penthouse are the reason he bought it in the first place: big, outrageously big, facing West so that the sun doesn’t wake him the morning and he can watch the sunset in the evening. He loves the sunset in New York, he loves watching how the golden hue paints the skyscrapers and how the city lights up before his eyes. It makes him feel so alive, all that life below him, all that noise that never stops. At least, it used to.

Now, as he sits on his couch with his phone in one hand, a glass in his other and pictures of a garden blooming despite the fall, he is not sure the view that’s unfolding before his eyes is making him feel alive. He’s not even sure when it is the last time it has made him feel like something at all.

It is comfortable, of course, it gives him a sense of security. It’s everything he has known for more twenty years, after all.

Everything he has ever called home, probably, since he’s been away from the Motherland for so long he has started to forget how the wind feels and how the accent of his people sounds like. (That is a lie.) He has never missed it, though. He never missed his family, since it never felt much like a family, anyway. Hell, he missed one thing and one thing only, no point in denying it. It’s not like he can do much about it.

He thinks about what Anathema said about the place bringing healing and peace: going back to England wouldn’t bring him healing or peace, that he is sure of. Why would that small town in Connecticut, though? Writing has always been the only thing that ever gave him some kind of peace, the only thing that could quiet his thoughts for a while, ever since he was a boy and wrote about knights and dragons on his school notebooks. And now that he doesn’t write anymore, save for those random and useless unsent letters, he is restless.

The problem is that very time he opens a new file, he is filled with enormous dread. The panic rises just at the sight of a blank page, and despite his therapist’s best efforts, he doesn’t know why. Therefore, he just stopped trying altogether, and now he doesn’t want to try anymore.

“It’s probably a trauma response.” Dr. Eve had said, and Crowley had rolled his eyes, because that was her answer for every single one of his issues. “Don’t you worry, we will get through this.”

She always uses ‘we’ when talking about his problems, as if he isn’t the one who had to and has to push through every day without falling apart, as if it hasn’t been bloody years since he’s written anything. She is a very nice woman, and a really good therapist, but sometimes Crowley grows so annoyed with her he has to storm out of meetings and ignore her calls for a few days. He apologizes, usually. When Anathema forces him to, at least.

Speak of the devil. His phone lights up in his hand, and he lets a few seconds pass before he picks up. “Hello, witch.”

“Did you see the pictures?” The witch ignores him and gets straight to the point. “What do you think?”

Well, isn’t that a question. What does Crowley think? Crowley is not sure. The pictures made him think about a lot of things. “It’s surprisingly pretty.”

He is met with an offended sound at the other end of the line. “Surprisingly? Did you think Granny didn’t have taste?”

He chuckles at that, just a little but enough to know Anathema is probably smiling. “Granny would forgive me.”

“She would, you know? Probably wouldn’t have baked you a cake, but she would’ve read your cards.” And Crowley can perfectly picture an older version of Anathema displaying tarot cards on a table in a house full of crystals.

After a few beats of silence, Anathema asks the inevitable question. “So?”

Crowley looks at the City burning with life outside his window. Perhaps he is burning too, with something that is certainly not life. Grief, pain, boredom?

It’s been a cloudy day, so the sunset is not golden. It’s just light grey turning into a darker grey, that will inevitable turn into a pitch black sky, without any stars. You can’t see the stars from Manhattan, for obvious reasons, and Crowley is taken aback by this thought. He hasn’t thought about the lack of stars in years, and to think he dedicated his first novel to them. He wanted to be an astronomer, when he was a kid: he borrowed every book about stars and planets he could find in his elementary school’s library, and stayed up night after night reading everything about them. He probably was the only eight year old in London who knew what Alpha Centauri was.

(“Crowley, have you completely lost your mind?”

“Why? I thought you were a romantic.”

“It’s literally November, and it’s bloody freezing out there!”

“I will keep you warm.”

“You fiend.”

“C’mon, angel. Let’s go stargazing.”)

“Can you see the stars from there?” He finds himself asking, surprising the both of them.

Anathema is quick to reply anyway. “Yeah, lots.” Crowley can hear the smile in her voice. “My grandpa used to take me on stargazing dates when I was little.”

Crowley’s lips curl into a small smile as well. Seeing stars again sounds really nice. It’s something he didn’t know he wanted to do before he heard he had the possibility of actually doing it.

“Two months.” He says, before the image of a sky full of stars slips his mind. “What do you say? Til winter ends, and then when the Spring comes…” He doesn’t finish the sentence, but he doesn’t need to, as Anathema is already squeaking in his ear.

“Oh, sh*t are you serious? Are you actually saying yes?”

“Do not make me regret this.” Another squeak forces him to put some distance between the phone and his head. “And stop yelling, Jesus Christ.”

“Can’t, I am too happy.” She sounds so sincere Crowley feels a surge of emotion in his chest.

At least he made his only friend happy. This may be a terrible idea, but at least he has done something good for the only person from Before who stayed for the After.

“Anthony Crowley, you are going to love New Dawns so much you’ll have to beg me to make you come back here.” Anathema finally says, all giddy and giggly.

Crowley groans: “God you are so annoying, I can’t believe I said yes.”

And it downs on him that he actually agreed to go to New Dawns, Connecticut for two whole months. He runs a hand through his hair, which is now shorter than he ever kept it, and realizes this is either a terrible decision or a really good one. He wants to laugh at that thought, because isn’t that just how every decision work? Either it brings you Heaven or it brings you Hell, since he doesn’t believe in an in-between. He had a taste of Hell, and he really hopes New Dawns tastes better.

(He definitely doesn’t think about the fact that he made this particular decision on the very same day he wrote another one of those letters. He won’t think about that.)

At least there’s nothing dangerous in Connecticut, beside Anathema Device and her hexes (yes, she actually hexes people, it’s a whole thing), and she is on his side. It’s not like coffee shops, gazebos and bookstores can do him much harm, right?

In his ear, Anathema is blabbering about departures details and whatnot, but Crowley only regains his focus by the end of her speech. “Pack your things, ginger. Wheels up in two days.”

He doesn’t know wether to comment on the ‘ginger’ (his hair is copper, thank you very much) or on the ‘wheels up’ (she watches too many crime shows), so he just sighs dramatically.

“Do not make me regret this, Nath. I mean it.”

“Oh, trust me, you won’t.”

New York City, September 15th, 2000

Happy anniversary, angel.

You coward. You bastard. You idiot. I don’t think I ever hated anyone more than I hate you right now.

You know, the City sucks ass, and I hope you’re happy about this. My apartment is not an apartment, just some shoebox in the middle of nowhere with an awful roommates who smells like death, and I make coffee every day for posh bastards that remind me of you.

f*ck, that was a lie. They do not remind me of you at all.

The worst thing is, if you were there, you would make this better. I know you’d find a way to decorate the shoe box to make it look almost nice; you would hang your drawings everywhere, and your books, too, and your stupid weird mugs. Are you still drawing?

I haven’t heard from you since June. I haven’t seen you since June. I still see your face every time I close my eyes, but every day you are more blurry, the exact shade of blue of your eyes is getting harder to remember. At least I can still hear your voice, your laugh, and other things too, when I get desperately sad and lonely and horny as well.

I know I was a bastard when I didn’t answer your calls, I’m sorry about that. I didn’t think you would stop calling so soon. I picked up the courage to calling you back in July, and found out you changed your number. What an absolute bloody bastard you are.

It’s them, isn’t it? They got you back, finally, now that my terrible influence isn’t there to tempt you away anymore. I bet you started working at the firm. I bet you’re the best they’ve ever had. Please tell me you didn’t stop drawing and painting and creating things, don’t let them take that away from you too. You are the most talented artist I have ever f*cking met, have I ever told you that?

I am drunk, by the way, if you couldn’t tell. The wine is horrible and your hedonistic ass would retch at the mere smell. We were supposed to be celebrating today, together, but I am alone, so I am getting drunk, alone, in this sh*thole. I miss you so bad. I’m sorry I didn’t pick up the phone sooner. I’m sorry I didn’t listen to you. I’m sorry I ran.

I bought you a ring, you asshole. And I know you would have said yes, to that.

Planned out the whole thing.

What are you doing, tonight? I hope you’re getting drunk as well, on something better than whatever I’m drinking. I hope you’re thinking about me, and I hope you’re crying as well and I hope you’re drawing something. I hope you’re drawing me.

I still love you, obviously. I don’t think I’ll ever stop. I mean, I think eventually the pain will subdue and I won’t think about you every waking minute of every single day, but I don’t believe I will ever be able put my love somewhere else. What a f*cking tragedy, and it’s your fault.

I hate you so much.

Happy anniversary.

I love you.

C.

I guess sometimes we all get

some kind of haunted,

some kind of haunted

And I never think of him

except on midnights like this

Chapter 2: the best that I could offer was to miss your calls

Chapter Text

when I went away it was the only option

couldn’t trust myself to proceed with caution

the most that I could give to you was nothing at all

the best that I could offer was to miss your calls

The only way Crowley is able to survive a roadtrip is by sleeping.

So, as soon as his suitcases are packed and Anathema’s doubts are dissipated (“Are you really sure about this? Are you sure you’re not coming just to make my life a living hell? Did you even pack a scarf?”), he gets as comfortable as he can on the passenger seat of his friend’s car (an awfully big and painfully American Rover) and closes his eyes stubbornly.

He used to love driving, Before. It was his favorite thing to do, after writing: his car was an extension of himself, he used to feel unstoppable with the steering wheel under his fingers and the throttle below his foot. His heartbeat and the engine’s horse powers shared the same rhythm, the blinding lights in the streets unfolding before his eyes were nothing short of his definition of Eden.

After, it has taken him a whole year to even get into a car without making the driver stop in the middle of the road because he couldn’t breath; a whole year to be able to bear the entire trip from his apartment to the hospital without break; a whole year to be able to get to Connecticut without screaming bloody murder into Anathema’s ears. Only if he manages to fall asleep as fast as he can, obviously.

The task is difficult, though, because the occultist driving him beside him is overly excited, too happy to be real, and has shoved her phone into Crowley’s hands. “You’re in charge of the music.”

And Crowley growls, literally, contemplating all of his life choices.

Music, another thing he loved Before. His collection of vinyls was impressive: they used to the entire bookshelf in his living rooms, before he destroyed them all in a fit of rage, in the early days After. He regretted it, of course, just like he regrets a lot of things he did in those early days. It’s not like he can go back in time and change things, as his therapist always reminds him: dwelling on the past compromises healing. It’s hard to think about healing when he remembers how badly he’d compromised all of his precious Velvet Underground vinyls.

(“Is there anything here that’s not bepop?”

“Bepop? You are insane. Why do I even put up with you?”

“Because you like me.”

“Who told you that?”

“I have a feeling.”)

“You and me, we don’t have the same taste.”

This time, is Anathema who groans. “Unlike you, I am open to trying new things.” She sounds like a teacher scolding a little kid, and Crowley thinks strangely exposed. He adjusts his glasses.

“C’mon ginger, play something, anything.” She pleads, as Manhattan’s traffic starts to subdue. “I hate driving in silence.”

“Call me ginger again and I’m going to do some very bad things.” He aims for menacing, but lands on something just south of whiny.

“I am shaking over there.” She shoots him a quick smile, before darting her eyes back on the road. She drives carefully, perfectly below the speed limit. Crowley suspects she is purposefully slower than her usual, because of him. He ignores the hint of nausea.

He knows it is what friends are supposed to do, look out for each other and all of that. But it makes him sick to know he has become someone people have to look after, it pains him to know his only friend still has to walk on eggshells around him. He decides to play something.

His fingers search the song on their own, without much thinking on his part. It used to be his favorite song, after all. God knows how many times he played this song during his drives.

Sometimes I feel so happy

Sometimes I feel so sad

But mostly, you just make me mad

Baby, you just make me mad

“Oh, what a romantic.”

“Shut up.” He barks, but he smirks when he hears the giggle from the driver seat.

They drive in silence for the next few minutes, and he can’t help a surprise gasp when Anathema starts to sing along.

“It’s Velvet Underground, Crowley.” She says, sensing his surprise. “Of course I know this song.”

(“Is this your favourite song?”

“It is.”

“It’s kind of nice.”

“Do you want to know why it’s my favourite?”

“I think I already do.”)

Crowley has always been kind of snobbish about his music taste but, as he’s now realizing, he wasn’t really that special. So, he just shuts up and plays some more songs from his old playlist. He even finds himself humming along to Every Breath You Take at one point, and it is nice.

Is it better than two hours of a blissful, dreamless nap? He’s not sure, but it really is nice.

As they drive, Crowley realizes he can’t see buildings and skyscrapers and yellow taxi cabs anymore, and it downs on him he’s leaving the City behind, and he is not sure what he is feeling.

It’s definitely weird, his chest feels tingly and his stomach is fuzzy, but it is not panic. Is this anticipation? Excitement? He hasn’t felt it in so long he forgot what that is supposed to feel like.

Curiosity is what he settles on. He is feeling curious, about what these next two months will bring him, about what this small town will actually look, about why Anathema was so adamant in her desire to bring him there.

He also feels melancholic, in a way. He’s not leaving forever, of course, but he hasn’t left in forever, and that thought is enough to send him down a dangerous spiral. The last time he left a city, well, he left way more than a city behind. If he closes his eyes, even now, even a lifetime later, he still see his very favourite pair of pale blue eyes. Crowley’s been thinking about him a whole lot more than often, these days.

Before he can do something dumb, like crying, he changes the song to something he knows Anathema will sing along. It is a nice distraction, doing something good for a friend. At least, he can still do that.

“Don’t make this a whole thing, Nath.” He mumbles, before pressing play.

Of course, Anathema makes it a whole thing. “This can’t be real.” And she sounds positively shocked. She doesn’t take her eyes off the road, but she does wiggle in excitement in her seat, and Crowley cringes. “I just know you like her, alright?”

But Anathema is too busy singing along a ten minute long song to care about him, and for that Crowley is glad. She doesn’t have to know he actually likes the song, and that he actually has to pinch his own thighs to keep his own emotions at bay, when the last verse starts.

Time won’t fly, it’s like I’m paralyzed by it

I’d like to be my old self again, but I’m still trying to find it

And, well. That is a thing.

The rest of the drive is smooth, and goes without a hiccup. Surprisingly, Crowley doesn’t fall asleep, and he still ends up okay. He has to stop and take some deep breaths, here and there, but he gets to their destination in one piece. He notices Anathema sigh of relief when she stops the car, and he ignores another hint of nausea.

The house looks just like it did on the pictures, if not slightly bigger. He should have expected it to be more of a mansion, considering the family it comes from. He can’t see the garden, from the driveway, but he can see the trees surrounding the house, some naked, some evergreen and comforting, all covered in a rather thick layer of snow. He shivers: he really should have packed a scarf.

It seriously looks like a postcard: he could snap a picture right this second, write ‘Welcome to Connecticut!’ on it and make a fortune out of it on Pinterest.

It doesn’t take long for Crowley (a little longer for all his suitcases, as he’s never been a light packer) to follow Anathema inside. The inside of the house wasn’t pictured in any of the photos Anathema sent him, and it is definitely surprising.

Picture everything in this universe that screams minimalism, scratch it and now picture the exact opposite. The living room is spacious, but there isn’t a single corner that is not occupied by some kind of memorabilia: books, of all shapes and sizes, overflowing the bookshelves and the coffee tables; a lot of pillows, more than a single couch could possibly need anyway, however big it is; a multitude of strange objects, two different crystal balls, what Crowley thinks is an abacus, a gramophone. The walls are full of paintings, family pictures and movie posters, and Crowley spots an armchair and a fireplace before he gets a little overwhelmed.

Crowley should hate it, is the thing: his own place, back in the city, is an ode to minimalism, all smooth surfaces and black furniture. He thrives in a tidy space, he enjoys a clean, spacious room and he has never seen the appeal of decorating.

But this place is warm, and actually looks lived in, and he should hate it but he doesn’t. He makes him feel sleepy, and he’s giving him an headache, but he also makes him feel welcomed.

(“Jesus Christ, you are an hoarder.”

“Excuse me? I am a collector!”

“Why do you even need so many books? I am the Creative Writing major, you’re the stuffy lawyer.”

“First, I am not a lawyer, and second, reading is my second favorite thing to do.”

“Really? What’s the first one, then?”

“Let me show you my studio.”)

“Does someone still live here?” He suddenly asks, unable to stop his curiosity. “I mean, it doesn’t look abandoned.”

“I never said it was.” Anathema playfully scolds him. “I’ve come here more often, since Granny passed away.” She adds, her voice tinted with a sadness that it’s slowly turning into melancholia. “I try to come down every weekend, if I can. Not that much of a drive.”

And this is something Crowley didn’t know. She never told him what she was up to on weekends, and he never asked. He had no idea this place was more than a holiday home to her, and was actually something closer to an actual, proper home base. She probably knows all the locals, Crowley realizes. And he can picture her there, almost too perfectly, in these woods, with her occult books and her passion for sickeningly sweet coffees. She fits here way better than she fits into New York City: how did he miss it? He should apologize, for not knowing anything about his only friend’s life, but he can’t bring himself to say the words.

“Am I a terrible friend?” Self loathing always works.

“You are.” She winks. “I like you anyway.”

She shows him the kitchen, not that he is much of a cook anyway, and he is not surprised by the blue cupboards and the green fridge. They are very much in style.

“The bedrooms are upstairs.” Anathema says kind of absentmindedly, as he puts the groceries she brought along where they belong. “Go and get settled. Yours is the one without the purple walls.”

He can’t help but let out a snort, half amused and half relieved: as much as he kind of likes this style, he wouldn’t have been able to sleep in a room with purple walls.

He finds his room easily enough (the walls are red. He can live with that) and, as he puts one of his bags on the floor and plops onto that incredibly soft looking bed, it downs on him: what is he actually doing here?

It’s like being drowned by a bucket of ice. What is he doing here, in this house, in this town? What is he looking for? He doesn’t like coffee shops and small town boutiques and light festivals and whatever the hell they do down there. He doesn’t like peace and quiet and he is certainly not made for it. He is chaotic, mean, coarse and everything that this place is not. He can see it, he can feel it, how his very presence is already tainting this room, turning the warmth into stone cold, turning the coziness into uneasiness. And the feeling in his chest is not panic, not yet at least: it’s rage, an anger so sudden and so deep Crowley doesn’t know where it comes from or why it permeates all of his bones, but it is there, unmistakably there. He doesn’t belong here, he doesn’t get to spoil this place too.

(“Switch your major.”

“You know I can’t possibly do that.”

“You can. You should, angel, this is incredible.”

“Oh, Crowley, it’s just a hobby.”

“I’ve never seen anyone draw like this.”

“You’re biased.”

“How so?”

“You like me.”)

“Crowley?” A voice calls him from downstairs, and he realizes he’s breathing harder and irregularly, and that his hands has been gripping the sheets so hard his knuckles are white.

“It’s still early, I want to show you around town.” He can hear her footsteps on the stairs, and he does the first thing he can think of: hide.

As he locks the bathroom door behind me, thanking God for the ensuite, he manages to yell something back. “Give me a minute!”

The footsteps stop, and Anathema’s voice is weaker from behind the door. “Everything’s okay?”

“Yeah.” He lies. “Just a minute.”

Not even a million minutes could make the stranger he sees in the mirror recognizable. He takes off his glasses to splash cold water on his face, trying his best to ignore the dark circles and the red rimmed eyes looking back at him. He puts them back on as soon as his skin is dry, and takes a deep breath as he tries to fix his hair. Just a minute, he thinks. Just a minute, and then he can try.

He thinks about the promises of stars, and the breathing comes a little easier.

“Are you sure you’re alright?” Anathema’s voice is more worried now, and he can sense she’s standing right outside the bathroom door.

“Yes.” He lies. “Meet me downstairs, I’ll be quick.” Crowley truly hopes his voice is not as shaky as his hands. The footsteps shuffle away, so it worked. Or, Anathema decided it was best to leave him alone for a bit.

Either way, he has to put himself back together. He laughs at that, mirthlessly and bitterly; as if that is not what he has been trying to do for the past two years. The only thing he wants to do is hide, but he won’t.

He promised he would try, he promised he would stay here for two months. It’s literally just a small town, it is ridiculous to get this worked up over something so insignificant.

Another deep breath, another attempt at fixing his hair, and he unlocks the door, heading downstairs.

It’s just a walk through a small town in Connecticut with a friend. Nothing will happen.

New York City, May 15th, 2001

Hello angel,

You won’t believe this. No, actually, you would. Hell, I can almost hear you saying ‘I am so proud of you, my darling.’ I would have called you, you know? I’ve been wanting to call you as soon as I got the news, but I have no way of reaching you.

Well, I do. I could ring the bastards at Fell & Partners, I suppose, but I am positive they won’t get the message through you, and they would probably tell me to f*ck right off.

So, it’s your fault, really. Changing your number like we’re in some kind of romcom. Always so dramatic, angel.

Anyway, back to me. I scored a deal. Yes, you read that right. I, Anthony J. Crowley, professional screw up, have a publishing deal with Morningstar Publisher. What on Earth.

My book, my novel, on sale, for actual people to buy and read!

Will you read it? I like to think you’ll read it. There is no way a bookworm like you won’t read the next big thing; plus, you always liked reading my stuff. Remember those nights in your studio? You would draw and I would write, and then I would read to you and you’d showed me your work. Christ, I am tearing up on the train. It’s been months, angel, almost a year now, I am still not over it, over you. Part of me hopes you’re not as miserable as I am, I wouldn’t wish this on my worst enemy, let alone on you. The part of me that doesn’t like you anymore wishes you nothing but sorrow. (It is a very small part.)

Anyway, this is a happy day. I am going out to celebrate with a few friends, some colleagues from the cafe. I don’t necessarily like them, but they are a good distraction. You wouldn’t like them.

I think I’ll toast to you, angel: this book wouldn’t exist without you, after all. It will have a ridiculous title, just like you liked, just to make you laugh.

Can I give you a little spoiler? I already decided what to put in the first page, the dedication: ‘To the angel of the Eastern Gate.’ Ah, you would roll your eyes at that, call me all sappy and romantic and soft, and then you would tear up and you’d be full on sobbing in just a few minutes. And then you would kiss me.

I miss you a whole lot. I know it’s not your fault, not all of it. I f*cked up too.

I should have been more patient, more understanding, more everything. You were everything. sh*t, I am crying on the train. I’m going to stop writing now.

I hope you go around telling everyone that the boy who broke your heart is a literary phenomenon, in a few months. I hope you’ll be proud. I hope you’re still drawing.

I miss you.

Love,

C.

The town is small, obviously, and painfully picturesque. Main Road has basically everything New Dawns has to offer on display: shops, restaurants, cafes, a church, something that looks like a a hardware store, and a park. There is a gazebo, too, of course. Crowley tries not to cringe too much.

Anathema thoroughly describes all the buildings, but he loses focus after a while, as he prefers to let his eyes do most of the work.

It is pretty, that’s true. The kind of pretty you can only find in places like these, the kind of pretty those horrible Christmas movie on TV try to replicate without success. It’s beautiful in a way that’s opposite to New York City, Crowley can’t help but notice: the crunch of fresh snow under his feet and the quiet song of stubborn birds replace the sound of tyre screeching and sirens, the smell of nature replaces the smell of concrete and gasoline, the golden light of the sun replaces the gloomy, cloudy sky pollution is responsible for.

“Oh, I have to stop and say hi to Nina!” Anathema suddenly exclaims, tugging at his arm and gesturing towards what looks like a coffee shop. There are tables and heat lamps outside, with a few customers enjoying various hot beverages, and a woman in an apron is already waving in their direction. That would be Nina, he supposes.

He decides to step back and not engage in a social interaction. Anathema rolls her eyes, but lets him be. He stomps around Main Road for a while, trying not to make it obvious he would very much like to walk in the snow and play for a while. He’s forty five years old, Jesus Christ. Instead, as he eyes a free bench near the gazebo, he decides sitting down and enjoying the view for a while is the wise thing to do. Plus, his hip is already screaming at him that walking won’t be an option anymore very soon.

So, he plops down on the bench, and closes his eyes behind his sunglasses, breathing in the crisp, winter air. He is used to the rather unpleasant smell of the City, so the smell of pine trees and hot chocolate is a nice change.

The quiet, of course, doesn’t last long.

He hears some giggling, and some muffled excited sound, and he tentatively opens his eyes, to see a group of teenagers just passed his bench. One of them is whispering something to the other, who look rather unimpressed, but the girl is practically jumping up and down.

Her scarf is bigger than her head, and Crowley shivers, envious.

He smiles, unable to help himself. He hates people, more often than not, but he loves kids, of all shapes and ages and whatnot: always questioning, always begging to be heard.

Crowley’s not even scared of teenagers, so he waves a hand at the very excited girl whose scarf is practically engulfing her. And she smiles back at him, muttering something to her friends, before taking a few tentative steps in his direction.

The way she smiles warms something inside of him. It’s wide, bright, welcoming.

“Hello.” Her voice is small, but her big brown eyes are full of enthusiasm. “I don’t want to make you uncomfortable, but, well, I know who you are.”

Crowley smirks. “Do you happen to be a fan of murder mysteries?”

The young girl beams at that, lighting up like a Christmas tree. Again, that smile makes him feel at ease. Something tingles. “Oh, yes! My friends think this is embarrassing,” she shot the other girls a menacing look, “but I couldn’t not make sure. It’s really you! In New Dawns!” She makes a little jump. It’s not something Crowley thinks a lot, but she is adorable.

(“Stop calling me adorable.”

“But you are! With your curly little-“

“Crowley, seriously, stop.”

“You’re blushing.”

“I am walking out.”

“You’re adorable when you get angry.”

“And you are terribly annoying.”)

“So it seems.” He replies, relaxing his shoulders. He doesn’t tell her he has no idea what he’s doing here. “What’s your name, kid?”

“Muriel.” Blushing, she twirls the ends of her enormous scarf in her hands. “Oh, I can’t believe I haven’t got any of your books on me, of all days Mr., well, Sir…”

Crowley shivers at the sight of a teenager struggling to find a title for him. Jesus, when did he get so bloody old? “Please call me Crowley.” He bemoans. “I am old enough as it is.”

Another beaming smile, another tingle. He knows what this smile reminds him of, is the thing. And it is impossible, for multiple reasons. It’s the small town air, he reckons, making his mind do all sort of crazy things.

“Aren’t you a little young to be such a fan?” This girl probably wasn’t even alive when he published the first one.

“I am a senior in High School.” As if that makes it any better. “But I loved the TV shows! And I read all of the books pretty recently, thanks to my Uncle.”

That makes sense, and Crowley hums. “I should thank him for encouraging the youngsters to read some good books.”

This earns him another beaming smile, and a little happy wiggle. His mind is definitely playing tricks on him now. “He actually runs the town’s bookshop, just over there.” She points at somewhere behind Crowley’s shoulder. “Oh, and Uncle Azi is a big fan of yours as well.”

The world stops spinning on its axes or, at the very least, Crowley stops breathing. This is absolutely impossible. He forces himself to swallow, to take a deep breath, as he doesn’t want to scare this girl off. Muriel, who is still smiling, all bright and wide and just like-

Oh, God. “A bookshop, you said?” He chokes out. This is impossible, and he’s being ridiculous. He is in London, this is just a sick coincidence and his stupid brain playing stupid games.

“Yes, you can see it if you turn around.” Crowley doesn’t move. “It’s called A. Z. Fell Books.”

Now, the world definitely stops spinning, Crowley stops breathing, the blood in his veins freezes as well.

(“What would you do if you could do anything in the world?”

“You’re going to laugh.”

“I would never laugh at you, angel.”

“Oh, well. I would like to open a shop.

“Really? What kind?”

“A bookshop that is also an art shop and also an antique shop and- why are you looking at me like that?”

“It’s very you.”

“How so?”

“It sounds lovely.”)

Hands are weird. Do you even feel hands, normally? Because Crowley cannot feel his hands anymore. It is impossible, it has to be. And yet, and yet, that name, and this girl’s smile, and two clues are a proof, the very pillar of thriller fiction. His throat feels tighter, but he has to ask, to push, to make sure.

“Is your uncle’s name,” he pauses, because he has to, because he hasn’t said this name out loud in twenty three years, he never even thought about this name, because it felt too much like a prayer and Crowley never prays, and if this is true he is not sure he’s not going to fall apart. This is absolutely impossible. A breath, a beat, and he asks a question his soul already knows the answer to. “Aziraphale?”

Muriel’s mouth turns into a cartoonish ‘O’, and Crowley wants to laugh hysterically. His mouth used to do the exact same thing. “Oh, well, yes actually.”

What’s another ice bucket thrown at him? He’s used to it, by now. For a split second, his brain tries to rewire itself, trying to save Crowley from his doom, throwing in a crazy thought: perhaps it’s a case of hom*onymous? Now, who else on this godforsaken planet could be possibly named Aziraphale? He wants to laugh, and to cry, and to get so overwhelmingly drunk he can’t even remember his own name.

His whole existence has been a cruel joke, but this has to be the cruelest joke someone could ever come up with. How many years has he lived here? A two hour drive away from Crowley, when he was sure there was an ocean between them. He feels nauseous.

Why does he live there? After everything, after he threw everything they had away, burning up in flames, because he needed to, no, because he wanted to stay in London, in that awful firm with his awful family. Did he even think about Crowley, when he decided to move two hours away from New York City? Did he even think of calling him up? Why is Crowley's head pounding?

This is a joke, this is just a cruel joke.

The trick, he needs to think about the trick his therapist taught him.

Five things he can see: his hands, his boots, the snow in the grass, the pine trees, Muriel. Jesus Christ, his niece, his very own flesh and blood who has the exact same smile and who apparently lives here too and what the hell is going on? He needs to breathe.

Four things he can touch: the wood of the bench, his extremely age inappropriate jeans, his hair, his skin, cold as ice, and not because of the crispy air. Muriel is looking at him with those big brown eyes full of worry, so he manages to plaster a half smirk on his face. She hasn’t done anything to him, after all (besides, you know, crushing his entire world), and she seems very sweet. He doesn’t want to scare off another Fell. Jesus. The trick, he needs to hurry up.

Three things he can hear: the Church bells, the chattering of the teenagers still waiting for Muriel, the ringing in his ears. Two things he can smell: some kind of sweet scent, like cinnamon rolls, and nature. Yes, that counts, and he needs to hurry.

One thing he can taste: that’s easy, there’s concrete all over his mouth.

He’s breathing again, now, so the stupid trick somehow worked. It doesn’t change the fact that this is the most impossible, unreal, cruel situation he’s ever found himself into, and that’s saying something.

“I, uhm, I think I need to go now.” He says, hoping the smile he’s trying to offer the girl comes across as sincere rather than creepy. “It was very nice to meet you, kid.”

His hip yells at him for getting up so fast, but it has nothing on his mind when Muriel whispers a soft. “Wait a second, Mr. Crowley?”

(“Crowley, wait a second, do not get angry.”

“Do not get angry? You just said no to moving with me.”

“Well, you want to move across the ocean. Can we talk this out? We’re both adults.”

“You were just saying we are so young, so dumb and so immature.”

“You’re being ridiculous, my worries are legitimate. It’s my life, too.”)

“Yes, kid?”

Another beaming smile, another arrow straight to his heart. Who’s counting now?

“I, well, I’m just… surprised? Uncle Azi wasn’t lying when he told me you two used to know each other?”

When Anthony Crowley was done with school, he moved to London for University, against every odds and every teacher’s advice, to study English and Creative Writing. He’d been told he was just a professional screw up all throughout secondary, that he would be better off with a manual job, like a mechanic or something of the sort. But Crowley wanted to write, and especially to get the hell out of Tadfield, some small English village in the middle of nowhere. He longed for a city, for chaos, for new faces, new adventures. So, in an abnormally hot day in the end of August, he packed up all his things and he left, without ever looking behind, without writing any letter.

On one of the first night here, he found an excuse to get out of his sh*tty accommodation and his noisy flatmates, some kind of welcome night in one of the pubs on campus.

The place was packed, and smelled of chips and cheap beer, and everyone was sweaty, tipsy and ready to have a good time. If he wanted to, Crowley could have gone home with any of the boys who threw himself at him that night, but he made the mistake of looking at the counter. That was when he saw the most beautiful boy he’d ever laid eyes on.

One look at those blonde curls, so light it almost looked white, like a halo, and at that perfect side profile, upturned nose and rosy cheeks, and at that stupid bowtie, and Crowley was done.

He remembers flying to the damn counter, his beer almost flying along with him, and mumbling something that sounded like a greeting and his name.

And he remembers that beaming smile, fireworks and stars, and the weirdest name he ever heard. “You’re lying.” He’d said.

“I never lie.” They never stopped talking. Not that night, not many nights and days after, not for the next four years.

Three decades after, he’s throwing his head back slightly, holding back tears he didn’t even know were threatening to come out. “He never lies.”

And he manages to wave his hand, a pathetic excuse for a goodbye, before he’s off. He’d run, if he could; he’d jump in a car and he’d get as far away as possible, if he could.

What he can do, though, is go back to that cafe and find Anathema, drag her back to the house, and somehow tell her that he cannot stay here because the long lost love of his pathetic f*cking life runs a bookshop on Main Road. He’d laugh, if he could. But he can barely breathe as it is.

New York City, July 7th, 2003

Happy birthday angel!

f*ck how I miss you today. I managed not to think about you for a whole month, and then today just came crushing in.

Remember the first time we celebrated your birthday together? I couldn’t believe you’d stay in London with me instead of going back to your fancy mansion. And I couldn’t believe you’d think of going on a trip with me instead. You brought me to the seaside, you sap, because I told you I never went before. I was the one who was supposed to get you a gift, and instead I got a whole week in a cottage by the sea with my boyfriend. Oh, but you cried nonetheless when I did give you my gift, so I won either way. The picture you painted that night with those watercolors was your best work, let me tell you.

(You know what else I hope you remember? The birthday sex. It was always amazing, wasn’t it? Thank God I have no way of knowing if you have someone else now who’s giving you birthday sex because, honestly, I would probably combust. Still the jealous type, yes, even if you’re not even mine anymore. Unfortunately, still yours over there.)

Anyway, happy birthday! How are you celebrating? Probably some boring ass dinner with your fancy colleagues who will not even get you a cake. Is angel cake still your favourite? I hope so, because I’m eating a slice right now, even though I hate it. How can you like something so sickeningly sweet? Only you.

Did someone get you flowers? I would have had. Yellow carnations, your favourite ones. I know you loved flowers, and I hope no one will ever shame you for it again. I had the crazy idea of internationally shipping a bouquet of yellow carnations a few nights ago, but ultimately decided against it. It would have been pathetic, right?

So, I got you a gift. Well, not really, it’s not like I’m actually giving it to you. It’s a metaphorical gift, let’s say: I finished the first draft of my second novel, last night. I stayed up til five because I wanted to finish it on your birthday. I imagined you were home, sleeping in the room next to mine, and that I would wake you up with flowers and a cake and a book, all your favourite things. That was a f*ck ton of motivation, let me tell you.

I have already decided on the dedication, obviously, it’s the same as the first one. It did bring me good luck, after all. I know you read it, and I know you are the only person in this world who knows what that means. It thrills me, because it is our little secret, something that binds us together even now that it’s over. You will always be the Angel of the Eastern Gate to me, and all of the books I will ever write will be dedicated to you. That is my gift.

I hope you like it. Don’t have too much fun without me! I hope you don’t, honestly. Yep, still the same selfish prick. You loved me either way.

Love, even though I’m not

Yours,

C.

P.S.: I almost forgot. Draw something for me today!

“Now, Crowley, I am trying really hard to understand, but could you please put that down?”

Anathema doesn’t like smoking, she hates the smell of cigarettes and she hates the idea of Crowley chain smoking.

But again, Anathema’s life hasn’t been thrown up in flames in the span of fifteen minutes, so she should just mind her own damn business. This is her fault, anyway. So much for peace and quiet and healing.

“No I can’t. It’s either a smoke, two bottles of wine or a swim in the lake.”

“The lake is frozen.”

“That’s precisely the point.”

They’re back at the house, sitting on the little swing in the porch. At least, Anathema is sitting, her feet swingling lazily, while Crowley is pacing furiously, one hand in his hair and the other holding the cigarette so tightly it may very well be on the verge of splitting in half.

“Can you please tell me what on Earth happened in the fifteen minutes I’ve left you alone?”

Crowley should do that, definitely. He is just having a bit of a hard time finding the words.

Perhaps he could simply blurt out the truth, ‘Oh, you know, nothing much. Just found out the only person I’ve ever loved in my pathetic existence lives right here and apparently twenty three years are not enough for me to get over a heartbreak.’ He definitely should not blurt out the truth.

“Do you know the bookshop?” That’s not even a grammatically correct sentence, but it is a start. Anathema looks at him like he’s some kind of alien.

“I do?” She shakes her head lightly. “I got my weird books from there, the ones about the prophecies.” Crowley knows those books, he always used to tease her about them, weird little things with creepy covers. Of course, of course she would get them from him. Oh, good Lord, this means she actually knows him.

Anathema knows him now, the real version of him, not the one in Crowley’s head based on what he was like twenty three years ago. She knows, and he doesn’t, and that is enough to make his fingers shake.

He finishes the cigarette in two drags and immediately lights up another one.

“Well? What about the bookshop?”

He inhales the smoke, the burning sensation welcome in his throat. “The owner.”

“Mr. Fell?” Crowley feels all the air in his lungs going up in flames, but manages to stand still. “He’s like the nicest man I’ve ever met, what could he have possibly done to you?”

At that, Crowley laughs. He throws his head back and laughs like some kind of maniac.

He is the nicest man Crowley’s ever met too, and also the kindest, the most beautiful, the most caring, the most stubborn, and the only one who could draw a masterpiece with just a pencil and a few minutes of free time. As to what he could have possibly done to him, the possible answers are just endless.

“Okay, alright, so.” He says, his laughing stopping abruptly, much like it started. “Do you know his full name?”

“Everyone calls him either Mr. Fell or Az, even his niece.” He has never seen Anathema look so confused in her life. “Crowley, what are we even talking about?”

“Aziraphale, that’s his name.” He exhales the smoke, immediately taking another drag. He is pretty sure he is on the verge of hysteria.

“So you’re getting this worked up over a weird name? After meeting me?” She raises her hand in defeat, clearly at a loss for words.

Crowley is aware is not making any sense, but he has a point and he’s slowly coming towards it. It’s just bloody difficult to say it out loud, to make it actually real.

“Okay Nath, I’m going to say something and you’re not going to speak until I finish.”

He now realizes his glasses have somehow ended up on the top of his hair, so he must definitely look as manic as he feels, all wide eyed and flared nostrils and smoke clouds. Whatever, he already has an headache, a migraine would probably feel better than what he’s feeling right now.

Anathema just nods, her eyes equally as wide, full with both concern and pity.

“Right, so, here we go.” He puts the cigarette out using the heel of his boots, making a mental note of picking up later (he may be a mess, but he doesn’t litter), and runs a hand through his already ruffled hair one last time. “There is one version of the Bible, an occult thing you would probably like, in which an angel called Aziraphale is mentioned.”

He inhales deeply and closes his eyes, knowing in his soul Anathema will understand.

“He was the Angel of the Eastern Gate of Eden.”

There it goes, his secret, their secret. Everyone has always asked about the dedications of his books: it was always the same cryptic one, no critic or journalist could ever understand why the kind of books Crowley wrote would ever be dedicated to some unknown angel. Anathema herself asked a few times, but she quickly got used to Crowley’s stubbornness and never pried further. It was his thing, his ultimate gift, something that could bind Crowley to him despite the ocean and the years between them. And now it is out in the open. Well, he just told one person, but it is not his deepest and best kept secret anymore.

Anathema’s brows furrows in utter confusion for a moment. “Crowley, what the hell are you talking about?” He can see the exact moment her neurons and synapses start working, and her eyes grow impossibly wider. “Oh, Jesus Christ. Shut the f*ck up. You’re not serious.”

Her hands come up to her mouth as she stands up like a spring. “As in the one thing you’ve dedicated all your books to? How is it even- oh, God, he’s from London too, isn’t he? How is this possible? Here, of all places?”

Now, she’s the one who’s pacing furiously on the little porch, while Crowley just stands, completely devoid of any emotion. It would be kind of fun, any other time, to see Anathema Device panicking, but not now. “I could have never even thought, well, you are just,” she moves her hands around quite a lot, clearly at a loss for words, and the scene is almost comical. “I mean, I’ll admit he gives off hot professor vibes, but you don’t-” “Please don’t say another word.”

Crowley isn’t in the right state of mind to think about anything at all, but he especially cannot think about the words ‘hot professor vibes’ in relation to the version of Aziraphale Fell he doesn’t know.

“You have to tell me everything.”

“I certainly do not.” He breathes out.

“Well, if you got this worked up over meeting an old friend or something, there’s definitely some history.”

Crowley laughs again, bitterly and without any trace of mirth. “An old friend.”

(“You do not want to stay here, angel, I know you don’t.”

“It is not up to me! I was always supposed to work at the firm, and you knew that from the beginning.”

“Don’t tell me you’re the same person you were four years ago, don’t you dare.”

“Of course I am not, Crowley! But I gave my word.”)

His chuckles continues as his own strength slips out of his body. “Some history.”

(“What do you even want to do in New York?”

“Get away from them! Be together, a new beginning, a fresh start.”

“We could have that in London, too.”

“No, angel, you’re never going to be free if we stay here. Come with me, we’ll make it work.”

“I’m free when I’m with you, and that’s enough for me.”

“I don’t think that’s enough for me.”)

As strength slips away from his weary bones, he feels the sadness creeping in, a sadness he’s been harboring for twenty three years, and he has to fight all of his urges to not start crying right this second. “Want to know something very pathetic?” What’s another secret, at this point? “I wrote him a thousand letters I never sent.”

“Oh, Crowley.” He feels a warm hand grasping his own cold one, carefully avoiding Anathema’s gaze. “Was the break up that bad?”

(“So you’re just going. You’re leaving me.”

“I am begging you to listen to me, Aziraphale. We will be happier, together, as far away from those wankers as possible.”

“Well, I’m not even ‘angel’ anymore. Already.”

“Please, please don’t leave this room.”

“What difference would it make? Your mind is already made up.”

“I love you, you know?”)

“It wasn’t even his fault.” He chokes out, titling his head back to keep the waterfalls in. “Not all of it, at least. I was always too fast.”

He doesn’t fight the hug Anathema gives him, the warmth and the softness of her hair against his cheek is undoubtedly nice. With a tentative arm wrapped around her waist, he tries to relax a bit, to no avail. He doubts he will ever relax ever again now that he has the knowledge of him living so close by, one little drive away. How long have they been watching the same sky at night? How long have they been in the same time zone?

“Maybe this isn’t a bad thing.” The hug is over way too soon, and Anathema is speaking again. “Maybe this is what Granny meant with peace and healing.”

“I doubt Granny wanted me to reunite with my-” His what? His ex best friend, boyfriend, lover? That seems reductive, it doesn’t even begin to cover the complexity of what they had.

Crowley knew he loved him after three conversations, and he’d said so after two weeks of dates. On his part, Aziraphale cleared up part of his closet and drawers in his impossibly posh flat by the fourth date, and he had drawn Crowley’s portrait on the receipt of the beers they drank that first night. Somewhere in the two decades that passed Crowley lost the receipt: he’d took it as a sign that it was time to move on, but he was never really good at reading signs, after all.

“This is ridiculous, isn’t it? I am forty five years old.” And I had nearly a lifetime to get over him, he thinks.

But Anathema’s gaze softens, her hands patting his arms gently. “It is a lot, but I told you New Dawns was magical.” Bit of a bastard, dear Nath. That’s why Crowley hired her. “Alright, not peace and healing, but maybe a talk would be nice? Some closure? It doesn’t look like you ever got closure.”

The point is, she’s not totally wrong. Perhaps the reason Crowley is still writing those damn letters is because they never got proper closure: Aziraphale stormed out of the room, that night, Crowley left and missed his calls for a whole month, and then when he did decide to call back, Aziraphale was gone for good, that last, unanswered, whispered ‘I love you’ still lingering in the air, a knife opening up the wound again and again.

And yet, “f*ck no. I am not talking to him, forget it.” He’s way past the point of healing anyway.

Anathema’s eyes leave his face for just a moment, gazing at something behind Crowley’s shoulder, and if her face drops for a fraction of a second, she’s quick to mask it with a smile. Crowley knows her, though, and knows that this smile is nervous and has a hint of worry in it. He’s lost count of the times his heart stopped beating today, and he is getting too old for this.

“You may not have a choice.” She says softly, carefully avoiding his eyes.

In that same moment, the hair on Crowley’s neck stiffens, much like the rest of his body.

He didn’t think he ever would need to, but he would recognize that small, overly polite, almost whispered, “Hello?” literally everywhere in the whole universe, even after six thousand years, let alone a mere twenty. How the hell is any of this possible?

He doesn’t have to turn his head, but he does need another cigarette.

A hidden gem, my own gold mine

you had the wide and wild eyes

You were a secret to yourself

you couldn’t keep from anyone else

Chapter 3: babe, there’s something tragic about you, something so magic about you

Chapter Text

Babe, there something wretched about this

something so precious about this

where to begin

The last time Anthony J. Crowley was flabbergasted, he was nineteen years old.

He can’t say, in good conscience, that he was flabbergasted when he woke up in a hospital room with a tube down his throat, nor when five different doctors told him he wouldn’t walk again without assistance, nor when Adam Young’s surgery worked against all odds. Those were shocking moments, surely, but he wasn’t completely and utterly flabbergasted. Some deep, hidden part of his soul knew what would happen, somehow, as his gut was rarely wrong. Perhaps he was a witch too, in another lifetime.

When he was nineteen, his gut told him the pretty boy he’d just met at the pub would have never agreed to grab a coffee with him, because there was simply was no way. But he was young, decently buzzed and way too confident for his own good, so he asked anyway. They were in the middle of a conversation about the Sound of Music, of all things, something that pretty boy loathed with a passion, much to Crowley’s amusem*nt and surprise.

“We should continue this when we’re sober.” He had said, all smug and flirtatious, “How about coffee tomorrow?”

His gut was screaming at him that pretty boy would politely decline, that there was no way someone so proper and well spoken and posh would go out with someone like him, all sharp lines and false confidence, and that Crowley would have gotten another pint and gone home with some stranger whose name he wouldn’t bother to remember. He had to ask anyway, because pretty boy was just so beautiful in the dim light of the pub, and his eyes were so blue and so soft, and his curls were just like a halo, and he looked just like his namesake, and Crowley was just a little drunk. He simply had to ask.

Against all odds, pretty boy smiled, blinding and wide and warm. “What would you say to tea, instead?” And Crowley was flabbergasted.

Everything that happened after that — the dates, the endless conversations about philosophy and musicals and art and trashy movies, the fun they had on various flat surfaces, the wine, the laughter, the loving him like it was breathing, even the ultimate fallout was something Crowley expected, something his soul already knew. Though he had hoped fiercely that his gut would be wrong about the fallout.

No one and nothing had ever surprised him like the pretty boy at the pub, the one who looked too much like an angel to be real, not once in his life.

It is only fair that the same pretty boy would come back to flabbergast him again an entire lifetime later.

Scratch that, it’s not fair. It’s a bloody impossible thing that could only happen to him.

Somehow, in the last five minutes, Anathema blabbered something about being inside if he needed her (understatement of the century), and he ended up sitting on his this stupid swing, on this utterly stupid porch, with no other than Aziraphale Fell sitting right next to him.

What in the actual f*ck?

No one has uttered a single word in the past five minutes, no one has moved either (except Crowley’s hands, putting the glasses back on with the fastest movement in the history of the world). He decides he should take a look at him, at least. It is something he never thought he could do again, and it might be useful for later. (Now, what the actual hell was that thought?)

So, he shifts his gaze, taking in the sight of someone he used to admire every single day, in every single way a person could be admired, forever ago.

He doesn’t look much different. There are some wrinkles by his eyes and by his mouth, and probably on his forehead as well, and there is a softness to his figure that wasn’t there before, but the years have been gentle with him. His curls are the usual mess, still so light they’re almost white, though perhaps a little less full, and he still got rosy cheeks, and Crowley knows it’s not because of the cold air of January.

(“Must you always be this annoying?”

“Oh, you know it’s true.”

“I am most definitely not cherubic, Crowley.”

“Those rosy cheeks of yours seem to disagree.”

“Oh, stop this.”

“Are you blushing, angel?”)

He can’t look at his eyes, from this angle, and he thanks Someone for that. He can see his ridiculously long eyelashes, though, and it is not much better. Crowley notices how properly he’s sitting, and that he is not wearing a bow tie. From what he can see, there is a brown jumper underneath the beige, thick winter coat. Perhaps he has come to terms with the end of the 1950s in these twenty years, or perhaps getting his hands on tartan collars is more difficult on this side of the Atlantic Ocean.

He gets it though, the hot professor vibes thing, and he decides to store away that thought to be processed much, much later, ideally never, probably in the shower.

He may or may not be staring at his throat when he sees the other man’s hard swallow, and his eyes shoots back to his face. He grants himself one last lingering look before turning away, his eyes fixed on the hands in his lap.

“Well, hi.” His voice is a little deeper than it was before, or perhaps it’s Crowley’s mind that’s having trouble remembering what it sounded like before. His voice, the exact shade of the blue in his eyes, the softness of his touch are all things lost to time, memories stored away with the utmost care that still wasn’t enough to save them.

When Crowley doesn’t reply, Aziraphale speaks again. “I needed to make sure Muriel wasn’t lying.” He throws in a little chuckle, but there isn’t a trace of mirth in that.

The last thing Crowley has ever said to him was ‘I love you, you know?’, which is in itself an actual tragedy come to life. But he was somewhat alright with it, as he never imagined he would ever get the chance to tell him something else, so he was fine with their ending being so tragically poetic: Crowley was a writer and Aziraphale an artist, at the very least their ending was coherent.

And now, all of it has gone to sh*t, because after a deep breath, Crowley opens his mouth and his voice comes out flat, but at least he finally speaks: “How did you know where to find me?”

He has never imagined how this first conversation would go, because it was never supposed to happen. He can’t make predictions and he can’t trust his gut, because his gut is just as confused as the rest of him.

He can feel Aziraphale’s eyes on him, this time, and it takes an extraordinary amount of effort not to meet his gaze. He’s not ready for it.

“Nina, from the coffee shop on Main Road.” Aziraphale sighs deeply, shakily. Is this meeting affecting him like it’s affecting Crowley? How many times has Aziraphale thought about him in these last twenty years? Has he even at all?

“I may have overheard her talking about Miss Device’s famous friend who was staying with her, here.” Such a proper, fastidious person, who always had a passion for gossiping. That, at least, didn’t change. “Then Muriel came home overly excited and, well, I did the math. I knew she inherited her Grandmother’s house, truly a wonderful lady.”

“Makes sense.” Crowley mutters, stubbornly looking at anything but Aziraphale.

There are just about a million questions in his head right now. He wants to ask him about how he has a niece that seems so sweet, if his favorite colour is still yellow, why he isn’t wearing a bow tie anymore, if he gets impossibly drunk every September 15th too, if his bookshop is also an antique store, why on Earth he didn’t come with him. He doesn’t ask anything of the sort.

“How long?” It’s what he settles with. He hears a sharp inhale next to him, and for a second he thinks Aziraphale is about to ask him for more details, more clarity, ‘What do you mean how long?’. But he doesn’t, he doesn’t have to. Aziraphale understands him anyway: another thing that hasn’t changed.

“About seven years.” Crowley very nearly falls over the swing, but he manages not to. He tries to sit up straighter, ignoring the complaints of his hip.

It is better than twenty three, he supposes. What was he doing, seven years ago? Writing, probably, in some overly expensive retreat in some tropical island. The television adaption of his most recent book was going extremely well, and his checks were only getting fatter.

He was probably sipping a Margarita in Cabo while Aziraphale was packing up his life and moving across the Atlantic Ocean.

His stomach is aching with the desire of asking, “Why?”

The word escapes before he can restrain himself. Aziraphale’s eyes are still burning on him, but he doesn’t move.

‘Why’ could mean a million things: why did you move here? Why didn’t you find a way of telling me? Why didn’t you run away with me? Why did you come find me today? Why do you have a bloody bookshop in Connecticut?

“Do you remember my sister, Madeleine?”

Crowley wants to laugh, both bitterly and hysterically, but he just nods.

(“What about your sister?”

“What about her?”

“You told me she moved overseas, too. Why can’t you?”

“It’s not the same thing, she married someone from Boston.”

“Right.”

“I didn’t mean it like that.”

“Of course.”)

“There was an accident, almost eight years ago now. Her and her husband were both …involved.” Crowley hears the hurt and desperately fights the urge to look up, into those stormy seas he’s missed a little bit every day. He’s not ready.

“I have no idea why, or how, but she appointed me as the legal guardian for their daughter.”

Aziraphale doesn’t have to tell him all of this, he realizes. He doesn’t owe him any explanation, but he’s here sharing (possibly oversharing) the details of a past they did not share. “I could not leave Muriel alone.”

He was sipping Margaritas in Cabos while Aziraphale was mourning and grieving and probably sorting out custody arrangements. His throat closes up.

He wants to say that it’s obvious why her sister chose him: the very best of their horrible family, the only one worth of such a burden, such a responsibility. He also wants to say that if he lives here, it means he is finally free, from the firm and his brothers and everything Crowley desperately tried to get him away from. At last, he freed himself. Crowley just wanted to be free with him.

“I’m sorry about that.” He blurts out. He’s tormenting his poor fingers, the knuckles are so white one could doubt there are veins inside them. “She seems sweet.”

“She is.” There’s a smile in his voice, a fondness Crowley remembers all too well. “I apologize for dumping all of this on you.” And here is the nervousness, the doubt. Crowley remembers them too.

“You were never good with small talk.” Crowley says, and bites his tongue immediately after. Too much, too fast. This reminder of the history they had is both useless and pathetic.

But Aziraphale beside him chuckles lightly, and how cruel is it that you don’t realize how much you’ve really missed something until you get it back?

“I suppose you’re quite right.”

They sit in silence for a while, and for a split second, a single moment of blissful indulgence, Crowley is back at that pub in London sitting next to a handsome stranger who has a really nice laugh and a posh accent, and he wants nothing more than to hear that breathy laugh again.

But he’s not. He is in New Dawns, Connecticut, and the man sitting next to him is simultaneously the person who knows him better in the entire universe and a stranger. It’s later, much later, too late.

Aziraphale breaks the silence once again. “I have a bookshop, now.”

“I know.” Crowley replies, “Muriel mentioned it.”

“You could stop by, perhaps. If you’d like to see it.” Crowley doesn’t breathe, and he’s sure Aziraphale doesn’t either. “I’d like you to see it.”

(“You have your own studio? You really are filthy rich.”

“Oh, hush. I just want you to show you my art.”

“Your art? Aren’t you in law?”

“I am, but I like making art. A silly hobby, really.”

“No, no, I want to see it. I’m curious now.”

“I’d like you to see it.”)

Crowley stops looking at his hands. His own eyes are still shielded by dark lenses, but it doesn’t mean he can’t see the grayish blue, the raging sea staring back at him. He remembered more blue and less gray; he remembered they were beautiful.

Aziraphale had (has) the most expressive eyes Crowley had (has) ever seen. It wasn’t a surprise to learn that he was a terrible liar, because his mind, his soul, his heart was always on display right in the middle of his face. They could hold entire conversations in which Crowley would talk and Aziraphale would just stare at him, conveying everything he wanted to say with just one single look.

Right now, Aziraphale is telling Crowley that he would really, really want him to see his bookshop. Lord above or below, he’s never been able to say no to those eyes.

He utters a string of consonants, some unintelligible sounds before he succeeds in forming actual words. “I’ll think about it.”

He won’t, obviously. He’s going to the damn bookshop first thing in the morning. Is it pathetically embarrassing? Yes, absolutely, a hundred percent. But, first of all, he’s always been both pathetic and embarrassing around Aziraphale, ever since that first meeting; second of all, he’s living in an impossible fantasy, a weird dream his rotten brain has somehow created, and pretty sure he’s going to wake up in his bed in New York City and will have no memory of a town called New Dawns or of the middle aged version of Aziraphale Fell speaking to him.

Nothing could have prepared him for the beaming smile Aziraphale gives him at that.

It’s just the same it’s always been, and the force of the memory is so strong that Crowley has to look away, effectively hiding from the sun, if he doesn’t want to end up on the floor or something.

Seriously, he is a middle aged man. He should probably stop with the dramatics.

“I’m glad to hear it.” Aziraphale says, and then he pats his coat gently and gets up from the swing.

He’s fidgety and very clearly nervous, as he awkwardly steps away from both Crowley and the swing. “It’s almost dinner time. I shall get a wiggle on.”

Crowley can’t stop the cackle escaping from his throat. A wiggle on, Jesus. “I can’t believe you still say things like that.”

Aziraphale brings a hand to his chest in faux outrage. “And I cannot believe you sound so American.”

“Yeah, well, twenty three years is a long time.”

There was a moment there, where the awkwardness was gone and their playful teasing came back, like it never left. Obviously, Crowley had to muck it up with a bitterness as sudden as it was unwelcome.

Aziraphale’s real, open smile drops, and his lips are in a tight line as he runs a hand through his curls. They still look so soft, always mussed, chaotic, so different than the rest of him, all polished and neat and tidy, and definitely grippable. Grippable? Gosh. Got a little carried away.

“Well, it was nice to see you, Crowley. Have a nice evening.” Crowley tries really hard to ignore the somersaults his stomach does upon hearing his name said by that voice, to no avail.

“Likewise.”

Aziraphale gives him another tight smile and a small nod, that could also be mistaken as a small bow (the posh bastard), before he turns on his heels and starts walking away.

Something snaps at the sight. Crowley’s heart starts beating faster and fog envelopes his mind and the word has already left his mouth before he can form a coherent thought.

“Aziraphale!” It’s so weird, rolling those five syllables on his tongue, out loud, after so long. He realizes the last time he’s said this word aloud was the night everything fell apart. He held the word and the name like a relic after that, thinking about it but never voicing it again: an evocation, the ghost of a love he’d never feel again.

Aziraphale stops in his tracks, and doesn’t turn around completely, only shooting Crowley a questioning look above his shoulder.

Out of all the things Crowley could say, he chooses the worst possible option, in truly Anthony Crowley’s fashion. “Where’s your bow tie?”

As Crowley actively tries to manifest the Earth opening below him and swallowing him whole, Aziraphale throws his head back, and he laughs. His real laugh, not the one he politely offered everyone who even attempted to make a joke, but the one reserved for Crowley and his stupid fun facts about animals and plants and stars and whatnot.

And perhaps Crowley can put the whole Earth-swallowing-business aside.

“I’ve been told it made me look like someone’s Grandpa.”

Hot professor vibes. Why does his brain never shut up?

Crowley decides that it’s best if he stops talking altogether, but a smirk forms on his lips either way. Aziraphale collects himself and offers one final, small smile.

“I really should get going. Good night, Crowley. Oh, say hi to Miss Device for me.”

Crowley nods and waves his hand at him, and watches him leave for good, the sound of his footsteps muffled by the snow.

Is that a thing that really happened to him? Did he just have a conversation with Aziraphale Fell outside of his mind? He’s definitely dreaming, possibly in a coma.

Or maybe his mind is trying to protect him, because if there is one thing he knows is that once he processes all of this, he is definitely going to crumble.

For now, he stays in this unnaturally calm state of mind, something that comes before denial.

“That was a thing.” He mutters to himself.

“Where’s your bow tie?” He jumps when he hears Anathema’s voice, cringing at her poor attempt at mocking his accent. “Seriously, Crowley?”

“Shut, and I cannot stress this enough, the hell up.”

“Will you tell me the whole story if I make you a drink?”

He won’t, but he also needs a drink. “How about twenty?”

San Diego, July 24th, 2015

Hiya angel,

Do you remember how I used to tell you I hated, bloody loathed being the centre of attention? It is still true to this day.

Though the people who know me now would disagree, and would probably call me something along the lines of ‘flash bastard’: it’s the clothes (damn good ones), and the very fancy car (oh, you would love her), and my general co*cky attitude probably. But you knew me then, the real me, and you are probably the only person in the world who would be able to see right through that facade. I despise attention. You are still, to this day, the only one who has ever called me shy; seen right through me, you bastard.

Anyway, I am telling you this because I am about to do the worse thing I could possibly think of: a convention in which I have to speak, publicly! What the f*ck, honestly.

If I knew that this would be the consequence of writing a fantasy thriller, I would have stuck to realism; I just needed a little change, you know? I never asked for this disastrous outcome. (Do you get deja vu? I do.)

As if you could call a television adaptation, lots of fans who adore my work and a fat check a disastrous outcome. My new P.A. (she’s awfully young, but kinda scary, and outrageously smart and, oh, she has a weird name like yours; you would like her) yelled at me this morning to stop moping about the thing that’s going to make a millionaire.

She’s right, obviously. But still, but still! Public speaking! At the biggest convention for this kind of things! ME! I truly hate it, and I absolutely don’t want to do it. Anathema (that’s the weird name) says that fans love to connect with the author, the creator of the world they love to get lost into, and I told her it won’t be the case this time since the author is an arsehole. She told me to shut the f*ck up and just answer my questions and do my little speech (kinda scary, as I told you. Do you know she actually hexes people?).

And I shut up, and now I am here, waiting for my panel or whatever the hell it’s called to start, and anxiety is eating me alive. Hence this letter; writing to you helps me, even though it’s all in my head, because it is the closest thing to talking to you I will ever get.

So, angel, what would you say if you were here? You would know what to say obviously, smart as anything you were, probably (definitely) still are. I’d like to think you would say you’re proud of me for even trying. You’d always said that, and even though it made me angry a few times, I would give everything to hear you say that again (well, not everything, I really love my car, but you get the point).

It is unfair, other than embarrassing, how you are still the first person I turn to when something bad, good, or even anxiety inducing happens to me. Even after all this time, even if you don’ even exist anymore outside of my memories, I still need you.

If you’ve read my books, which I suspect you have, this fantasy one is probably your least favorite. May I tell you a secret? I don’t like it very much either. It started off as something entirely different, but my editor pushed me to make changes that would appeal to TV networks and things like that. And I agreed to it, because, and I will say this to you and only you, I am kind of tired. I’m not necessarily saying I’m going through a block, but I am going through something I don’t have a name for. You would have a name for it, probably a ridiculous one. Oh, I remember now! You once said you were feeling frobly-mobly, and I nearly peed my pants. Hell, I am laughing alone now, and everyone around probably thinks I’m mental (picture me furiously typing on my phone while I wheeze). I can’t believe anyone could say things like that.

Anyway, I guess I’m feeling rather frobly-mobly: not bad, but definitely not good; indifferently well, let’s say. I will snap out of it, eventually.

sh*t, they told me I need to be up there in five minutes, I need to wrap this up. I do feel a little bit better after ‘talking’ to you. I know, I know, I’m way past the point of pathetic.

I still miss you a lot: it’s not nearly as burning and consuming as it was in the beginning, but the feeling is still there, lingering underneath. I miss you, and I hope you miss me too.

Not yours, but still with

Love,

C.

(The panic, as it often does, comes at night.)

Crowley has become really good at managing his anxiety, as his therapist often reminds him. The fact that he managed a two hour road trip without a hitch is proof of it and something to be very proud of, as Dr. Eve texts put it.

Well, Crowley isn’t proud of it. He hates being coddled, and he hates being praised for doing trivial things: congratulations for not having your friend stop in the middle of the road while she waits for you to start breathing again, Crowley! That calls for a celebration! These are, as Dr. Eve would say, self deprecating and self destructing thoughts that needs to be addressed properly. Crowley doesn’t want to, not right now at least.

He’s actually prouder of himself for talking to Aziraphale using actual words and not unintelligible sounds, if he has to be honest.

As it often is, thinking about Aziraphale is a very bad idea, for entirely different reasons than it was less than twenty four hours ago.

Twenty four hours ago, Aziraphale existed in Crowley’s mind only, more like a dream than a real person. It was a version of the man his mind came up with during the years, who still look like he did at twenty-two and still talk to him like he used; a ghost, a presence, a dream Crowley turned to when he needed him and when he missed him the most.

Now, Aziraphale exists again, here in the real world: he is older, like Crowley is, and everything is different, but he still talks in his funny way and he still smiles so bright and gently and he still has those big, expressive eyes and Crowley is not sure what to make of it.

It’s not like he didn’t enjoy seeing him again, it’s just something so utterly impossible that he still hasn’t wrapped his mind around that, and he probably never will.

Anathema didn’t help: he did tell her about their university years, and she made him a drink, with much more gin than he expected, and went on a rant about second chances and auras and fate and whatever. He was too lost in his head to actually listen, so he said goodnight way earlier than he planned to and locked himself in his bedroom.

Now, he is sure he should reflect about everything that happened today, and he should definitely try to come to terms with how seeing Aziraphale again (and learning that he would see him again in the months he’s going to spend here) made him feel.

Obviously, he’s not doing anything of the sort. He is stalking Aziraphale on Instagram.

Well, not quite, certainly not nearly as bad as it sounds.

He restrained himself for years, always avoiding googling his name before, because he knew he would find him (no one else in the world is named Aziraphale Fell) and he didn’t want to destroy the bubble of comfort in his mind: Aziraphale was just a ghost, a sweet treat for difficult days, and he didn’t want to change that by making him real.

But now he was real, and actually here. There was no point in indulging in his little fantasy anymore. So, he googled him.

And he shouldn’t have been surprised to see that the first link was a LinkedIn profile, but it still stung to see his name next to theirs. The family firm who lured him away from him in the first place, the bastards who wanted him to hide, who denied him everything.

He hissed and closed the tab on his phone in a hurry; no point in dwelling, no point in getting enraged by things he already knew. At least the page wasn’t updated in roughly eight years. Free, at last.

The second link he opened was a website (azfellbooks.com), empty and looking severely outdated, save from a single button that led him to an Instagram page. So, here he is now, stalking Aziraphale on Instagram.

Well, to be fair, Crowley is not exactly stalking him: the account is managed by Muriel, as stated in the short bio because, Crowley reads with amusem*nt, ‘Mr. Fell doesn’t know what a social media is’. He smirks despite himself. Aziraphale still loathes everything that was invented after the Second World War, apparently.

And he knows this is a bad idea, he can feel it in his bones this will not end well, but he looks at the picture nonetheless, because he’s not known for making good decisions.

The pictures are nice, the account obviously managed by someone who’s young enough to know what they’re doing. Most of them are books, old, worn out things that looks like first editions and more modern looking ones, and a few posts are dedicated to whatever events the bookshop hosts for the community, book clubs, literary soirées and things like that.

But Crowley’s eyes do not linger on those pictures, not at all. They stop and stare at the personal ones, the rarest ones, scattered across the account among the books and the weird objects and the posters.

Aziraphale smiling at the person holding the camera, a book clutched in his hands; Aziraphale sitting in an armchair with a cup of tea beside him and bloody spectacles on; Aziraphale blowing on a candle while the same teenager Crowley met that afternoon suffocates him in a bear hug. Flashes of his ordinary life, his day to day existence that looks peaceful, quiet, happy. Everything he ever wanted, he has now. Without him.

The life they should have had.

He can feel his thoughts beginning to spiral downwards, but he can’t stop now.

The life they should have had, could have had even, if he hadn’t been so eager, so greedy, so fast.

He always went too fast, in his life, in all of the relationships he tried to have after Aziraphale, in his books (though the fast pace was the main reason they were so successful), in his damn car. Gosh, the car. He knows his mind would end up there, but he is still surprised when he can’t feel air filling his lungs anymore.

He can’t breathe because his mind is filled with flashing lights, his ears are ringing and he can only smell the burnt tires, the concrete, the smoke, and the only thing he can taste is blood. Dr. Eve’s trick won’t work, not this time, but Crowley has been fighting this for quite some time now, and he is not about to stop.

Somehow, through gritted teeth and burning lungs, he drags himself to the bathroom, and launches into the shower, ignoring his hip and the sharp pain the movement causes.

The water is freezing cold, almost burning his skin in an ironic paradox. He’s still fully clothed, and his jeans feels even more tight and uncomfortable than usual, but it’s a good thing. The freezing cold and the discomfort of wet, tight clothes on his body helps tremendously, because he can now focus on something else and slowly, his breathing becomes less ragged, more regular.

He doesn’t know how long he stays under the cold water, but after a while he starts shivering and he decides his breathing is good enough to try and stand up.

The man looking at him in the mirror is definitely not Crowley: he is an excuse for a human being, all puffy eyes and soaked clothes and hair darkened by the water that still dripping on the floor. Another shiver shakes his whole body, and he sighs deeply. Better to get a hold of himself, before he catches pneumonia inside the house.

Well, at least he managed somehow. Right?

Once he’s dry and as warm as he can possibly get, and once the bathroom doesn’t look like the scene of an attempted murder by drowning anymore, he goes back to his bed.

His phone is still discarded on the mattress, still opened on the same picture that caused all that thinking. Crowley looks at it again, and smiles despite himself.

If he were a braver man, he would pack his bags and leave; this morning he’d thought about how he doesn’t get to taint this place too, and now the risk is even bigger, because now, and it is still an impossible thing, Aziraphale is in the picture too.

If he were a braver man, he would keep his distance, stay away from him and his family and his bookshop, and he would go back to New York City to avoid causing any trouble to those perfect pictures.

If he were a braver man, he would have sent those letters ages ago, at least one of them, at least the first one, or the birthday ones.

But, as one can probably gather by now, Crowley is not a brave man. And he cannot let go of the past, he grips at the memories with both hands until his knuckles turn white.

He will not pack his bags, and he will not leave, but he will do anything in his power not to spoil this peaceful existence. The life they should have had.

His eyelids starts to feel heavy, and he sinks down furthers on the mattress. Not for the first time, he falls asleep thinking of books and white hair and watercolor eyes. Not for the first time, he feels guilty about it.

For the first time, he knows he’ll see them again. Isn’t that terrifying?

Innocence died screaming

honey, ask me, I should know

Chapter 4: it’s a bad idea, right?

Chapter Text

Yes, I know that he’s my ex,

but can’t two people reconnect?

I only see him as a friend

(biggest lie I’ve ever said)

Call it professional bias, but a writer is naturally drawn to a bookshop. (Especially if it belongs to the long lost love of said writer’s life. Gosh. Scratch that, forget about it.)

Especially if it looks so old and so very intriguing: the windows are not carefully displayed or decorated for the season, they are just filled with books that looks like they belong in another century. The door is a deep shade of red, and despite the sun, Crowley cannot see a thing inside.

‘A. Z. Fell Books’, the sign above the door reads, and it reminds Crowley of the bookshops in Edinburgh’s Old Town and Soho. He’s never seen something like this in the States, the land of unbridled capitalism and rampant consumerism.

“You know, this is better than a romcom.” Anathema says next to him, and Crowley utters some kind of insult under his breath.

At least three days have passed, Crowley thinks, and he doesn’t seem completely and utterly pathetic.

(Three awful days spent trying to type something, anything into his ‘Draft’ file and failing, being forced to tell Anathema more about their history, stalking the bookshops’ Instagram some more, exploring Anathema’s Grandma mansion and collection of prophecy books - weird but enthralling - and thinking about what he’s actually doing with his life.)

“I won’t shut up, and you know I’m right.” She pats his arm, like a mother would her son’s arm on the first day of school, and Crowley cringes. “I can go in with you, if you need me.”

“Thanks Mother, but I think I can handle this.” Crowley absolute can’t handle whatever ‘this’ is, but he is also positive that going in with his babysitter is worse.

“You can’t, but whatever.” Anathema wears her hair down in New Dawns, Crowley has discovered. He is used to see her sporting a high bun and professional blazers, but ever since they got here, she’s been letting her dark brown waves flow freely down to her elbows and she has replaced the business attire with flowy skirts and elaborate lace blouses and even bloody cloaks. She looks like a proper modern day witch, and he can’t help but smirk. “Nice outfit, by the way.”

His first impression is confirmed: she fits here, she looks happier, freer, and the smile she gives him is another proof of it. “You think so? I was thinking you’d say something about me being extra.”

“Big extra fan, me.” He says, grinning. “Remember the whole flash bastard business?”

“How could I ever forget.” She rolls her eyes behind her glasses, but quickly gets serious again. “Seriously, Crowley. If you get overwhelmed, you call me.”

He tries to ignore the way his heart clenches just like he ignored her questions about the really long showers he takes. “I promise, Mother.”

“Bastard.” She starts walking away, probably to the shop she mentioned this morning (something about crystals and tarot readings, because obviously), before she stops in her tracks to wink at him. “Go get him, ginger.”

Crowley just mutters another insult under his breath as he flushes and watches her walk away.

So. He should go inside, shouldn’t he? It is just a bookshop, and it is very cold outside. Hell knows how many bookshops he walked into throughout his life, for presentations and autograph sessions and whatnot. But this is different, for obvious reasons.

It looks like an antique shop, almost, and he really doesn’t want to acknowledge the nausea that thought sparked in his system. This place doesn’t really belong on this street, or in this town, or anywhere really, it just looks so weird, and so intriguing. It’s very him.

Crowley realizes standing in the middle of the road while staring at a sign is definitely ridiculous, so he shakes off the rest of his doubts and gathers all of his courage, in one swift motion, he opens the door.

It’s like entering another dimension. First of all, a bell rings as soon as he opens the door, a real bell, not a prerecorded sound. And there are books everywhere, which, one may say, no sh*t Sherlock, it’s a bookshop. But there are books literally on every flat surface in this shop, and Crowley cannot even begin to think of the way they arranged because they just seem to go with the flow.

The floor is covered with rugs and bean bags and various armchairs and pillows, and among the chaos, Crowley sees that there are about a dozen of knickknacks and various memorabilia scattered on the little tea tables.

It takes Crowley approximately thirty second to notice Aziraphale, who has his back turned to him as he’s inspecting something on one of the many, overflowing bookshelves.

He’s absolutely not thinking about how nice his back is or how soft the light blue jumper he’s wearing today looks when Aziraphale greets him with a soft, “Just one moment, please,” obviously unaware of his presence and seemingly not interested in a potential customer. Looking at the place, it’s probably the right assumption. This place can’t be a shop, Crowley is sure. It’s more like an oasis at the border of reality where people can get lost for a couple of hours.

Not wanting to disrupt the quiet of this place and its owner, Crowley opts for a polite cough.

It’s enough to make Aziraphale turn around, and the flash of annoyance he spots on his face immediately disappear, leaving space to genuine surprise. “Oh, hello there.”

(“Oh, hello there! What are you doing in this library?”

“I wanted to see you, obviously.”

“Oh, hush. How did you know I was here?”

“I followed the other posh bastards.”

“You’re a foul fiend.”

“You’re laughing.”)

“Hi.” Crowley replies, still standing incredibly still. He’s afraid of breaking something with every sudden move. “I came to see,” you, “well, the place.”

Such an incredible conversationalist, Anthony J. Crowley.

“I can see that.” Aziraphale smirks, and closes the book in his hands, carefully putting it down on a shelf. “I’m happy to see you.” And Crowley can see in those big blue eyes just how sincere the statement is. Aziraphale shouldn’t do this, he shouldn’t be happy to see him, he shouldn’t act so normal and so overwhelmingly nice. It will make leaving harder, again.

Crowley missed him a lot during the years, but seeing him again exacerbates the feeling, inflating it like a balloon, and he feels like exploding. The best he can do right now is offer a crooked smile.

Aziraphale tilts his head at that, wetting his lips and furrowing his brows. “Do you want to take a seat? You look very stiff.”

Of course Aziraphale would notice. Crowley is a fool for thinking he wouldn’t. His hip doesn’t like standing a lot, let alone standing so still and so tense, and it is already starting to yell at him.

“That would be nice, thanks.” He manages, and Aziraphale gestures towards the armchairs and the bean bags, and then disappears into what looks like some kind of backroom. “Fancy a cuppa?”, Crowley hears him ask from where he is still standing.

Fancy a cuppa? “Sorry, what?” He manages, a bit taken aback.

Aziraphale’s head peaks out again, still smiling softly. “Too American for a cup of tea?”

And Crowley finds himself smirking, despite himself. This is still a bit awkward, but not as much as he anticipated. Again, he should have expected it: talking with Aziraphale has always been many things, but never not easy. It felt as natural as breathing.

“Never.” He replies, and he decides he actually needs to sit down. Well, his hip is now screaming that it needs sitting down, and then screams again when he takes two tentative steps. He was aiming for an armchair, but it gives up before and he has to settle (well, to plop down) on a bean bag. Getting up will be a proper nightmare, later. He hisses as he adjusts himself on the devious pillow, trying (and failing) to ignore the sharp pain every movement causes.

“Are you quite alright?” Aziraphale is back, with a little tray he puts down on a nearby coffee table. He probably had the tea ready, judging by the little time it took him to come back. And of course he noticed Crowley’s discomfort again.

He spots two cups, some milk, and no sugar. He remembers how Crowley takes his tea. His eyes burn.

“Yeah, yeah, all good.” Crowley pauses, realizing the grimace plastered on his features is anything but good. “Just, hip trouble.” His throat tightens, and he desperately needs to change the subject.

“Is this place a tea shop?” Was that rude? He aimed for teasing and fun but, again, he is a bit rusty at this whole conversation-with-Aziraphale thing. He probably landed just south of rude and cranky.

But Aziraphale just raises an eyebrow at him, teasing. “This place’s owner is just a very good host.” He takes one of the cups in his hands and puts a splash of milk in it, and before Crowley can reply, he speaks again. “Are you sure the bean bag is a good idea? With your hip trouble?”

The bean bag is a terrible idea, but Crowley doesn’t want to embarrass himself any further and he can’t face any kind of conversation about his hip trouble.

So he makes his therapist proud and deflects the question by nodding and changing the subject again. “Yeah, don’t worry about it. I haven’t had tea in a really long time.”

Aziraphale raises an eyebrow at him while he settles down on a nearby armchair, and Crowley can see in his eyes that he is not impressed with his answer, but thankfully decides to drop it.

Crowley takes a cup as well, and the warmth of it, together with the pleasant smell of old books and sandalwood lingering in the shop, eases his nerves a little bit.

He lets his eyes wander around the place again: he likes it too much already and that, in itself, is a paradox. Crowley hates clutter and is a self proclaimed master of tidiness. There isn’t a single spot or a single speck of dust in his flat back in the city, every flat surface is shiny and polished, and every object he owns has its set place, so that he knows where to find everything, anytime he needs.

Logically, he should loathe this bookshop, the very synonym of chaos; at the very least, the mismatched armchair and bean bags in the sitting area should annoy him. But they don’t, not in the slightest. It feels like home, a weird, deeply chaotic, completely-unaware-of-the-concept-of-interior-design home, but a home nonetheless; it feels like the kind of place one could spend hours in and not notice.

It’s such an interesting place, nothing like he has ever seen before, and it’s making him feel inspired for the first time in forever. That is, perhaps, the most shocking revelation.

Crowley could think of writing something in this place (that is, if he manages to not have a panic attack in front of a blank Word Document), and isn’t it something. His thoughts have quieted for a moment, and he feels strangely calm. Almost, peaceful.

He takes a sip of his tea. It’s warm, not sweet, and extremely nostalgic. If he closes his eyes, he can pretend he’s back in London, in a flat that smelled like books and pencils and sandalwood and had an empty drawer waiting for him.

(“Angel, are you sure?”

“You spend so much time here, and you were right. It is awfully big.”

“This is, ugh. You’re so, ugh.”

“What a way with words, future best selling author Anthony Crowley.”

“Shut up.”)

He takes another sip.

Obviously, because this seems to be a recurring pattern in his life, the quiet doesn’t last long.

“I missed you.” And isn’t that a thing to say. Thank God Crowley’s sitting down, as hazardously as his current position is, because he would have definitely fallen over, had he been standing up. Not once in his dreams, and not even in his nightmares, he’d ever imagine that words coming out of that mouth.

“Aziraphale, don’t.” He pleads, he actually begs Aziraphale to stop whatever he was thinking of saying. That has never worked before, let alone now.

“No, just listen to me for a second.” And Crowley has never been able to say no to those eyes. He shuts up, and braces himself for the impact.

“I knew Muriel wasn’t lying, I didn’t come to Miss Device’s house to check on that. I wanted to see you.” Aziraphale puts down his cup and intertwines his fingers, taking a deep breath. Crowley’s entire face is tingling, and he’s fighting every single urge in his body telling him to get the hell out of the shop; firstly, because he chose to sit down on a bloody, infernal bean bag and he has no hope of getting up without help; secondly, he can’t move if Aziraphale keeps looking at him like that.

“And it was good to see you, you know? It made me realized how much time has actually passed and, well, how much I missed you.”

“Don’t.” Crowley breathes out, pleading him again.

“I know it is a lot, given our past, and our history,” and Crowley actually whimpers at that, like some hurt kitten, all sense of decency having abandoned his body. This can’t be real, this is either a nightmare or a dream, Crowley still hasn’t decided. What he knows, though, is that he is not built for this conversation.

Aziraphale stubbornly ignores him and continues his stupid speech or whatever, and Crowley makes a mental note of asking Anathema to hex the family of whoever invented bean bags. “But I think it would be nice if we could, I don’t know, catch up, reconnect in some way.” He pauses, and sighs deeply. He looks just as deflated as Crowley feels. “Maybe we could even be friends again, in the future.”

There are about a billion things Crowley could reply to that. “We’ve never been friends, you and I.”

They didn’t have time for that, remember the whole ‘I love you’ after two weeks business? Always too fast, always too much.

But Aziraphale’s gaze softens at that, and he looks at Crowley like he’s about to reveal some big secret. “At the very core of it, I think we were best friends.”

Crowley finally, finally, averts his gaze, though Aziraphale can’t really see his eyes behind the glasses, and let the words wash over him.

(West Sussex, Summer 1998.

“Well, f*ck me.” Crowley drops his bag on the floor of the living room, whistling.

“You could have mentioned the cottage was a f*cking castle.”

“Language, dear.” He hears Aziraphale’s voice coming from the bedroom, and even without seeing him Crowley can imagine how blood rushed to his cheeks, as it always does when his family wealth is mentioned. “It is a cottage, technically, though I’ll admit it’s bigger than most.”

Crowley shakes his head, but decides to drop it. The ‘cottage’ is undoubtedly beautiful, with big windows that face the sea and a garden looking straight out of a fairytale. It’s definitely the nicest place Crowley's ever stayed at. He picks up his bag again and joins Aziraphale in the bedroom. Their bedroom for the week, he remembers, feeling a little shiver down his spine.

Obviously, Aziraphale is busy emptying his suitcase, folding his clothes neatly in the drawer. Crowley is a big fan of tidiness, but right now he is a bit distracted. Unpacking is the last thing on his mind, seeing that he is in a cottage by the sea, for the first time in his life, with his handsome boyfriend, who’s wearing nothing but a linen white shirt and some tan shorts. God bless the heat wave.

“How did you even convince your family to let us stay here?” He asks, as he launches himself onto the bed, face first. Oh, the bed is soft. God bless rich people and their expensive mattresses. He hums happily into the pillow for a few seconds, and when he looks up again he finds Aziraphale staring at him, smirking. His eyes looks so blue today.

“I didn’t have to. The house is mine.” Crowley whistles again, and that earns him playful eye roll. “I had the keys ever since my Grandfather left it to me. I was the only one who cared about this place, anyway.” His blue eyes darken a bit at that, as he frowns a little.

Crowley would usually say something about how awful his family is, and how Aziraphale is the very best of them, and he would probably spend a good few hours thinking about how much it stings that he, that they have to hide. Not today, though. Today, he is determined to not let anyone or anything get in the way of their happiness, their first proper holiday, an entire week to themselves in this little paradise.

He grabs Aziraphale’s arm and practically throws him the on the bed next to him. He shuts down any possible protest with an enthusiastic kiss.

“Got myself a sugar daddy.” He whispers against Aziraphale’s lips, who laughs and flushes at the same time. “I am three months older than you, fiend.”

“Older, filthy rich, taking me on holidays. You met some of the criteria.” This time, he’s the one being shut up with hot lips pressed against his. “What are those other criteria?”

The thing is, Crowley is usually very good at snarky come backs and witty replies, usually.

Not when his very, very handsome boyfriend is now straddling him and kissing him like it’s the last thing he’ll ever get to do on this blasted planet. These are the moments in which his brain melts away. “Don’t know, but you’re meeting them all.” He croaks out once Aziraphale breaks the kiss, leaving them both panting.

“Good.” He presses one last, quick kiss to Crowley swollen lips, before abruptly getting up, leaving Crowley all bothered. “Where are you going?”

“We,” Aziraphale says, as he bends down to rummage through Crowley’s luggage, “are going to the beach!” He beams, triumphal, as he tosses Crowley his swimming trunks.

“Can’t that wait? I have other plans.” He plasters on his best charming smile, but all he gets is an unimpressed look.

“We have plenty of time for that.” Aziraphale is already putting sunscreen on his nose, and it would be annoying if he wasn’t so bloody adorable all the time. “Now, I want to take my boyfriend to see the sea.” He smiles in the way only he smiles, brighter than the sun itself.

How can Crowley not smile at that?

“Plus, may I remind you that you can’t say no to me because it is my birthday week?”

“You’re such a bastard.” Crowley groans, but gets up nonetheless. He has to admit he’s kind of excited to see the sea for the very first time, and Aziraphale is right: they have plenty of time. That thought is enough to send another chill down his spine.

“Come on, Grumpy. You’ll love it.”

Aziraphale is right, obviously, because Crowley is absolutely having a blast.

There is no one but them on this beach - apparently it is a private beach, rich people things and all that -, and Crowley is probably happier than any kid on Christmas Day. This is still England, and this is not a tropical beach with white sand and warm, crystal clear water, but he could not care less. He’s seeing the sea, he’s feeling the sea between his toes, bloody cold as it is, all while holding the hand of an angel who looks at him like he’s a painting. There isn’t another bastard on this planet who’s as lucky as Anthony Crowley is.

“Are you happy?” Aziraphale has the nerve to ask, and Crowley can do anything but throw his head and laugh.

“Take a wild guess, angel.” He uses his free hand to cup his cheek. Their noses brush.

“Are you happy?” As if the kiss he gets in response isn’t enough, Aziraphale adds words, soft spoken and overwhelmingly sweet. “Happier than ever.”

One look at those stormy skies it’s enough to let Crowley know that that is the absolute truth. Before he does something stupid, like crying, he does something even more stupid.

Dropping Aziraphale’s hand, he runs deeper into the sea and dives right in. For a second, it is the best thing he’s ever done: it’s freeing, and Crowley feels like he’s flying, and he never wants to come up again. Then, he realizes that the Atlantic Ocean is really cold, and salt water stings the eyes, and if you take a breath underwater you end up coming up gasping for air and spluttering everywhere, while your angel of a boyfriend laughs at you from the shoreline. “You are so stupid sometimes, Crowley.”

Crowley runs back to him, shaking his head like some kind of wet and clumsy puppy, wrapping Aziraphale in a bear hug as soon as he’s close enough, drenching him in the process. He’s not the only bastard in the relationship.

Aziraphale doesn’t even try to protest, as he’s still laughing, he just wraps his arms around Crowley’s waist and hold him closer, and he wants to sing at the realization that these strong arms will never let him go, that he will always come home to him. He doesn’t plan on leaving this embrace anytime soon, ideally never.

“Was getting me cold and wet your plan all along, darling?” Aziraphale whispers in his ear, spreading different kind of shivers all throughout his body.

Crowley presses a salted kiss to his angel’s neck. “Not quite.” Another kiss, this time on his ear, followed by a whisper. “Want me to show you the rest?”

It’s later, much later, once Crowley’s done with his plan and they are wrapped around each other under light cotton sheets, and the bedroom window’s open to let the sea breeze and the moonlight into the room.

Crowley has never felt beautiful. Attractive, sure, charming even, but he never considered himself beautiful. When Aziraphale looks at him like that, while gently tracing his cheekbone with his fingertips, Crowley feels beautiful, like he is some kind of long lost work of art that’s just been found by the world’s most renowned restorer.

He can’t stop looking at Aziraphale either, despite the exhaustion coming from the day of traveling and their various activities. No matter how heavy his eyelids get, he won’t close his eyes. One can’t close their eyes in front of a painting as beautiful as this one.

“Darling?” It’s barely a whisper in the dark.

“I think you’re my best friend.” Aziraphale says, and he doesn’t laugh when Crowley chuckles, he just looks at him very intensely, so intensely that Crowley gets serious too.

“I love you too, angel.”

They kiss slowly, softly, as midnight comes and Aziraphale turns twenty. The sea outside continues to sing his lullaby, as they both finally drifts to sleep.

Before drifting off, Crowley thinks about how lucky he is once again, and how he will never admit it, but miracles must exist. At least, one happened to him.)

Aziraphale’s right, isn’t he?

They were best friends. Gosh. And Aziraphale had missed him too.

How long has Crowley been staring into the distance? He should say something, shouldn’t he? He knows it is the appropriate thing to do, but when he tries to open his mouth nothing comes out.

Part of him wants nothing more than to talk to him again, to be close to him again, to rekindle whatever it’s possible. But another part of him, the bigger one, feels like there isn’t a single scenario in which whatever this is does not end up in tragedy.

This reconnecting thing is a bad idea. It’s been two decades and Crowley is still worked up over him, he still can’t shrug the whole thing off and laugh about it like any sane person would. He wrote him a hundred letters, for Heaven’s sake; letters full of longing, anger, despair, yearning, affection, letters full of himself, his very soul. And he never sent any of them, as cowardly as that is. The thing between them, it wasn’t a normal university fling. It was everything. They were everything.

Having a go at a friendship with Aziraphale Fell is possibly the worst idea ever. He will hurt him again, they definitely both will, and he can’t pick up the pieces again, he’s definitely not strong enough for that right now.

“I apologize for that.” Aziraphale suddenly says, dryly. “It was weird, and inappropriate.”

And he’s getting up from the armchair, and his face is all scrunched up in sadness, and he’s hiding his eyes and his face and his whole self, and Crowley is well and truly f*cked.

Having a go at a friendship with Aziraphale is not the worse idea ever; that would be watching him leave again, knowing that the look of sadness on those features is Crowley’s doing. Knowing that he somehow managed to taint his happiness as well, in a whole half an hour.

“You’re impossible.” It’s what he chooses as a reply, groaning into his hands. “It wasn’t inappropriate. Jesus Christ.” His words are muffled and it hurts to press his sunglasses in his palms, but he definitely can’t say another word while looking at Aziraphale. He’s such a ridiculous creature.

“Missed you too, obviously. It’s been forever.” And still not enough for me to learn how to behave normally around you, apparently. “‘Course we were friends, Aziraphale.”

This is the prelude to a tragedy. At least, this is what Crowley’s gut has been screaming at him for the past few minutes, and his gut is rarely wrong.

Crowley from Before the Accident was an optimist at heart, and he would have found the improbable, borderline impossible scenario in which this whole thing could be good and he would have grabbed it, held onto it like a lifeline. Crowley After the Accident cannot do that anymore, he doesn’t get to.

Every single scenario Crowley can play in his head ends with him in tears. But at the same time, there isn’t a single scenario in his head in which Crowley can walk away from Aziraphale again, after this, that doesn’t end in tears as well. However you look at it, this is a bad idea.

There are three things in the universe that are certain: death, taxes and Anthony Crowley making bad decisions.

He finally drops his hands and finds a very confused Aziraphale staring back at him. Is he blushing? Lord, he is f*cked.

“Friends we were, of course. Friends catch up, right? Right.” Look at him, putting all of his wit, intelligence and utter charm on display. An outstanding conversationalist, as usual.

“I’m not sure I’m following you.” Aziraphale still look puzzled, but there’s also an hint of amusem*nt in his gaze. Of course he’s enjoying this, the bastard, Crowley shouldn’t even be surprised.

“What you said, catching up. Could be fun, I guess.” Why is talking so difficult? He could write this whole thing down, just to be put out of this misery.

“Would you be amenable to that?” Aziraphale looks so hopeful, and so earnest. Oh, he is so f*cked.

Crowley wheezes a little at that, letting go of (some of) the tension. “Amenable to that? Christ.” He finds Aziraphale smiling back at him. “How do you still talk like that?”

“You’ve said that already.” Aziraphale sits down again, looking way more relaxed than earlier. Crowley can feel his own shoulders relax a little, and he sinks further down on the bean bag, which is another terrible idea. If the hope was feeble before, now there is absolutely no way he can get up on his own. Well, there will be time for that humiliation later. Now, he can still deflect the attention from himself and his dire situation.

“So. Tell me about this place.” He says, sporting a half smirk that probably looks more like a grimace.

“What do you want to know?” Aziraphale inquires with a curiously raised eyebrow. “It’s just a small town bookshop, I’m afraid.”

“It’s very cool.” C’mon, add something. “I like it, it’s intriguing.”

“Intriguing? How so?” Aziraphale giggles. Literally giggles like they’re still boys and not fully grown men. What’s new, Crowley’s f*cked.

“Like there’s history in it, I don’t know.” There is a whole lot of history inside this place, but that is a dangerous thought to have right now. “Like I said, it’s cool and mysterious and chaotic in a way that feels cozy.”

“I’m glad you like it.” Aziraphale smiles again, softer, almost fondly. Then he sits up straighter, folding his hands in his lap, and Crowley still knows him well enough to know this is the prelude to an Aziraphalean Speech. He’d never thought he’d get to witness one of those again.

“I suppose there is a bit of mystery in how I acquired it, though it’s a bit of a long story.”

“I’m all ears.” Crowley replies, relaxing further. So many bad ideas today, this may be a new record. But it’s true that he’s all ears: he’s like a moth to a flame, completely focused on listening to Aziraphale’s story and nothing else. And the thing about this place is that it is very relaxing. Crowley is starting to see the peace and quiet Anathema is always blabbering about, here in this weird shop, surrounded by books and weird chairs and pillows and dimly lit lamps and Aziraphale’s presence.

He’s so relaxed that he may even consider taking off the glasses, as the light is definitely dim enough.

Like he is a damn mind readers, Aziraphale asks: “Before I start, may I ask what’s with the sunglasses inside?”

Crowley’s insides twist. He is pretty sure is stomach has fallen down to his knees. He will not panic, not here, not right now, not with him. He will take deep, steady breaths and he will give an intelligent answer. He can, he should. It’s really not that big of a deal.

“Uhm, I developed photophobia after, uhm…” He trails off, not knowing how to finish the sentence, letting it linger in the air.

After the Accident, that’s the truth. Doctors said it is one of the most common symptoms of post-concussion syndrome, and that he should consider himself lucky not to have any visual impairment. Lucky, right. He swallows, hard; he won’t do this here.

“Just a fancy word for light sensitivity. It’s been a while now, I’m used to it.” That was good, he thinks. He would pat himself on the back if he could. Now he just has to keep breathing until he can smell books and sandalwood again instead of bleach and antiseptic.

“Oh, Crowley, you should have said something!” Aziraphale jumps up, basically running to the windows to draw the curtains close. Just like this, no questions asked, jumping to do the right, considerate thing.

“You don’t have to,” Crowley starts, but he’s immediately cut off. “Nonsense. Is this alright?” He gestures around the room, switching off a lamp with a nervous flick of a finger.

There is an erratic thumping in his his chest, but it doesn’t feel as horrible as when Dr. Eve tells him he should be proud of himself after completing a simple task or when Anathema drives like a Grandma when he is in the car. This is not shame, nor embarrassment; this is fondness, and gratitude. It’s like the bird trapped inside his ribcage is not beating itself to death, but rather fighting to break free and come alive.

Always so kind, so considerate, so gentle. Always living up to this nickname and namesake, the angel in front of him.

He really is so f*cked. This truly is a really, really bad idea.

“Yeah, yeah it’s fine.” He takes off his glasses, folding them neatly in his breast pocket, and he definitely doesn’t get emotional over seeing Aziraphale without a dark shield between them. That would be ridiculous. “Thank you.”

Aziraphale gives him another one of his beaming smiles. “Of course.” He switches off another one of the bigger lamps, for good measure. “They do make you look cooler, if you must know.”

Crowley shakes his head fondly (fondly, Jesus Christ), admiring how beautiful (beautiful, he is so f*cked) Aziraphale looks in this light and how the color of his jumper brings out his eyes even more than usual (this is the worst idea he’s ever had). “Shut up and tell me about the mystery.”

So what if this is a bad idea? If all bad ideas felt this nice and warm and comfortable, one may very well forgive the first being to ever sin.

Cabo San Lucas, June 6th, 2016

Hiya angel,

I know you used to spoil me, and I know you’re old money rich, but jeez you should see this place. Can you believe I’m paid to lay on the beach all day and drink Margaritas? Well, they’re paying me to write a book and some scripts as well, but you get the idea.

I could write them in my apartment, but what was I supposed to say? ‘No, thank you, I don’t see the point in writing retreats in literal paradise’? Not even I am that good of a liar.

So, back to us. I’m writing this letter because as I was swimming earlier, I remembered the first time I saw the sea I was with you, and I got all sappy.

Is it pathological, missing you like this still? You probably don’t even think of me anymore. Well, maybe, in one of your long days at your boring job you’ll catch a glimpse of something that reminds you of me, and think ‘oh, I wonder what that bastard I used to date in uni is up to now. Why the f*ck does he dedicate all of his books to me? f*cking creep.’

No, you definitely wouldn’t say that, I was projecting.

But maybe one day one of your clients will come in sporting outrageously red hair or some weird snake tattoo and you’ll smile. Or maybe you’ll be reading one of my books and you’ll look at the dedication over and over again, smiling to yourself. Or maybe you’re angry about it because now that I’m thinking it over it’s actually really creepy. Well, I was always really good at bad ideas and I’m certainly not stopping now.

Plus, I knew you, the real you, don’t ever forget that. I know you love it, fussy bastard. And I know that you won’t ever tell a single soul about it. It is our secret, even if we never agreed to it.

Some days I can’t believe you really became a lawyer. I mean, I knew you would graduate top of your class and everything, you were the smartest person I’ve ever met. But to actually listen to your family, to work for them, that I cannot believe. I thought I managed to change your mind, I thought I managed to convince you that your loyalty had to be earned, not expected. I guess that’s ancient history, but I am so sorry. I don’t know if you’re happy or miserable and I still worry about you sometimes.

Especially when I get the chance to slow down and relax in some cabin by the mountains or some villa in the South France or a resort in Mexico, I worry about you. Yes, this is definitely pathological.

The thing is, I knew you dreamed of a quiet life, somewhere nice and cozy with your books and your colours and your paintings. You never wanted the fast life of the City, you never fit in with the rest of them. Hence my worry. Are you happy? Are you still there? Do you want to escape?

Sorry about that. That was ridiculous, I am ridiculous. My ex was right, I should go to therapy. What could he possibly know about you and I, though? And he was also ugly now that I think about it.

Now, that is my second Margarita talking. I should stop this and actually work.

Wherever you are now, I hope you’re happy.

Not yours,

C

“No, wait a second. The prophecies, you too?”

“I didn’t! I swear, but you see, Miss Device’s Grandmother was a lovely lady, very adamant about the prophecies.”

“That reminds me of someone.”

“I can certainly believe that.”

“So, what exactly did she tell you?”

“That one of the prophecy in her old family book was about me.”

“You?”

Crowley very nearly spits out his tea. He’s on his second cup already, and the caffeine is definitely making him fidgety.

“Yes, me. I was in the middle of moving, with no job and a ten year old I was apparently raising now, in a new country, living in my dead sister’s house. Oh, dear, that got dark. I promise it is a funny story.”

Crowley’s knuckles relax their grip around the mug a little, nodding lightly. He won’t think about Aziraphale mourning and juggling a grieving child all alone, not right now. Later? Definitely. He’s found another thing he can feel weirdly guilty about, that calls for a celebration.

“So, as I was saying, I was in the middle of all of that,” Aziraphale leans slightly closer, shuffling in his armchair. By the way his eyes twinkle, Crowley can confidently say they’re reaching the climax of the story. He’s always been such a dramatic storyteller, a bit embarrassing perhaps, but terribly endearing.

“And this old lady knocks at my door, looks at me straight in the eyes, and tells me that I needn’t worry, because her prophecies knew about a foreign man that was about to become the books’ keeper.”

“The books’ keeper? That sound almost ominous.” He shivers a bit when he remembers he’s now living in said old lady’s house, with her equally weird granddaughter.

“I definitely was taken aback by that.” Aziraphale mumbles in his own cup. “But the very next day, an old man knocks on my door.”

“If you’re about to tell me the man was the old bookseller offering you this shop, I’m walking straight out.”

Aziraphale smirks. “Now, I’m not sure how quickly you can get up from that dreadful thing, but brace yourself.”

How long has it been since Crowley laughed like that? He doesn’t want to think about that.

Perhaps this catching up thing Aziraphale suggested is not a bad idea at all. He can do this and not be weird about it. He only has one friend anyway, whatever this is is an upgrade. And if it ends up in flames and tears, well, that’s just how his life goes: he’s already f*cked, no point in going back now.

Now, his bad idea of the day was definitely the bean bag. Because now he can’t lie to himself anymore, he can’t get up from this thing. It would be difficult for any forty five year old man, but it is impossible for a forty five year old man whose hip barely works as it is.

It’s getting late, and he is sure he has overstayed his welcome, so now has two options, both of them utterly humiliating: call Anathema for help, thus having her walk into the shop and having to see her all smug and proud, and having to endure her teasing and borderline inappropriate jokes (he shouldn’t have told her anything about Aziraphale).

The second option is asking Aziraphale for help, which is humiliating for a number of reasons, but also extremely dangerous, because it means touching and close proximity. Which, Jesus Christ, is a thought a teenager could have, definitely not a middle aged, full grown man.

Crowley sighs. He will definitely regret this.

“So, speaking of this dreadful thing,” he starts, already blushing. “I am about to ask something absolutely humiliating.”

Aziraphale smiles, his bastard smile Crowley knows all too well. “Dear, I am an old man as well. Do you need help getting up?”

Dear. Right, right. Not a big deal. Crowley’s definitely not flustered.

“Don’t look so happy about it.” He vaguely points at his lower half. “You know, hip trouble and all that, urgh, this is worse than I thought.” He groans, head thrown back and hands flying around in distress.

Aziraphale doesn’t falter, and still smirking, he gets up to go standing directly in front of Crowley’s bag. He holds out a hand. “Oh hush, you old man, I’m happy to help.”

He’s enjoying this, of course. Bastard.

Crowley stares at the hand held out in front of his face. Not a big deal, really. He’s a grown man, for Someone’s sake. He takes it.

This is not a movie; there are no sparks, nor fireworks, nor birds chirping outside. It’s just a hand, soft despite its strength, gently grasping his own, helping him to his feet. The air doesn’t feel electric, the world does not spinning. The bird caged inside Crowley’s chest just flaps its wings a little harder.

With a little more effort than anyone else would require, Crowley manages to stand up, letting Aziraphale’s hand bear the most of his weight.

Crowley doesn’t drop it immediately, holding onto it longer than necessary, while he mumbles a “Thanks,” under his breath.

His hand receives a little squeeze. “Helping out the senior population is a civic obligation.”

“Oh, f*ck right off!”

And then it all happens very fast.

Crowley’s brain decides shifting his entire weight on his right side just to strike a pose is a good idea, and his bad hip decides this is the worst idea ever, and he just gives up.

Next thing he knows, he’s falling face first in a symphony of very original swear words, and he ends up with his nose buried in an incredibly and frankly impossibly soft fabric and oh, Satan below, are those hands holding his waist? Well, now the air feels a bit electric.

“Oh, lord. Are you alright?” He feels the breathy words right against his ear, and now the world is definitely spinning faster.

He disentangles himself like he’s been burned, standing back up on a wobbly leg. He opens his mouth, aiming for a ‘Yes, perfectly fine, tip top condition’ and landing on a choked up “Ngk, urgh.” Gosh.

There are still hands around his waist, and he probably won’t utter another intelligent word as long as they stay there. The worried look in Aziraphale’s stormy eyes, that are even prettier up close (prettier, Jesus) is not helping.

Obviously, that’s when the shop’s bell chirps, and with a gust of cold air two voices fill the uncomfortable silence, effectively breaking (more like shattering) the moment.

“Uncle Az, what’s for din-Oh! Hello Mr. Crowley!”

“Well, Mr. Crowley, that was fast.”

Crowley decides, right then and there, that New Dawns, Connecticut, is not magical. It’s definitely cursed.

Aziraphale practically jumps away from him, putting a good arm length between them, and addresses the girl first. “Hi peach, how was your afternoon?” He speaks too fast, and too high pitched, and he’s definitely blushing. “Miss Device, lovely to see you.”

The witch smirks. “Mr. Fell, you can call me Anathema, how many times do I have to tell you?” And then, unfortunately, she looks straight into Crowley’s unprotected eyes. “Are you alright?” She winks. Good Lord.

“Shut up.” He hisses, ignoring her in favor of waving a hand in Muriel’s direction, who looks both puzzled and a little embarrassed. “Hi kid.” That’s enough for one of her beaming smiles.

He grimaces as he takes a step towards the door, and Anathema looks at him a bit worried, remembering she’s supposed to be his friend at last. “Wait, are you alright?”

He growls something under his breath, not knowing how to deal with the question yet.

“I did tell him the bean bag was a bad idea.” Aziraphale chimes in, sounding a bit more like himself.

A bad idea, Crowley thinks, as the ghost of the feeling of two strong hands holding him burns through his clothes. Angel, you can’t imagine how bad of an idea that was.

But God, when I look at you my brain goes “ah”

Can’t hear my thoughts, like blah-blah-blah

Should probably not, I should probably,

probably not!

Chapter 5: champagne problems

Chapter Text

Dom Pérignon, you brought it

No crowd of friends applauded

Your hometown skeptics called it

Champagne problems

So. The point is, the point is. Crowley has an itch.

When Anthony J. Crowley has an itch, he can fight against it all he wants, he could very well chain himself to a wall, but he has to scratch it. This peculiarity caused a lot of trouble in Primary School; no one wants to befriend the weird kid who casually asks what does dirt taste like, and continues to ask until he decides he should just try for himself, horrifying both teachers and fellow kids in doing so.

(Dirt tastes awful, by the way. Not an itch worth scratching, that one.)

Anyway, the itch Crowley has now is obviously related to the damn bookshop, not to the owner for once, but the actual place.

Since After the Accident, but even sometime before that, he can’t seem to write anything anymore. At first, he denied it was a case of writer’s block, blaming it on the stress of the newest adaptation coming out and all the unwanted attention he would have had to bear. Then there was the hospital time, and the physical rehab, and the panic attacks, and Dr. Eve endless attempts and efforts at making things better for him. Despite everything, despite the medications and the talks and the alternative coping mechanisms, staring at a blank Word document gave him heart palpitations at best, a full blown panic attack at worst.

He’s getting better at managing his anxiety, now, but he still hasn’t dared to try and write something again, except his stupid letters. Those are one of the alternative coping mechanism Dr. Eve doesn’t know about, and will never know about; she would probably say something about the importance of letting go of past ghosts.

(As if Crowley could do that; he would have done that ages ago.)

So, besides unsent letters, Crowley hasn’t written anything in forever and, this is the worse thing, he doesn’t want to. Anxiety plays a rather important role in his block, but he can’t deny that boredom had planted its roots in his mind way before any accident, and he just chose to stubbornly ignore it.

The truth is, the Muse left him: everything that happened consequentially added fuel to the fire, obviously, but inspiration was gone long before.

And now, for a fleeting instant, he felt Her again. Just an itch, while sitting down on a bloody bean bag, looking around a place that felt too much like a fever dream to be real.

This is the itch: he needs to make sure that the feeling that took over him inside that ridiculous place is actually the long lost fire of inspiration, the song of a Muse he thought abandoned him. He has to go back and scratch the itch.

Obviously, there is also the other reason, the handsome (handsome, Jesus) owner who just happens to be the addressee of Crowley’s unsent letters. The whole thing is a fever dream in itself, one that Crowley has decided to bask in for the time being, ever since he accepted Aziraphale’s offer to rekindle their ‘friendship’ (friendship, Good Lord).

Before going back to scratch his itch, he needs to accomplish something.

That’s why he’s sitting cross legged on the toilet with his laptop on his thighs, while the shower is already running on the coldest possible setting, just in case.

He opens Word, and stares at the blank page until his eyes burn. When he finally blinks, he allows himself to feel the knots in the back of his throat and the tears prickling his eyes, and he takes a few, steading breaths. Recalling all of the tactics Dr. Eve has taught him, he closes his eyes and focuses on the beating of his heart. Slow and steady, slow and steady.

After a while, he opens his eyes again and stares at the file a little while longer. With trembling fingers, he types two words: Draft One.

His hands rests on the keyboard, still shaking, while he focuses on his breath. After a few minutes, the breathing is slow and steady on its own and he doesn’t have to focus on it so hard. He should have tried this sooner, and he ought to text Dr. Eve.

Crowley concedes a small smirk. Overall, this is a victory. Just two small hiccups, but he can confidently turn off the shower and sit back down on the toilet, to stare at blank page some more.

Apparently, his block hasn’t been magically resolved overnight. He doesn’t have a single idea about what to write, his brain is as blank as the file staring back at him.

“Are you done? Dinner’s ready.” The knock on the door and Anathema’s voice startles him, almost making him drop the laptop. He glances at the time, comically widening his eyes. He’s been in the bathroom for almost an hour, and he never took his shower.

He curses under his breath. “Coming!”

He waits until he can’t hear Anathema’s footsteps anymore before closing his laptop and opening the door. After everything that’s happened to him today, getting caught exiting the bathroom still in the same clothes and with a laptop under his arm would definitely be the most humiliating. He quickly changes into a pair of sweatpants and an old sweatshirt, and heads downstairs with something too dull to be optimism but dangerously close to it beating in his chest.

That’s why he’s particularly taken aback when he sees a man already sitting at the table.

Well, ‘man’ may be too vague of a description: the bloke looks like a question mark with big Labrador eyes. There’s really no other way to put it.

“Took you long enough.” Anathema exclaims, putting a casserole on the table. “This is Newt, my boyfriend.”

Crowley swallows. “Your boyfriend?” He eyes the very frightened question mark again, and then his tornado of a friend. Not that he is one to judge, but this looks like a match made in Hell. “Since when?”

“Since New Year’s.”

“As in, two weeks ago?”

“Almost three, actually.” She bends down to press a kiss on the question mark’s cheek, who blushes so hard Crowley believes he might have a heart attack on the spot.

“Pleasure to meet you, Mr. Crowley. Newton Pulsifer.”

“Newton Pulsifer?” Crowley blurts out while shaking the hand in front of him.

The question mark, well, Newt, grimaces. “I know, that’s unfortunate.” Crowley almost laughs at that, but decides against it when he notices the poor bloke still looks inches away from a cardiac arrest. He sits down in front of him instead, as Anathema takes the chair at the head of the table.

“I didn’t know you had a boyfriend,” he starts, before remembering he didn’t even know about her life in this small town before today. He really is a terrible friend.

“I didn’t tell you.”

“Why? He doesn’t seem so bad.”

“Thank you?” Crowley glances at him, wondering if the bloke ever relaxed a day in his life.

“He’s a sweetheart, it’s just very early.” Anathema replies, and claps her hands as if to say that this particular conversation is over. Crowley knows better than to make her mad, but he can have a little fun first.

Waving his knife in the air, he makes a show of aiming it in poor Newt’s face. “What are your intentions with my friend, Pulsifer?”

“I-I really like her, Mr., Sir?” Gosh, Crowley almost feels bad. What Anathema sees in him is an itch he doesn’t want to ever scratch, thank you very much.

“He’s joking babe, relax. You look a little green.” Anathema pats his hand, and poor Newt decides it’s probably wiser to bury his head in his plate and not utter another word.

That leaves Crowley entirely subject to Anathema’s curious eyes. “So, how was your afternoon?”

Crowley will not blush. “Fine. Nice.”

“Nice, uh?” She takes a bite without ever breaking eye contact. “Anything to do with a bookseller who swept you off your feet?”

While Crowley actively tries to find a way to die painlessly, Newt chokes in front of him. “Mr. Fell?” He drops his head again when he sees the look Crowley shoots him.

“Precisely babe. You know, there’s some history between him and Crowley here.”

“We’re not talking about it.” He hisses, putting his fork down with way more force than necessary, and the unpleasant clanking sound echoes in the room. “There’s nothing to talk about.”

“Oh, really?” One thing about Anathema Device is that she won’t go down without a fight. “You spent the entire afternoon in the shop with him, while I have never seen you talking to someone who’s not me for more than fifteen minutes. And, and don’t let me start on whatever you were doing when I came in, you weren’t even wearing the glasses and all the curtains were drawn…”

“Anathema.” Crowley never calls her by her first name, and she knows this is serious. “It’s Aziraphale. Of course things are different with him.” That was not what he wanted to say, but his stupid mouth betrayed him once again. He runs a hand through his hair and sighs deeply, before settling the matter once and for all. “Listen, he said ‘let’s be friends’, I said yes, we talked for a bit, he drew the curtains closed for my eyes, because that’s just how nice he is, then I almost fell face first on the floor because of that stupid bean bag.” He’s trailing off again. “Anyway, that’s it. There’s nothing more to say. Can we move on?” He finishes his little rant with a groan.

There is a heavy silence after that, and Crowley doesn’t lift his eyes from the plate for a long while. He knows he embarrassed himself and made everyone at this table uncomfortable, and it’s really nothing new, but it still stings. He could have at least tried not to be a total arsehole for five minutes.

“My mom always says blessings come in the most unexpected ways, we just have to keep our hearts unguarded and our minds open.”

Two pairs of eyes watches Newt and his little smile, with mouths agape and eyebrows raised so high they almost reach the hairlines.

“Newt, that was,” Anathema starts, staring dreamingly at his boyfriend.

“Definitely a thing to say.” Crowley finishes the sentence, still utterly confused. Where the hell did this bloke come from?

There is another silence after that, less heavy than the one before it. Crowley will think about unguarded hearts and open minds later, in his bed, probably typing a stupid letter on his phone. The last time he left his heart unguarded and his mind open, something beautiful happened to him, something that still warms him up inside and leaves him with tingling feeling in his chest. It didn’t last though, and it very nearly broke him. Hell, he apparently is still hung up on it, not able to let go, not even now (especially not now).

He ponders about the walls he built around his heart during the years, high enough to hide the sun itself. It’s probably not worth it to let them crumble down again.

“So, Pulsifer,” as he raises his glass, he tries for a smile and lands close enough. “What do you do?”

And if the conversation that entails is a bit cloudy and far away, Crowley’s only got a pair of pale blue eyes and two strong hands to blame.

New York City, November 18th 2004

Hiya angel,

I guess you’ve heard the news. Pretty f*cking monumental, eh? I did not believe this day would ever come for us. But it got me thinking, obviously about you.

I bought you a ring, years ago, when it wasn’t even possible. It was more like a symbol, a grand romantic gesture, a promise. I never gave it to you, didn’t get the chance. But I still have it, it’s in my safe. It’s probably ridiculous, but I can’t throw it away and I definitely can’t give it someone else. I’ll probably keep it forever, just as a reminder of what I could’ve had, should’ve had.

f*ck, I hope no one ever propose to you. I know it’s selfish and a pretty sh*tty thing to say, because I hope you’re happy, I really do, but f*ck I can’t imagine you saying yes to anyone else. There, I said it. I am unreasonably jealous even imagining an hypothetical scenario, I probably wouldn’t survive witnessing the real deal.

So, I hope you’re happy, but I hope you never marry. Dreadfully sorry.

If it makes you feel any better, you don’t have to worry about me, I am never marrying anyone else as well. I saw someone for a couple of weeks but he broke things off because he said I was ‘emotionally unavailable’, whatever the hell that means. Just a fancy way of saying still in love with my ex, probably.

Well, I have to go now, I have a meeting. That’s a lie, sorry, I’m just sad and I want a drink.

Congratulations to you and all of England, I guess. We would have gone out to celebrate this milestone, I would have taken you to the Ritz or something. I would have asked you right there, in the middle of the dining room. Were things different, you would have said yes. I miss you a lot.

Love,

C

It’s two days later, and Crowley has made a decision. In truly Anthony Crowley’s fashion a possibly stupid, definitely regrettable decision.

And now he stands in front of the bookshop with his little backpack, looking like an overgrown child late for school, or maybe more like a creepy old man lurking outside a school. He shivers at the mere thought. Why is he like this?

He takes out his phone to send a quick text to Anathema, who left early to go somewhere with Newt and didn’t come home for lunch: went to the bookshop.

At least she can’t tease him for his blushing. After his little rant at dinner, she calmed down (for her standards) and didn’t mention Aziraphale or the bookshop again, save for the occasional joke about hot professors, to which Crowley replied with a totally uncool furious blush.

He doesn’t even have to wait a second for the reply (have fun :) don’t break anything, especially not hearts) and with a final eye roll, he goes in.

The bell rings as soon as he passes the threshold, and he sees Aziraphale immediately this time. He’s behind a bookshelf, rearranging a few tomes in an impossibly complicated fashion, and he’s wearing a light brown cardigan today, over a shirt carefully buttoned up, save from the first two buttons. Crowley feels a bit like a Victorian man seeing an ankle for the first time, before he decides that is the most embarrassing thought he ever had.

Thankfully, Aziraphale spots him as well and smiles kindly. “Hello Crowley!”

“Hiya,” he replies, baring his teeth in what’s supposed to be a smile. “Are you busy?”

“Not more than usual, don’t worry.” He carefully places the last book in his designated spot and turns his attention to Crowley. “Are you going somewhere?”

Crowley is a bit puzzled by the question, before remembering his backpack, now heavier on his shoulders. “Ah, no, nothing of the sort. Actually, I wanted to ask you something.” He fidgets with his fingers, suddenly nervous. “I was wondering if I could perhaps use your place to, uhm, write something?”

That went down like lead balloon. Crowley was never much of a conversationalist, but the last year of isolation clearly did a number on him. Plus, the way Aziraphale is looking at him so expectantly is not helping. He clears his throat, hoping his next try is somehow better: “I mean, could I sit around for a while and type?” It is somehow worse.

Aziraphale lets out a small laugh at that. “Oh, you could have led with that. Of course you can.” Crowley release some tension he didn’t realize he was holding, exhaling through his nose.

Aziraphale turns his focus back to his books, not without offering Crowley another smile while gesturing at the various sitting options. “Be my guest,” he winks, “but avoid the bean bags this time.”

Crowley cackles at that, because he can’t help it and because he’s grateful Aziraphale’s bringing up the incident with mirth rather than worry. It’s easy with him, like it’s always been.

“Oh, don’t gloat. I would like to see you try one of those monsters.” He saunters around the sitting area for a while before deciding on the armchair, purely because he thinks it would be the easiest to get up from, later. He wiggles around until he finds a position that’s comfortable enough.

Aziraphale clicks his tongue, clearly amused by the whole situation. “They weren’t my idea to begin with, obviously.” He scrunches his nose in his annoyingly snobby way that Crowley knows all too well. “The perks of living with a teenager.”

Crowley smirks. “Don’t tell me she forced you to buy a TV, too.”

“Yes!” Aziraphale bemoans, clutching a book to his chest. “And I’m also paying for the Netflix, whatever that may be.”

“The Netflix…” Crowley shakes his head. “You’re ridiculous.”

It’s a bit hard to remember the stone walls built around one’s heart when a few minutes of conversation are enough to warm up an entire room.

It shouldn’t be this easy, it shouldn’t be this light. They have twenty three years of no contact behind them, and a relationship that Crowley still thinks as the great big thing in his life ended in ruins, and they both refuse to acknowledge any of it in favor of easy conversations and cup of teas offered like it’s a habit. There should be screaming, crying, shouting, doors slammed and apologies unaccepted; there should be pain, hurt, years of unanswered calls and unsent letters and longing, but there isn’t any of it.

There is just their connection, unchanged and untouched by the passing of time, the connection that lets them talk and laugh as if they were just old friends catching up. If this is a blessing or a curse, Crowley hasn’t decided yet.

But it is easy to let go, to bask in his company, to not worry for a little while. This is the connection he missed in all the people he met after, in all the beds he visited, in all the conversations he forced himself to have. Now he knows with the utmost certainty: it is not something one can recreate, because it is all about Aziraphale, everything he is and always has been that draws Crowley in, a firefly under a streetlight.

“Well, I don’t wish to distract you.” Aziraphale gestured at the still closed computer in Crowley’s lap. Too late, he thinks, staring at his throat once again.

He should get a grip, a life, and some help. Here’s another thing that shouldn’t be easy, this attraction that feels so natural, like he was only meant to look at Aziraphale for the rest of his life.

“Right, well. I’ll get to it,” he says, finally opening his laptop. He breathes in the smell of this place, deep and steady: dust, paper, a hint of sandalwood, definitely something like cinnamon, Earl Grey. Forever ago, this used to smell like home.

He can do this. It is just a document on Word. He just has to type something.

Back in University, his favourite professor used to get overly poetic during lectures. One thing he loved to say was that writing, in a way, is just like breathing.

Inhale, a word; exhale, a comma; inhale, a space; exhale, another word. And so on, until you create a sentence, and with the final point you catch your breath.

It’s just a matter of breathing, again and again, until your breaths are pages, and your sighs are paragraphs, and your huffs are chapters. “A book is written within a handful of breaths, kids. The first one is always the hardest.” Crowley can almost hear his voice again, if he focuses hard enough.

Right now, he feels like he’s inhaling for the first time after holding his breath underwater for a while, as if his lungs are on fire and his brain has forgotten the simplest of motions, the most important of skills. He’s underwater, and in desperate need of a breath. And yet, the air doesn’t come.

After fifteen pathetic minutes, the blank page is still staring back at him mockingly, laughing straight in his face, and Crowley growls, utterly frustrated. Where have all of his brilliant ideas go?

It’s only when he feels someone sitting down on a chair next to him that he remembers his surroundings, and especially the fact that he is not alone. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” he replies automatically, a reflex his body has grown accustomed to. It is the kind of snarky answer he gives people when he wants to be left alone.

But Aziraphale isn’t people. “What’s wrong?” He repeats, softer. “This isn’t nothing, I know you.”

For some reason, the sentence fills Crowley with rage. All the anger, the sadness, the feelings of betrayal he harbored for years resurface for a fleeting, terrible instant, in which he almost gets up and leaves altogether, without even bothering to say goodbye. The moment passes, but the anger lingers. “You used to.” He mutters, his teeth gritted and eyes focused on the ocean looking back at him.

He can see a flash of hurt, and he tries to ignore the way his heart clenches. Aziraphale is the first to lower his gaze, and he nods to himself. He looks out of the window for a moment, with his eyes closed, seemingly deep in thought.

He’s beautiful, Crowley thinks, and the anger leaves him empty. He shouldn’t have said anything, he shouldn’t have gotten angry over a simple sentence, which was also true. Aziraphale is just trying to be his friend, just like they agreed, and he had to go and f*ck it all up again. He knew this would happen.

“Let’s go.” Aziraphale suddenly says, getting up in a hurry before disappearing into the backroom. Crowley is taken aback. “What?”

“Let’s go outside.” Aziraphale reappears with his coat on and a scarf in his hands.

“You are right, Crowley, I used to know you,” he smiles at him, a small thing that’s nothing like the real deal. “And I know you didn’t growl at electronic devices, back in the day. So, let’s go. Walk with me.”

What is he even supposed to say? Probably ‘no, this is not a good idea, thank you but I should just go home’; definitely not ‘is this a date?’; perhaps ‘trust me, I growl at a lot of things lately’. In the end, once his brain starts working again, he says: “Are you closing the shop?” Which, to be honest, wasn’t the worst of his options.

“Obviously.” Aziraphale replies with a shrug, as if closing a business at two o’clock on a Tuesday afternoon is a sensible and perfectly normal thing to do. It’s not like Aziraphale Fell has ever needed money, but Crowley’s mind didn’t need a reminder of that.

“Right, I forgot the trust fund for a second.” He tries joking, clinging to the camaraderie they’d fallen back into so quickly. Aziraphale rolls his eyes at him, and he knows it worked.

“Will you stand up?” Aziraphale is tapping his bloody foot on the floor, with his arms crossed in front of himself, and every other person would look terribly annoying, but he looks just cute. (Crowley’s still f*cked, by the way.)

Has Crowley ever been able to say no to him?

(“Absolutely not.”

“It’s for charity, love.”

“I am not painting pottery vases with you angel, forget it.”

“But it’s a harmless charity event for our university! And it’ll be fun! Please?

“Oh, don’t look at me like that.”

“Please?”)

“Fine, fine! Jesus, let’s walk or whatever.”

No, he hasn’t.

New York City, still November 18th 2004

Well, I’m back, hi again. I’m not done.

You know, opening that bottle was a mistake, but whatever really. Who’s keeping score?

Anyway, as I was saying; the proposal. Scratch all that Ritz nonsense, that wasn’t my plan. Want to know my plan? It’s not like I’ll ever tell you anyway, so might as well.

So the plan was: ask you to move abroad with me, and that went down like a lead balloon, didn’t it? Funny. So, had you said yes, or even just a ‘I’ll think about it’, and had you not stormed out of the room, I would have started phase two of my plan: a very expensive bottle of wine, white and sparkly just like you liked it, and then I would have made a little speech about symbols and gestures, I would have told you ‘I know this probably doesn’t mean anything to you and it doesn’t mean anything to the world, but it matters to me, it’s a promise I want to make, a promise we could make to each other, what do you say?’

In my plan, this was the part in which you’d say yes.

Sometimes, I replay the scene in my head and I change the parts where I went wrong, and also the parts where you were wrong. In my head, that night ended happily. In my head, a lot of things ended differently.

I know I should have picked up the damn phone. You tried, for Hell’s and Heaven’s sake, and I know how much you loathe all the things that were invented post 1950 and yet you tried, and you called me, and called me, and called me. And I never picked up. I think that is my biggest regret, not whatever happened that night, not moving abroad. I regret not letting you try and fix things. I regret being so angry for so long. I’m sorry.

I think I’m done now. Good night angel, and congratulations. This is a big day.

I miss you,

C

“Wait a second, wait a second. I got distracted. Who were they again?”

Aziraphale and Crowley are walking through New Dawns at an excruciatingly slow pace.

Aziraphale insisted on giving Crowley a proper tour, which entailed stopping by everyone who recognized him (read: every single person on the street) to have a little chat and make a proper introduction. Crowley’s hating every single second of it. He is most definitely not a people person, and there are just too many nice people, all smiles and hellos and gosh, he’s exhausted. He most definitely should have gone home.

But then, sometimes Aziraphale turns his head mid small talk and beams at him, or he brushes his hand on Crowley’s arm in a distracted kind of way, or he gets all bothered over someone who he obviously doesn’t like but doesn’t want to admit, and Crowley gets to tease him about it and, well. It’s not going that bad, all in all.

“Tracy and her twin sister Sharon, but she usually goes by Shax, for whatever reason.”

“And you don’t like her.”

“I did not say that!” Aziraphale huffs, scrunching up his whole face. “I just get along better with Tracy.”

Crowley hums. “And you hate her sister.”

“You’re impossible.” He smiles, walking away from the shop window, Crowley following him a few steps behind.

“Well, they both seem batsh*t crazy.” He says, approaching Aziraphale’s side again and ignoring his outraged gasp. “Please, what do they even do in that shop?”

He didn’t pay much attention to his surroundings generally, but the sisters’ shop was, for a lack of a better word, weird as hell: it looked like an amplified version of Anathema’s house living room, with the addition of some ouija boards laying on the counter besides tarot cards, like it was a normal juxtaposition.

Aziraphale sighs. “Best not to investigate much,” and Crowley tries really hard to mask his snort with a fake cough. “But really, they are honest people. Their interests are just a little…”

“Insane?”

“Peculiar.” The dark glasses hide Crowley’s dramatic eye roll.

They’ve been walking for a bit now, and his hip is starting to whine about it. Crowley doesn’t know how to bring up the topic without making a fool of himself, or do something worse like crying. He hates this feeling more than he’s ever hated something in his whole life.

“Have you already met Nina?” Aziraphale asks him, distracting him from his spiraling thoughts. “She runs the coffee shop near my place.”

Crowley’s brows shoots up, as he remembers his first day here. Right, the coffee shop he left Anathema at before his entire existence crashed. “Nath mentioned something about it.” He mumbles, pressing a hand into his side absentmindedly. Jesus f*ck he really needs to sit down. This time, he can’t hold in the hiss that has been trying to escape his throat for the last half hour.

Aziraphale turns his head to stare at him and his smile dims down by a fraction. “Do you need to sit down?” Of course he would notice. Crowley blushes a bit, and hesitates just a bit much for his friend’s liking. “Your hip, isn’t it? And you do need to sit down.”

Crowley hates the flash of worry he sees in those eyes. “‘M fine,” he lies. “Don’t worry.”

Aziraphale stares at him for a moment with a weird look. “We’re sitting down now.”

There’s such finality in the words that Crowley decides arguing is pointless, so he just follows him into the bloody coffee shop with a groan and a very angry and scary look.

The table Aziraphale chooses is in the darkest corner of the shop, and Crowley tries really, really hard not to obsess over it (he fails). Relief washes over him as soon as he sits down and finds a sitting position (a sprawl) that’s comfortable enough.

“Do you want to talk about it?” Aziraphale emphasizes the ‘it’ with a gesture aimed at Crowley’s lower body.

“No.” He shoots back immediately, faster and harsher than any reply a calm and collected person could come up with. Aziraphale takes the blow, his shoulders sinking a bit as guilt permeates Crowley’s whole body. It doesn’t matter, it can’t matter. That is something he will never tell Aziraphale, that is sure of.

Thankfully, a woman approaching their table saves them from the heaviness of the moment. “Hello Mr. Fell!” She smiles brightly, before glancing at Crowley with much more smugness. “Who’s your new friend?”

Good Lord. This is why he hates small towns. There’s no way in hell this Nina person doesn’t know who the new guy in town is, and there’s no way in hell the whole town will know about Mr. Fell weird and too-old-to-dress-like-that friend by the time the sun sets.

Aziraphale is calm, and ever so polite when he answers. “Nina, this is Anthony Crowley.” He pauses, and everyone else would miss the way his jaw tenses slightly, but not Crowley. “He and I go back a long time.”

That’s definitely a way to put it. Crowley ignores the bubbling feeling in his chest and flashes a grin in Nina’s direction. “Charmed.”

“Likewise,” she replies, with a very unimpressed raised eyebrow. “What can I get you?”

“Six shots of espresso, no sugar, no milk, as hot as you can.” This is his usual order at coffee shops just because he likes seeing the horrified looks on the baristas’ faces.

Not this time apparently, because Nina looks slightly amused. “Charming.” Crowley likes her more than he anticipated.

She smiles, before quickly adding, “Your usual, Az?” Crowley did not expect the nickname, but again, he can’t expect Aziraphale not to have friends to gives him nicknames. He’s not entitled to nicknames, Jesus Christ.

Aziraphale just nods as Nina leaves, and Crowley finds the horrified expression on his face.

“Six shots of espresso?”

“Why not?”

“It’ll give you a heart attack.” Aziraphale still looks positively horrified, but he is also frowning in mild concern. Crowley really would like to say something along the lines of ‘if seeing you again didn’t give me a heart attack nothing can’, but he’s not that pathetic. (Yet.)

“I like danger.” He winks, thankfully behind his glasses. Perhaps that was a bit pathetic.

If the word unimpressed was a person, it would be Aziraphale right now.

“Whatever you say,” he grimaces, averting his gaze. “I do hope it’s not your usual order.”

“Why? Worried about my cardiovascular system?”

“Of course I worry.”

There’s a flash of something across Aziraphale’s features. Something that looks like worry, but also like fondness, and something that Crowley decides to store away to process later.

(Much later, ideally never, yadda yadda).

Nina is back soon enough with his coffee, which Aziraphale eyes with a grimace, and the other man’s usual, which is some sugary monstrosity with a lot of whipped cream on top, to which Crowley dedicates an eloquent raised eyebrow.

“So, Az, Mr. Crowley,” Nina begins, pulling a chair from a nearby table to sit down with them. Crowley obviously doesn’t mind and is not at all annoyed, obviously. Obviously.

“Just Crowley.” He replies automatically. Nina smirks. “Very well, just Crowley, I was actually wondering something.”

For a second Crowley thinks she’d ask about their relationship, and panics. What would he be supposed to answer to a possible inquiry? What does he even want to answer?

Thankfully, his doubts live a short life. “Are you joining Mr. Fell in organizing the Valentine’s Day festival?”

That sounds like the worst small town nightmare ever, and something Aziraphale would obviously partake in. He immediately faces Aziraphale, grimacing. “The what now?”

Aziraphale gives Nina a pointed look, before sighing deeply. “It’s exactly what it sounds like.” He takes a long sip of his sugary monstrosity, before putting it down. “But it started off as something completely different.”

“Oh,” Crowley hears Nina gasps beside him, but doesn’t take his eyes off Aziraphale and his now tense shoulders. “He doesn’t know?”

“He does not, dearest.” Aziraphale replies, and he is too looking right at Crowley.

“I want to,” he blurts out before he can stop, biting his tongue immediately. Curiosity has always been his biggest flaw.

He doesn’t own him any explanation, especially since Crowley has refused to talk about himself on multiple occasions now. And they are supposed to be friends, or friendly acquaintances at the very least. He really is a sh*tty friend, he realizes, and he won’t blame Aziraphale if he doesn’t want to tell him anything about this sodding thing.

“If you want to talk about it, I mean.”

Aziraphale smiles, still tense and a bight tight, but a smile nonetheless. “It’s a bit of a sob story.”

Crowley feels a tightness around his chest. “Big fan of sob stories, me.”

This time, the smile is brighter, and Crowley wants to bask in the sun for a little while.

“Should I leave?” sh*t, he almost jumps. He forgot about the other person there for a moment. Not really his fault those damn eyes are so distracting.

“No, dearest, you’re a vital part of this.” Aziraphale says fondly, before focusing back on Crowley. He takes a deep breath, and Crowley does as well. “My sister and her husband died on Valentine’s Day, of all days.”

sh*t. That’s quite the opening. “I’m so sorry.” Crowley manages, fighting every single one of his nerve endings screaming at him to touch Aziraphale in some way.

He just nods, wetting his lips before continuing. “So, you can imagine how hard the day was for Muriel. The first few years were the worst.” His eyes are so far away now, lost in the memories, and Crowley can only swallow and wait for the rest.

“So, one year I decided to throw a party. It was a stupid idea, really, but I couldn’t bear another year of crying.”

“It was a very nice idea.” Nina pats his shoulder and Crowley feels pathetically envious. Aziraphale smiles thankfully.

“The word got out, and everyone in town wanted to help, of course.” She continues the story, as Aziraphale sips. “But we got a little bit carried away, you could say.”

“It became a whole thing.” Aziraphale chimes in again, “and now it is apparently a whole festival, food trucks and string lights and everything.” Something in the way he says it makes Crowley understand that he is as uncomfortable with the whole thing as Crowley was upon hearing about it, and he fights the very inappropriate grin that was already curling his lips.

When they were in University, Aziraphale managed to drag Crowley to some charity event that revolved around pottery vases. It was supposed to be just one evening, but somehow Aziraphale found himself in a whole committee after that, and had to attend meeting after meeting for the rest of the semester, just because ‘it would be dreadfully impolite to say no now!’. Crowley suspects the same thing happened here, since a normal party turned into a whole town festival, and something warms up inside of him. You’re still the boy I knew, he wants to say, quite desperately.

“That backfired, didn’t it?” He says instead, and Aziraphale’s face lights up. Perhaps he’s thinking about the pottery committee as well.

“You could say that.” He mumbles, and Nina chuckles. “My wife would say it is a beautiful event that brings the community together.”

“Maggie was Muriel’s English teacher in middle school, and is always most involved in the planning.” Aziraphale clarifies, and Crowley hums. For some reason, he’s happy to know everyone in this small town is so accepting, in many ways. He’s not something he takes for granted, given his upbringing. And he can’t help but thinking about Aziraphale’s horrible family and that he finally, finally broke free from them.

Without him, and that stings, but it’s whatever.

“So,” Nina claps her hands lightly, and Crowley nearly jumps again. “Crowley, are you taking part in the festivities this year?”

“Absolutely not.” Aziraphale immediately replies, shaking his head amused.

Crowley raises both his eyebrows. “I mean I was about to say no but why are you saying no?”

Aziraphale looks at him like he just asked him why is water wet. “Because you hate everything about festivities of all sorts.”

It’s true; he can’t remember the last time he put up a Christmas tree or even a bloody wreath on his door, and even when he was young he didn’t put any effort in his Halloween costumes (he was always a demon, for two reasons: he only owned black clothing and wasn’t about to buy anything else and his boyfriend looked like a real life angel, so the couple costume was always easy.).

He hates everything about festivities of all sorts, including the overly cheerful people and the greasy food that come with them. So, the next thing that comes out of his mouth is an absolute mystery. “Well, what if I want to take part in this festival?”

Crowley doesn’t want to take part in any festival, much less actually help to organize the whole thing, but something about the way Aziraphale immediately replied with a sound ‘no’ irked him.

“You don’t.” Aziraphale replies mindfully, as if he was talking with a little child. “It takes time, and patience, and there are a lot of things you hate involved.”

He is right, he is a hundred percent right. Apparently, Crowley’s mouth has decided it doesn’t want to cooperate. “Like what? People and fairy lights?”

“Precisely, and those games you only find in a town fair.”

Oh, Crowley hates those games with a passion. He remembers growing up in Tadfield and being forced to attend the annual fair by his mother, and he remembers coming home every year with a goldfish in a little bag, that would die two days later, the poor bastard.

“Doesn’t sound too bad.” He lies.

“You’re lying.”

“‘M not.”

“Yes, you are.” Aziraphale looks and sounds exasperated at this point, and Crowley can’t blame him. He is spot on about everything, and yet Crowley’s acting like a petulant child that wants to go on an adult only cruise. “Why are you lying?”

Why is he lying? Well, for the same reason he didn’t bolt out of Anathema’s house the second he knew about Aziraphale Fell living and breathing in this town, for the same reason he said yes to being friends when he knew he could never be just his friend, and for the same reason he’s gone to his bookshop with a backpack and a laptop. He missed him, quite a whole lot.

And he’s just looking for another opportunity to spend time with him. Which is a terrible idea, and something that will hurt him terribly in the long run, and something he should most definitely stop doing.

“Why don’t you want me to help?” He whines instead.

“You do not want to help!” Again, Aziraphale is absolutely right. But this is a battle, at this point.

“C’mon Az, now you’re just being difficult,” and Crowley has an ally, look at that! He almost punches the air triumphantly. “If Crowley wants to help, let him.”

Aziraphale doesn’t break their eye contact. “He will complain about everything.”

“Will not.” He absolutely will.

“He will hate every second of painting heart shaped things.”

“I won’t.” He most definitely hates painting and heart shaped things.

“He will get bored at every meeting after about two minutes.”

“I don’t get bored that easily.” He hates people and meetings and likes to play games on his phone while people in meetings talk.

The prolonged eye contact is making his jumper seem tighter than it already is. (And perhaps his pants too, but that is a dangerous thought to have in public.) Still, he doesn’t stop staring. Today, Aziraphale’s eyes are grayer than usual, mirroring the sky outside. He’s mesmerized as always, and he is sure that he won’t be the one dropping the gaze first.

Finally, Aziraphale sighs, and raises both of his hands in defeat. “Fine.”

Crowley, for whatever reason, grins. “You will regret this,” Aziraphale says, and Crowley wants to agree, but he’s positive Aziraphale’s reasons are different than his own.

He vaguely hears Nina’s laugh, but he still to distracted by those eyes to pay any real attention to anything else. “I won’t tell you if I do.”

They are still staring to each other when a loud ring almost kills Crowley on the spot.

Aziraphale starts and immediately pulls out his phone. Of course he would have Vivaldi’s Summer as his ringtone. “Sorry, will you excuse me for a second?” He gets up without waiting for a reply, while Crowley tries to get his heart to a normal rhythm again.

He takes a sip of his coffee, which is surpassingly very good.

“Well,” Nina’s voice reminds Crowley of her existence, for the third time this afternoon.

“That was the most f*cked up foreplay I’ve ever seen.”

The coffee ends up in Crowley’s trachea. Why is everyone in this goddamn town trying to kill him?

“Oh, don’t blush Mr.” Crowley is obviously flustered, and the spluttering and gasping for air is not helping. Nina has the nerve to pat him on the back. “I was about to tell you two to take whatever that was to a room.”

“Can you please shut up?” He chokes out, still spitting a bit. His ears are so hot he fears they’re about to fall off. “Don’t say anything like that again.”

“Fine, fine. Stop coughing now.” She’s still patting his back. If he wasn’t actively trying to die, he would appreciate the gesture.

“That wasn’t anything, by the way. We’re just old friends.” He mumbles, because he doesn’t want Nina to go and tell everyone that Mr. Fell and his friend were eye f*cking each other in her shop. Oh, good Lord, why would he even think about the words eye f*cking?

“Sure honey.” She says, clearly not convinced.

He’s about to reply something, but Aziraphale comes back and if he notices how red Crowley is and how Nina is still patting his back, he mercifully ignores everything.

“I lost track of the time, I’m so sorry,” he starts to put his coat back on. “I have to go and pick Muriel up from her friend’s house, but first,” he hands Crowley his phone. He didn’t know smartphones this old could still work. “I need your number if you really want to participate.” Here it is, the streak of bastard Crowley was in love with. And here it is, his phone in his hands, tangible proof of what he’d lost by not returning those stupid calls forever ago. He forces himself to remember there is no point in dwelling on the past, as if that’s not the only thing he’s done for the past twenty three years.

He types in his number, hoping no one notices how his fingers are trembling.

“I will participate.” He hands the phone back, and tries to look casual about it. Nina snorts, and this time they both blush.

“Well, I’ll be in touch then,” he smiles, and then hands Nina ten dollars. “Thank you for the beverages, dearest.”

“Oh nonsense!” She protests before Crowley can. “Thank you for the entertainment.” She winks, and they both blush harder.

The last thing Crowley sees before Aziraphale is out of the door is another one of those beaming smiles.

Crowley feels a lot of things: embarrassment, awkwardness, regret for whatever he just got himself into, but also a splash of amusem*nt and the tiniest bit of anticipation.

For a writer who didn’t write anything, he also feels strangely accomplished.

New Dawns, January 16th, 2024

Honestly angel,

f*ck you and your stupidly pretty eyes!

One for the money, two for the show

I never was ready so I watch you go

Sometimes you just don't know the answer

Til someone's on their knees and asks you

Chapter 6: cross your heart won't tell no other

Chapter Text

And I think you should

come live with me

and we could be pirates

then you won’t have to cry

or hide in the closet

(London, December 1997

“Are you sure you want me to tag along?”

Aziraphale’s usual rosy cheeks are even redder in the cold winter air.

“For the millionth time, yes I’m sure,” Crowley shivers in his coat, cursing himself for his ever so impractical - yet very fashionable - choices, and almost envies his boyfriend’s hideous scarf. “And to anticipate your next question, yes their parents are fine with me bringing a friend.”

“I just don’t understand why, and I’m not sure how I am supposed to behave, and I was never good with-”

“Angel, for the love of Someone, please shut up.” Crowley stops in his tracks, turning sideways to face Aziraphale. “It’s a birthday party for two eight year old kids. I promise you’ll be fine.” He ruffles his blonde curls to shake off some snowflakes, earning himself a chuckle.

Crowley has been babysitting Thomas and Molly for quite some time now; the pay is nice, their parents are good people, the kids are smart little monsters he’s very fond of. Obviously, when he was invited to their birthday parties, he asked if he could bring his friend, mostly because he wanted Aziraphale to meet his little rascals, but also because he couldn’t bear to spend one of their last days in London before the holidays away from him. Especially since the holidays mean Aziraphale coming back home, back to those bastards brothers of his and to his awful parents. He shoves the thought away: Aziraphale is here now, looking right into his eyes with his adorable worried expression, fretting like he’s been fretting for the past week.

“What if they don’t like me?” He says softly, and Crowley rolls his eyes dramatically.

“Ah yes, because look at you, totally unlikeable.” He looks even more cherubic than usual today, with his ridiculous scarf and flushed skin and those big doe eyes of him the snow brings out that much more. “I’m afraid all the mums are going to fall in love with you.”

“I meant the kids, Crowley.” He whines, but finally agrees to keep walking as Crowley tugs at his arm. “I am not good with kids.”

“Shut up,” Crowley bemoans, growing more annoyed by the second. “They’re kids, angel. Just draw them something and you’ll be good to go.”

“That’s easy for you to say, they already like you,” Aziraphale stubbornly continues. “I’m not a natural with them, I’m awkward and I always say the wrong thing.”

“Angel, seriously, we’re talking about children in primary school who think ice cream is the best invention in the history of mankind.” His angel is really testing his patience today. “And trust me, they’ll like you. But even if they don’t,” He takes in his surroundings carefully before dipping down to kiss his cheek. “I’ll like you anyway.”

Aziraphale looks up at him, batting his eyelashes. “Really?”

Crowley groans and throws his head back. “You are so stupid. Let’s go, we’re going to be late.”

Just as Crowley predicted, the mothers love Aziraphale. Especially Helen, his employer, who doesn’t seem to ever want to leave his boyfriend’s side again once Aziraphale hands her his box of biscuits, “special family recipe”. He rolls his eyes when he sees how she blushes when Aziraphale gifts her one of his famous smile; he has that effect on people.

The kids though, the kids are a different story. They don’t particularly like strangers, especially introverted ones who don’t really know the difference between an alien spaceship and a dinosaur alien spaceship.

Crowley decides to intervene when one of Thomas’ friend asks Aziraphale what he thinks of Buzz Lightyear, and he has no doubts Aziraphale has never heard that name in his life, since the movie came out the year before and the angel is only familiar with things published in the second post-war period.

“Alright kiddos, I’m going to tell you a secret now.” He claps his hands, and Aziraphale glances at him, an eyebrow raised questioningly. “My friend Az here, he’s a magician.”

Aziraphale now looks completely terrified, and mouths him something very inappropriate.

“I don’t believe you.” Molly, ever so smart, crosses her arms and looks at the both of them suspiciously.

“Go get a sheet and your colours and I’ll prove it.” And Molly runs off, followed by a hoard of giggling children.

“What are you doing?” Aziraphale whispers, with a murderous look that’s definitely doing something for Crowley. He grins. “Relax, angel. You can do this.”

The little rascals are back soon enough with a lot of papers and a lot of pencils. Well, that may have backfired a little bit. Still, not going back now.

“So, hellions,” he goes for his best cheerful tone, “give Az a piece of paper and a request and he can draw anything you want.”

The murderous look is now straight up panic. “Anything?” Molly asks, suspicion replaced by genuine childlike curiosity as she eyes Aziraphale. He swallows, and give her a shaky smile. “I promise I’ll do my very best.”

Molly first request is a princess in an armor riding a dragon in space. And after one more murderous glance in Crowley’s direction, Aziraphale draws.

It’s mesmerizing as usual, watching the way his fingers move, how the pencil in his hands seems to take up a life of his own, how in a few quick brushes he’s able to create something beautiful. Crowley still thinks this is what he’s meant to do, he will forever think Aziraphale belongs in art, creativity, color. Everything Law and stuffy family firms are not.

The little girl is probably more hypnotized than Crowley is, and once the drawing is finished, she squeaks. “Mummy, come look! Az is a wizard!”

Obviously, everyone wants a drawing after that. And Aziraphale can’t say no to any of them, and he draws all kind of dinosaurs and lions and spaceships and unicorns for hours. Every time he looks up to smile softly in his direction, Crowley loves him a bit more.

“He’s a keeper, you know that right?” Helen whispers in his ear after a while. Crowley is a bit taken aback, but her gentle smile feels safe. He smiles back. “I intend to keep him.”

Hours later, cuddled up in Aziraphale’s bed, Crowley decides to whisper something into his angel’s hair. “Stay with me for the holidays this year.”

He already knows the answer. “Oh, love,” Aziraphale sighs into his shoulder. “You know I wish I could.”

Crowley knows, of course he does. Still, it hurts when his heart breaks a little once again. He inhales the smell of cinnamon and sandalwood, and it’s enough to make him fall asleep.)

“You did what?”

Crowley is sprawled on Anathema’s couch with a pillow pressed on his face, and he’s growling. “I told you I f*cked up.”

“You begged him to let you participate in the festival?” The witch is having the time of her life. “Have you lost your mind?”

“I did not beg,” Crowley moans, still muffled by the pillow. “I don’t know why I did that.”

He’s lying, he knows why he did that. It is something he’s definitely not admitting to anyone else, especially not to Anathema.

“I do know why you did that,” she says with a snort. “But I won’t torment you anymore.”

He removes the pillow from his face to properly look at his friend. She’s clearly amused, but there’s something else gracing her features, something like fondness.

“By the way, I’m in the committee as well.” She squeezes his knee. “This is going to be fun!”

“You’re in what?” This is a nightmare. Embarrassing himself in front of strangers in a coffee shop is a thing, but embarrassing himself in front of this witch? He will never know peace again. And he will embarrass himself in some way, because it’s Aziraphale Fell we’re talking about.

“Of course I am, like Granny before me.” She shrugs. “It is a beautiful event with an equally beautiful purpose, and I also have my own stand.”

“Your own stand?”

“Yes!” She’s way too excited about it. Crowley hasn’t seen her this excited about something since the San Diego Comic Con she forced him to attend. “I’ll read cards and tea leaves.”

“Obviously.” Part of Crowley is still convinced this is just a fever dream.

“Has Aziraphale told you anything about this year’s charity?” She asks, and Crowley replies, intelligently, “Uh?”

Anathema’s eye roll is so powerful it could reach the moon and come back. “You don’t know anything about it beside the fact that he’s in it, am I right?”

“I know the origin story.” He replies defensively, but she’s right.

He did not ask anything about the festival in itself, he just felt this unexplainable desire to be in it, just to be close to him. This isn’t something new per se, but it is weird this feeling came back as soon as he laid his eyes upon Aziraphale again, as if they said goodbye a week ago and not two decades ago. And it’s funny, because they never even said a proper goodbye.

“As the festival got bigger, so did the profits,” Anathema explains. “After a few years, the committee decided it was time to give back, and every year we choose a different charity to donate to.”

Crowley doesn’t even have to ask whose idea that was. This is the most Aziraphale’s thing ever. He’s always been too good to be true. Too good for him.

He doesn’t say anything back, and Anathema understands this is one of those moments; moments in which Crowley stops talking, loses himself in thoughts and just disappear for a while.

“Listen, you idiot, I have a good feeling about this.”

Crowley just mumbles something incoherent in response. He has a lot of feelings about this, none of them good. Somehow, he is sure this is going to end badly, and he hopes desperately this will be another rare occasion of his gut being wrong about something.

“I’m sure he wants to spend some time with you too.”

The only reply Anathema gets is another string of consonants. This witch.

The worst thing is the bubbling feeling inside Crowley’s chest only grows bigger at her words. He does not want to believe her, he doesn’t want to hope. Hope, whatever for?

They are over, they have been over for an entire lifetime. And Crowley missed him, surely, he had missed him so much at times he was sure he would never move on, but he did, life did.

He had his books, and his shows, and his fans, and his fair share of relationships, some longer than others, and he had been happy.

But he also had the letters, and the hand drawn picture in his wallet he never threw away, and the ring locked away in his safe, and all of his partners leaving him because they felt they would never be enough for him. Crowley couldn’t really blame them; none of them were him.

And now, he was in his life again. He’d come back into his life suddenly, like a summer storm, like they’ve only been apart for a day, sweeping Crowley off his feet and making him do all sort of dumb, brave things, like taking part in a bloody small town festival and creating a new Word file without losing his mind in the process. Everything was and (miraculously?) still is natural with him, easy as breathing. And Crowley knows a thing or two about labored breathing.

“Nath,” Crowley’s word are barely a whisper. “I think I’m f*cked. Truly.”

She squeezes his knee again, humming knowingly.

Pros of having a somewhat psychic best friend: you do not need to have big talks. “I’m afraid you are, ginger.”

Crowley’s phone pings, shaking him out of his reverie. He has a new message, and he tries really hard (and fails) not to get excited.

Hello! This is Aziraphale! :)

Crowley groans, because he can’t help it. Texting Aziraphale is apparently a thing that’s happening to him right now. And he uses bloody emojis, too.

If you are still amenable, the first meeting is on Friday night. I figured a groupchat would be a little too much, you can text me if you have any questions, or pop into the bookshop whenever you like. Have a pleasant evening :)

Obviously he likes to write obnoxiously long messages. This could have been a letter (which, Crowley realizes, is incredibly ironic).

He doesn’t realize Anathema is snooping before it’s too late. “He’s definitely asking you to speak privately.”

“Shut up.” He whines. “He’s just nice. And he knows me.” That’s just who Aziraphale is: kind, considerate, thoughtful. Crowley knows better than to indulge in some selfish daydream, however pleasant the bubbling feeling is.

“You’re so dense.” Anathema elbows his ribs, ignoring Crowley’s moaning. “Text him back!”

Crowley’s fingers linger over the screen, but he eventually convinces himself he is a grown man who’s able to send a normal text.

hi, crowley’s here

of course you knew that you texted me

“You are so embarrassing.”

“Shut up.”

anyway

still on board of course

wether you like it or not

“Oh my God, I’m taking your phone away.”

“Don’t you have anything better to do?”

i’ll be there friday

maybe i’ll come by sooner

nath said something bout a charity?

“You are the worst texter in existence. Why so many?”

“Texter is not even a real word, so shut up.”

Oh dear, never heard so many pings coming from my phone! I am pleased you are on board, wether you believe it or not ;). Say hi to dear Anathema for me! Yes, we still need to decide on a charity. Perhaps you could come up with some suggestions? Oh, Muriel wants to say hi as well, and if you would sign her books. Dreadfully sorry if that makes you uncomfortable.

“Now, that was definitely flirty in a very thoughtful way. Definitely weirdly attractive.”

“Why are you still here?”

will think about it

she says hi too

tell Muriel I said hi kid

and I’d like to sign them

i’ll pop in soon

“Oh, look at you wanting to make a good impression on the family.”

Anathema’s tone is still playful, but Crowley freezes. Aziraphale’s family, sensitive topic.

Anathema obviously doesn’t know the whole story, and she can’t possibly know about how horrible the bunch of wankers was to Aziraphale, and to Crowley by proxy.

Always hiding, always keeping it a secret, always having to ignore their horrible comments about his art and his hobbies and his body, always hearing him say “Crowley’s just a roommate”, not even a friend, always pretending that didn’t break his heart. Always hoping Aziraphale would choose him over them, when it mattered. That didn’t happen.

“Hey, why are you so tense? Did I say something?”

He shakes his thoughts away and finds some grounding in the hand pressed on his back.

“No, no, you’re good, just,” he pauses, choosing his next words carefully. “His family, the one in London, was awful to him, to us. They,” lured him away from me, trapped him in their gilded cage, guilt tripped him like they did all of his life, and I wasn’t gentle, or patient, or understanding, I was tired, I ran, and I left him. He clears his throat. “They were the reason we… you know. In a way at least. Very loosely.”

He won’t cry, no matter how much his eyes burn. He sniffles, and tries to show Anathema a lopsided grin, but it ends just south of a grimace.

“I’m so sorry, I had no idea.” She’s still rubbing his back, and offers him a small smile.

“I don’t know if this helps, but the few times I talked to him about families he only ever mentioned Muriel.”

This does help, and Crowley smiles sincerely. All he ever wanted was for Aziraphale to break free. “Good.” He mumbles. “Good f*cking riddance.”

They may have been free together, in another life. In another life, they would have had a proper conversation, like two adults should have done. Aziraphale would have not stormed out of the room, and Crowley would have not bought two one way tickets to America without asking first. In another life, perhaps, but this is the existence they were given.

And somehow, they both turned out okay in the end. For some weird twist of fate, they ended up in each other’s life again.

Another ping breaks the moment.

Thank you so much for that! It would truly make her day.

Now she says I’m being embarrassing, so I should probably bid you goodnight again.

And thank you again Crowley, truly.

“I know we just had an emotional moment, but you’re looking so besotted-”

“Where did you even learn that word? Christ.”

no big deal really

no worries

goodnight aziraphale

“Wait, what were you typing?”

“Nothing.” Crowley flushes, immediately, and that might as well be a guilty plea. His fingers slipped, and he realized what he was doing when they reached the letter ‘G’.

“Crowley, oh God. Did you use to call him angel? Because of his name?” Anathema looks so fond.

This may be the lowest point in his life. He shouldn’t be getting mad, but this is another one of their secrets, like the letters and the dedications. If this too gets out, the only secrets left are the ring in his safe and the picture, and they are not enough. For years he kept those things carefully hidden away from the rest of the world, where they couldn’t be tainted or spoiled, where he could keep them safe. He couldn’t save them, but he could save his secrets, his memories.

“Please, keep that for yourself. I’m serious.” It may be his tone, it may be his unguarded, pleading eyes, but Anathema seems to understand, and she nods energetically.

“I will. Sorry if I overstepped, I know I can be a bit much at times.”

Crowley rolls his eyes, but smiles nonetheless. She may be annoying, pushy and noisy, but she is his dearest friend (not his only one, no more at least, apparently. What a win!). “Understatement of the century. Let’s eat something now.”

Crowley doesn’t expect to see Muriel behind the till, typing mindfully on her laptop while nibbling some biscuits, when he enters the bookshop on Friday afternoon, but he’s not disappointed. He likes kids, he likes this kid and he did come into the shop for her books. Just, he’s a bit nervous, for whatever reason.

“Hello hello!” He can’t not smile back. It’s funny, because Muriel and her uncle look nothing alike on the surface, but when they smile the familiarity is uncanny. They’re probably the only people in the world for which the expression ‘lighting up the whole room’ is not a lie.

“What are you doing here on your own?”

She smiles tightly, taking a sip of her drink. “Well, it’s Friday, me and my friends usually have a movie night at our place. It’s very nice, you know? Snacks and all, but, well…”

Crowley grins at her light blush. “You forgot the snacks and all part, didn’t you?”

“Guilty.” She takes another sip, and offers a cookie which is politely declined. “I couldn’t go to the shop because I need to send the last of my college applications today.” She gestures vaguely at her laptop. “So I’ve been left in charge.”

Crowley whistles, unable to stop his curiosity. “College apps, eh? How did that go?”

He expects some eye rolls and bemoaning, but he gets a brilliant smile instead. “It was so much fun!” To which, he replies with raised eyebrows. Not that he has much experience with teenagers, but finding the entire college application process ‘fun’ is definitely something unexpected.

“Yes, yes I know that look, no one finds the process fun and blah blah blah. Sure you don’t want a cookie?”

Another thing she takes after Aziraphale, the constant need to feed people. Still, Crowley can’t help the grimace. “A cookie? That is a biscuit, Muriel. There’s British blood in your veins.”

Surprisingly, this is the thing that earns him an eye roll. “Now you sound just like my Uncle.”

A voice in the back of his mind urges Crowley to change the subject. For some reason, talking about Aziraphale in the presence of his niece makes him feel weirdly tingly.

“Tell me more about that college thing.” Muriel’s eyes light up once again, and she eagerly tells Crowley quite a lot.

Obviously, she’s an overachiever; she is a Fell, after all. Her main interest is History, but she’s also quite fond of Anthropology.

She’s already sent out the early action applications in October, and she’s wrapping up her final essays for the regular decisions deadlines. She’s also clearly excited about Ivy Day, and Crowley whistles at that, making her blush lightly. Muriel tells him about her college essays, joking about having plenty of topics to talk about, given her ‘unusual’ upbringing.

“I bet all the posh bastards at Harvard enjoyed that.” He mumbles, his mouth full of crumbles after having finally accepted the biscuit.

“Oh, I truly hope you’re right Mr- just Crowley.” At one point during the conversation, Crowley ended up with a mug of cocoa in his hands, not realizing how or when. She truly is her Uncle’s niece.

“There are plenty of other good schools, though. Don’t stress too much over this.” He adds, noticing her fretting.

“Now you truly sounds just like Uncle Az.” Muriel replies with another playful eye roll.

Before he can stop himself, his mouth moves on its own: “Does he not push you?”

The look Muriel gives him is almost outraged in its shock, but Crowley doesn’t miss the hint of amusem*nt. “He pushes me stop!” She shakes her head, looking at Crowley like he just said the Earth is flat. “Don’t worry, he doesn’t ask anything of me besides the normal things, you know? Be kind, do your homework, be responsible, blah blah. Everything else is on me.” Her expression changes into something dreamy. “I’ve always loved studying, ever since I was little, as lame as it sounds, it is my favourite thing to do. Harvard is my dream, certainly not his.”

Crowley remembers the long nights in a flat in London, Aziraphale hunched over a textbook, never missing an assignment or a reading, staying up until the sun was rising outside obsessing over his Criminal Law final. Pushing his body and his mind to the very limit for a degree he didn’t even like, just because his family forced him to.

That was their arrangement: he could keep the flat in the City and they would leave him alone as long as he finished University top of his class, and he’d go work for Fell & Partners straight after.

Crowley knew Aziraphale hated studying Law, but he was the smartest person he ever met, and he also knew he’d have no problem graduating, nor being the best of his lot. His heart used to break every time Aziraphale would close his textbooks with heavy eyes and furrowed brows, but it would also start beating faster again when he would sit in Aziraphale’s studio afterwards, watching him paint and draw and sketch whatever he wanted to that day. “I don’t think you realize how f*cking good you are at this,” he used to tell Aziraphale, especially when it was his portrait coming to life under the artist’s fingers.

“I just have an incredible Muse.”

(The picture Crowley still keeps in his wallet is a portrait of the two of them, something Aziraphale sketched on a napkin at a restaurant when Crowley pointed out they didn’t have any picture together. He may have lost that one original receipt, but that picture is something he’d never lose sight of.)

How could Crowley ever think Aziraphale would push his niece to do something she didn’t want to?

“What are you smiling about?” Muriel’s gentle question starts him. Since he can’t answer truthfully, he decides to go for a half lie. “Not smiling. Just…thinking.”

Muriel hums, and Crowley realizes with a shiver there’s a twinkle of something in those deep, brown eyes. “Can I ask you something?”

Crowley tilts his head. Muriel is very sweet, but also very smart, and teenagers can be scary, especially extraordinarily bright ones. Still, who is he to deny a question? “Sure.”

“Great!” She beams at him. “So, remember when I said I didn’t believe you and my uncle used to know each other? Well, I lied.” Crowley blinks.

He should have said no, and he realizes as much as soon as Muriel bends down to pick something from under the desk she’s sitting at. It’s a book, and he recognizes the cover immediately: it’s his book, the first one, ‘A tale of stars and succulents’, but that is not the thing that makes him freeze in place. That would Muriel opening a book, with an excited twinkle in her eyes, on one of the very first pages.

The words ‘To the Angel of the Eastern Gate’ stare back at him, and Crowley silently thanks whoever invented dark lenses, because he is sure the expression in his eyes is nothing short of haunted. “Ngk.” He mumbles.

“Okay, so, Uncle Az never tells me anything, but I can’t pretend I don’t know what this means!” Crowley pointedly keeps his gaze averted, choosing to stare at the words instead, as if the power of his will could change them into something less embarrassing.

“I can’t believe he won’t even acknowledge this in front of me! Every time I bring it up he just locks himself in his studio and doesn’t talk to me for a few hours. As if, this is not the most romantic grand gesture I’ve ever witnessed in real life. Like, Mr. Darcy confession in the rain is bullsh*t in comparison. Oh, sorry, language.” He may be feeling a little nauseous right now.

“So, and I’m sorry this is making you so flustered, but I have to ask you because you are the only other option: what happened between you two?”

Crowley decides not to answer. He saunters over to one of the armchairs and lets himself sink down. Muriel follows him eagerly, book in hands, plopping down on one of the bean bags.

Behind his glasses, Crowley takes a good look at her. Besides the physical appearance, there are many things he sees in this girl that reminds him of Aziraphale: the excitement making her eyes shine, her nervous wiggle, the general aura of goodness spreading all around her.

“You’re a smart one, kid,” he says, still staring at the book in her hands. “What do you think happened?”

She hums for a moment, before clearing her throat. “Well, my theory is you were in love, something bad happened, you broke up and didn’t see each other again for years.”

Crowley just shrugs. He feels weirdly numb, probably some kind of defense mechanism his mind came up with. This is not how he envisioned his afternoon to look like. “Weirdly accurate.” The girl in front of him squeaks.

“I have another question now.” Muriel says, in the overly excited way only a teenager can master. “Did you come here for him?”

“No!” He blurts out, some feelings coming back for him for a second. “I didn’t even know he lived in the U.S. I am not that creepy.”

Something in Muriel’s fantasy world full of romantic gestures and emotional reunions must have crashed, because her face drops for a moment. She recovers fairly quickly. “Well, but do you want to?”

“What?”

“Oh, c’mon! Do you want a second chance?”

Crowley hates to be the one to break a young person’s heart, but someone has to apparently.

“Muriel, listen to me,” he begins, as softly as he possibly can. “You’re very sweet, and I know what that may look like,” he gestures at the book. “But this is not a movie, nor a book. I assure you, it’s been so long, me and your uncle are just old friends now.”

Muriel is clearly unimpressed by his little and carefully crafted speech. “That’s bullsh*t.”

“Language.” He shoots back immediately, but he doesn’t sound convincing to his own ears.

“I may be young and naive, but I notice things, and here is what I know.”

Teenagers are indeed scary, Crowley thinks again. What has he gotten himself into?

“Do you know how many times people have tried to set Uncle Az up? You can relax, the armchair hasn’t done anything to you. And I was about to say he always declines.”

Crowley realizes he’s gripping the armrest so hard his knuckles are white. He flexes his hands a few times, hot embarrassment in his cheeks. sh*t.

“By the way, he always tells me he doesn’t do relationships because I am his priority, which is sweet but, don’t you dare ‘language’ me again, is bullsh*t. I’m literally an adult.”

Crowley doesn’t know what to think, or what to say, so he just sits and stare.

“And now you show up, with your book dedications and your besotted, longing stares-”

“Besotted? Oh, now you choose to be British?”

“I’ve seen the way you look at him now.” Muriel cuts him off. “And I’ve seen how much lighter Uncle Az is, these last few days. Do not tell me this is just some fantasy of my young, teenage mind.”

Whatever Crowley had in mind when he woke up today, getting relationship advice from an eighteen year old was not in the cards.

“So, don’t feed me excuses like the time that’s passed or your age or the distance, and answer me. What do you want?”

Muriel Fell may actually be better than his therapist. Behind what he initially thought was naive kindness, there is a boldness, a confidence, a fierceness that he recognizes all too well.

Not that Crowley had any doubts, but Aziraphale raised her exceptionally well for someone who used to swear he wasn’t any good with kids.

“You’re something else, aren’t you?”

“And you’re still not answering.” Muriel smiles back at him, that something still twinkling in her eyes.

The shop’s bell chimes cheerfully, and both of them turn to look at the door, where a rather flustered Aziraphale is struggling to get two shopping bags inside.

“I swear to everything that is holy Muriel, if you forget your bloody snacks again I - oh, hello there Crowley.” Aziraphale’s demeanor changes the moment he spots him, going from extremely annoyed to mildly annoyed, rather relieved. “I wasn’t expecting you, forgive me. I hope someone” he pointedly looks at Muriel, the snacks business clearly not forgotten, “has been a good host.”

“I am an excellent host, thank you very much. Don’t you agree?” Crowley’s mind is still spinning after that conversation, but forces himself to grin.

“Sold me with the biscuits.” Muriel giggles, and Crowley likes her immensely, despite the weird attempt at getting his secrets out of him from earlier. He likes her, and he likes the way Aziraphale looks at the both of them fondly, and for an instant his thoughts linger on a possibility, a what if. First days of school, holidays, picture days, homework, birthday parties.

In another life, maybe.

“Well Muriel, glad your afternoon is going better than mine is.” Aziraphale drops the shopping bags on the desk, and carefully eyes the book clutched in his nieces’ hands.

Mercifully, and Crowley thanks all the Gods he doesn’t believe in, he doesn’t comment on it.

Muriel or Anathema commenting on the thing is tolerable, embarrassing and awkward and everything in between, but he can deal with it. Having him acknowledge the thing? Crowley won’t even think about it. Luckily for him, Aziraphale seems to be on the same page.

“I already said I was sorry!” Muriel gets up and starts to inspect the insides of the bags. “Oh, you didn’t get the…” Whatever she was about to say gets cut off by a very eloquent glare. “Best uncle ever!” She tries again, and Aziraphale smiles, but it’s tight and doesn’t reach his eyes.

Crowley takes a moment to notice he looks somewhat different than the last few days. It’s a really weird thing to say, but he looks dimmed. His hair looks especially ruffled, like he spent some time running his hands through it which, Crowley remembers, is never a good sign.

“Are you alright?” He asks, because he can’t help himself. “You look a bit…” He makes a vague gesture with his hands, that should mean something along of the lines of ‘out of sorts’.

“Tickety-boo!” Aziraphale replies, way too fast and eager, and that atrocity is something he used to say when he was particularly anxious over something. Crowley knows it is a lie, but he also knows that he won’t get the truth out of him anytime soon. It’s the way he smiles, tight and shaky, and the way his shoulders are hunched, and the way is jaw is tense, much like the rest of him. Crowley stares at Aziraphale and for a moment, they are twenty somethings again and he’d just asked his boyfriend why wouldn’t he just tell his god awful family to f*ck right off. He shivers.

“So, are you still coming tonight?” Aziraphale swiftly changes the subject, averting his gaze at the same time.

Ugh, good Lord. He forgot about that stupid business. It’s not like he wants to do the blasted thing, but it’s too late to back off now. And, more importantly, it has now become a matter of principle, something of a challenge. “Course I am,” he says as nonchalantly as he can, only earning an unimpressed look.

“Where is this thing, by the way?” He asks suddenly, as he remembers he doesn’t know anything at all about whatever he’s embarking on, besides the fact that he gets to see Aziraphale, who sighs deeply as he replies. “Nina and Maggie offered to host tonight, thankfully.”

“Thankfully?”

“The meeting was s’pposed to be at the occult shop,” Muriel says, munching on some crisps. “He hates the old lady’s guts.”

Crowley snorts at Aziraphale’s horrified expression. “I do not! And stop crumbling all over my desk, you menace.”

He probably looks as besotted as Muriel accused him of being as he watches the scene unfolding in front of his eyes, but he can’t really help it. It’s a kind of scene that makes him feel those bubbles in his chest, those dreams he buried so deep he’d forgotten about.

In another life, maybe.

New York City, October 6th, 2022

Angel,

I f*cked up this time. I really, really f*cked up. Anathema found me another doctor. They say I’ll walk again, that after extensive rehabs and whatever I’ll be okay, for some reason. And instead of being happy, delighted even, I yelled in their faces.

It was entirely my fault, you know? The accident. I got really f*cking angry with my publisher, because he doesn’t give a f*ck about the books, he just wants something that will sell well. And I know it’s an excuse, but I had a sh*tty week, and an even sh*ttier year, and I just wanted to run. So I ran.

You always said I drove too fast, remember? But you’re not there to slow me down anymore, so there’s that. The road was icy, and I was going way too fast. I swear I didn’t want to do anything stupid, but it was my fault nonetheless. What if I hit someone? What if I hit another car, or a bloody taxi or, I don’t know, a bicycle, instead of a stupid pole?

The paramedics said I was lucky to be alive. Why? What did I do to survive? Nothing, let me tell you. You’re the first person I tell this, and you don’t even count because you’re just in my head, but: I didn’t fight it. I could feel I was falling asleep, and I could hear the voices telling me to stay awake, but I didn’t fight it. Pathetic, isn’t it?

I’d like to tell you I thought about you, but I didn’t. I did not think of anything at all.

And now my head is killing me, and they say my eyes will never be the same, and my leg screams at me like it’s about to fall off, and they tell me that I’m lucky. f*ck them all honestly.

I don’t even know why but I miss you. I have a feeling you’d know what to say. I wish I had the balls to contact you somehow, but I know I won’t. I should have left your memory alone years ago.

Why am I even writing this sh*t?

Bye,

C

The meeting is unremarkably boring, just like Crowley had expected.

Nina’s wife, Maggie, is nice and motherly in the way only good teachers are, and their house is cozy and perfectly lived in. There are some of people he met during his walk with Aziraphale and some he’s never seen before, and he really is not in the mood to socialize (is he ever?) so he sticks with Anathema and the hosts all evening, physically at least.

Mentally, he doesn’t register half of the things they say. Well, probably two thirds of the things they say, not that he cares much about it. If he misses something important, he can ask Anathema after, and Maggie and Nina seem to like him for whatever reason, despite his obvious distraction.

His distraction has white blonde hair and tired eyes and spends the evening offering tight smiles and distracted nods to everyone who demands his attention. Crowley can’t tear his eyes off him, and he is aware he’s probably being a creep but, thank God, the dark glasses hide his staring well enough. There is something wrong with Aziraphale and by God that is an itch Crowley wants to scratch.

He remembers well enough the moments when he used to close up like this, and he remembers how hard it was to get him to open up again, how difficult it was to navigate through his silences and fretting and anxieties. Crowley was never a patient person, but he tried for him. Most of the times, it worked: he used to come home with a new book, new canvas, a nice take out dinner, some of his favourite desserts, anything to take Aziraphale’s mind off of whatever was bothering him. Most of the times, the smiles he got in returned were genuine, and he would manage to take the words and the worries out of him, at last.

That used to be his biggest accomplishment.

Now, he doesn't’ know how to approach the situation, if he even should approach the situation. But, the thing is, Aziraphale said they’re friends, and this something friends should do for each other. Obviously, not that Crowley has ulterior motives.

(What do you want? The question still swims in his head, Damocles sword, the obvious answer swimming right behind it. He ignores both.)

Once the meeting is finished, everyone starts to gather their things to leave, and he notices Aziraphale is still sitting in his chair, staring at nothing into the distance, seemingly unaware of his surroundings. Crowley snaps.

Before he knows what he’s doing, his legs bring him to stand in front of Aziraphale, startling him a little. “Hi.”

“You came.” Aziraphale still sounds surprised, and gives him a tight little smile, that drops immediately. “Oh, I didn’t even say hello to anyone tonight, did I? I truly am sorry, I’ve been awfully distracted.”

“I can see that,” Crowley replies. “What’s up with you?”

“It’s nothing.” There they are, the walls Aziraphale builds around him. Crowley recognizes them still, after all this time, in the way he tenses up and his eyes turn into a darker shade of grey.

“That’s bullsh*t.” He tilts his head slightly. “And don’t you dare ‘language’ me.”

This earns him a sincere, albeit small, smile. “I shouldn’t leave you alone with that menace anymore.”

Crowley snorts, but doesn’t forget his mission (a mission he’s come up on the spot with). “Walk with me,” he blurts out, reminiscing their conversation in the bookshop.

Aziraphale immediately starts fretting, mumbling something about the time and the cold, but Crowley is faster. “Shut up.”

“Sorry?”

“I said, shut up. I used to know you too, and I know something is up with you.”

The sentence seems to strike something inside of Aziraphale, because the way he’s looking at Crowley know is almost pained. He doesn’t have the mental strength to focus on that right now, so he just stores the look away and goes on. “You said friends, right? Then let’s walk.” Perhaps mentioning their very recent friendship it is a bit of a low blow, but he knows it will get Aziraphale to cooperate.

And it works.

Aziraphale’s ears a little pink when he stands up and for a second Crowley expects a rejection. “I did say friends,” he says, almost sheepishly. “But I can’t stay long. I do have a bunch of teenagers in my living room right now.”

Crowley nods, pantingly ignoring how his heart beats faster. “Let’s get out of here then.”

He then proceeds to shoot a glare in Anathema’s direction, hoping to convey a threatening message. She winks and wiggles her eyebrows; so much for menacing and scary.

It’s really bloody cold outside, and Crowley tries not shiver too hard. He really should have packed a scarf, he’s too old to dress for the aesthetic, and finds himself envious of Aziraphale’s frankly ridiculous tartan one.

They walk for a bit in silence, passing through houses that look straight out anyone’s picket fence dream. Crowley hates the sight less than he thought he would: it’s nice, calming, and although it looks like a postcard, there’s also an authenticity to it, an aura of something well loved.

He’s the one who breaks the silence. “This place’s nicer than I thought.”

Aziraphale hums in agreement beside him. “It took a while to get used to it, after so many years in London, but I love it now.” He’s still looking ahead, at nothing in particular. “It’s peaceful, soothing in a weird way.”

Crowley doesn’t say anything to that, because the only things he can think of (like how he used to picture Aziraphale living a quiet life in a town like this one, all those years ago) are on the edge of dangerous territory.

“Penny for your thoughts?” He says instead.

Aziraphale stops in his tracks, finally turning to look at him. There is no point in wearing his glasses now that they are outside in the dark, and Crowley feels weirdly exposed under his gaze, but doesn’t dare to blink. After a few seconds, Aziraphale finally speaks. “Follow me, will you?”

Of course Crowley will. What he doesn’t expect is to see a small playground on the other side of the street, and to see Aziraphale aiming towards it.

“What are we doing exactly?” He dares to ask, but Aziraphale just shrugs and pushes the gate, that opens with a rusty screech.

“We’re sitting down.” He simply says, walking towards a bloody swing. As he sits down on the way to small seat, Crowley just stares at him, bewildered.

“Aziraphale?”

“Yes?”

“We are forty five year old men.”

Aziraphale chuckles a little at that, but gestures the small seat next to him with a kind of urgency. “It’s the first sitting option I could think of, as I didn’t want you to hurt your leg.”

Coming from any other person, the remark would infuriate Crowley. But Aziraphale’s gentle, unprompted concern warms something inside of him: he’s not being coddled, he’s being cared for. He sits down on the swing, wincing at how cold and hard the seat feels on his bottom. “The grass would have more comfortable than this bloody thing.”

“You would have required assistance in getting up, old man.” They both chuckle lightly as Crowley mutters a ‘bastard’ under breath. Not for the first time, Crowley thinks about how unnaturally easy this whole new old friendship feels. And it’s nice.

“What do you think of Muriel?”

Crowley very nearly falls off the swing in turning sideways as fast as he can. Aziraphale is looking at his intertwined fingers in his lap, tormenting his bottom lip in the meantime. He looks anxious.

“She’s great?” He blurts out, even more confused than he was before. “I mean, she is great. Smart, witty, sweet. Bit of a bastard, too.” He can’t help but smile as he thinks of the kid. He takes a deep breath before adding something that may be a little dangerous. “She reminds me of you, in many ways.”

Aziraphale lets out a shaky breath, but still refuses to meet his eyes. “I worry sometimes, you know? That perhaps she deserved better than me.”

(“They don’t deserve you, angel.”

“They’re old fashioned, a bit stern. But they don’t mean any harm.”

“How can you not see it? They harm you every day.”

“I am just too soft sometimes, and they like to remind me.”

“Tell me you don’t really believe it.”)

Crowley swallows. “Why?”

“The first few months were hell.” Aziraphale sits up straighter, looking at anywhere but Crowley. “Muriel didn’t know me, and she was always so scared. I didn’t know what to do when she cried, or when she asked for her Mum, or when she screamed at me to just go away.”

Crowley sees the tear running down Aziraphale’s cheek, but doesn’t reach out. He lets out a mirthless chuckle. “I cried when she cried, like every parenting book suggested. And I was so angry all the time, especially with Madeleine, for leaving me first and for leaving her daughter, too.” He furiously wipe his tears off. “I was mad at my dead sister for dying, can you believe it?”

Crowley doesn’t know where this all comes from, he doesn’t know what he did to get Aziraphale to open up like this, but he does know he can’t break this moment. When he speaks, it’s barely a whisper. “You were put in an impossible situation, Aziraphale.”

“Oh, I wasn’t put in it. I fought for it.” Crowley watches him take a deep breath.

“I was in the office when I got the call about Madeleine and her husband. I was too paralyzed to process any useful information, but I did understand the custody issue after her lawyer repeated the whole story for the third time. So I went to tell my father.”

Crowley shivers, and not because of the cold. Part of him does not want to think about any members of the Fell family ever again, but the rest of him has to listen if he wants to keep breathing.

“I don’t know if I was crying, I don’t remember much beside the numbness. But I do remember him telling me he already knew, and that he arranged for the child to be brought to London as soon as possible, to be raised by my parents. God knows why that made me snap.”

He can still feel Aziraphale’s righteous fury, still so strong after all these years. Crowley wishes he could have been there to be a witness to it. He still doesn’t speak, waiting for Aziraphale to finish his story. Something in the way he’s shaking tells Crowley he’s never told this story before.

“I told him Madeleine already made arrangements, arrangements that involved me, and to uproot a newly orphaned child was not only selfish but purely cruel. He laughed in my face, obviously, telling me his plan would have been the best possible outcome for every party involved, like Muriel was some kind of faulty contract and not a person, his granddaughter at that. I couldn’t bear it, Crowley, I couldn’t. I spent the next few months in court, both here and back in London, and luckily I was a damn good lawyer who had really good lawyers as friends.” There’s a pause, like Aziraphale needs to collect himself. I know you were, Crowley wants to say, but he stays silent.

“I won, like I knew I would, and my father told me that if I really wanted to throw everything away for a child I didn’t even know I would not be welcomed to come back at any time.”

Crowley feels nauseous. He knew they were bad, he knew they were the one who lured Aziraphale away from him, but he didn’t think he could hate them more. Turns out, he was wrong. “f*ck.”

“You could say that.” Aziraphale finally meets his gaze, those teary eyes still animated by that long buried anger. “I should have told them to f*ck off decades ago.”

Crowley knows what he means. He feels his throat closing up, so he coughs to shake the feeling off. “That was possibly the bravest thing you could have done.”

Aziraphale laughs and shakes his head, almost coyly. “It was merely the right thing.”

“It wasn’t, Aziraphale, Jesus. I don’t know another person who would have done all that.”

And it is the truth. Hell, Crowley himself probably wouldn’t have done all that, especially not alone. He hopes he can make Aziraphale feel how proud he is of him with just one look.

Then, something strikes him. “You worry about the fact that she would have been better off in London?”

Aziraphale bites his lip and look away. “I know it’s not rational, and I know she’s happy here. But it is true that I didn’t know what I was doing for at least a good few years, and perhaps I still don’t sometimes.”

They can still get under his skin, that’s the thing. “Listen up now,” Crowley says, trying to keep his own anger at bay. “First of all, Muriel adores you, and that’s a fact. She told me she enjoyed the college application process and that she’s expecting a letter from bloody Harvard. She’s got lot of friends, doesn’t she? They’re in your house right now. She’s funny, caring, kinder than any teenager I’ve ever met.” He doesn’t realize he’s panting until he gets to the end of his rant. “Seems to me like you’ve done a pretty good job.”

Aziraphale doesn’t even try to wipe his tears away, and Crowley has to fight every instinct in his body not to do it himself. “They called today, am I right?”

Because that’s the only thing that would get Aziraphale to act like that, and Crowley should have known.

“Sandy did.” he breaths out, as Crowley inhales sharply. He will listen, because he has to, and he will not focus on the way his blood ran cold at the mere mention of Aziraphale’s brother.

“The last I’ve heard of him was like four years ago.”

“What did he want?” The words are sharp as a knife, like the knife he so often wanted to threaten Sandy with, back in the day.

He forced Aziraphale to have breakfast with him once a month, just to “catch up”, little rendezvous that left Aziraphale more drained than his Criminal Law textbooks. Crowley never really knew what Sandy used to tell Aziraphale, but their few interactions proved to him just how much of a pretentious snob he was. He’d never met someone that could express disgust in such a silent way, and Crowley seemed to disgust him the most.

“He’s getting married, for some reason that is beyond my understanding. And he invited me.”

Crowley blinks. “And?”

“I told him to f*ck off.”

Crowley barks a laugh. If we was proud before…

“Good job”.

Aziraphale’s smiling now, still a little tight. “I should’ve done that decades ago.” He says again, and Crowley knows what he wants him to understand.

By some mutual, unspoken agreement, they won’t talk about their past and their shared history, nor about why or how it ended. This though, this is a dangerous zone, and Crowley doesn’t know what to do with it.

“You’ve done it now.” He says simply, returning the small smile.

“For some reason,” Aziraphale huffs out, looking positively exhausted, “I started to overthink everything in my life after one simple conversation with him.”

He extends one hand towards Crowley. “Thank you.”

If Crowley takes his hand, things will shift. He doesn’t know how this simple gesture will change their fragile balance, but he is sure it will.

And yet, on this swing in this random playground in America, gravity pulls him towards the only person he’s ever misses, and he doesn’t fight it.

What do you want?

He takes the hand and squeezes it. They both smile.

They must look like quite the pair: two middle aged men, sitting on a swing while holding hands. Crowley throws his head back to laugh at the thought, but it dies in his throat.

“God,” he exclaims. “That’s a lot of stars.”

In the whirlwind of the last few days, he forgot about the promises of stars. And by God he can see a lot of them. The night sky in New Dawns is not as clear as the Mexican one, but for someone who got used to the black abyss above New York City, it is a wonder nonetheless.

He can’t help but smile, wider than he’s done in months. He flushes a bit when he turns to look at Aziraphale, who’s looking at him in a way Crowley will probably dream about. He feels his hand being squeezed gently.

“Tell me about them?”

Stargazing, their first date outside of London. Crowley had dragged Aziraphale in a field just outside the city in the middle of November, ignoring his complaints and promising lots of blankets. There was much more making out than stargazing involved, and it was the best date night of Crowley’s life.

Do you want a second chance? For the time being, he just wants to look at the stars.

A warm hand to hold is a nice addition.

“That one on your right is the Cassiopeia constellation. You can only spot it from October to January.”

passed down like folk songs

our love lasts so long

Chapter 7: if you're lonely come be lonely with me

Chapter Text

are you lonely?

passion is crashing as we speak

you seem so lonely

you’re the ground my feet won’t reach

It’s a rainy Wednesday afternoon and Crowley is sprawled on Anathema’s hideous - yet very comfortable - couch, with his laptop resting uncomfortably on his thighs.

He’s not writing, not really, but he did type in some words. Breaths, here and there, too rare and random to form a full sentence, let alone a paragraph, but it’s still something.

He doesn’t know what that something is, but it is there on his screen, the random words looking back at him like they, too, are surprised to be there.

He wrote the first word on the bookshop’s armchair, while Aziraphale was bickering with one of his out of state customer (mostly snob and pretentious collectors that acted just like him, not that Aziraphale would ever admit to it) on the phone, while Muriel and Anathema, who came to retrieve some of her weird books (and to tease him mercilessly on the way there), were chatting about birth charts sprawled on the bean bags.

It was nice. He felt like a background character in a good kind of way.

That’s when the idea popped into his mind, and he retrieved his long forgotten laptop in his ridiculous backpack he still carried around with him and started typing, much to everyone’s curiosity (everyone went back to their own business after a very polite “Shut up.”).

It was terrifying, it still is terrifying. He swallowed up the furious beating of his heart and focused on the lives blossoming all around him, in the newly unfamiliar-familiar comfort of his surroundings. If anyone noticed how badly his fingers were shaking or how he closed the laptop after having typed for less than ten minutes, no one said anything.

(Aziraphale brought him a cup of tea; he said it was a lavender blend that helped with relaxation; Crowley absolutely did not tear up.)

“You know,” Anathema says from the kitchen. “Lucy was just asking me if you were cooking something. You should give me a raise just for dealing with her.”

Crowley grimaces. Lucy is the head of the publishing house Crowley still has a contract with, and that is not even her real name but a nickname Anathema came up with, short for Lucifer. That sums up the character pretty well.

“So they did start to demand something.” He shots back, suddenly uncomfortable. He knew their patience would run out sooner or later, but he selfishly hoped for more time.

“Don’t you worry about that.” She sits down on the sofa next to him, with her own laptop and a mug of something in her hands. “Luckily for you, your amazing and incredibly smart agent and personal assistant can deal with it just fine.”

He blows a kiss in her direction and she makes a ridiculous show of catching it. Not that he would ever say it out loud, but he would be dead without Anathema Device, quite literally.

“Did you hex the lot of them?”

“Wouldn’t you like to know,” she winks. Such a ridiculous woman, yet Crowley feels lucky to call her a friend.

“I like this version of you, by the way.” Crowley’s eyebrow unimpressed arch must give her a hint of his confusion. “The relaxed one.”

He doesn’t know what to do with that, so he just shrugs and mumbles a “Witch” under his breath. He doesn’t exactly feel relaxed; he is still jumpy, kind of restless, and his mind is all over the place most days than not. But he is also smiling more, teasing back, and he is even wearing his ridiculous prescription glasses for blue light, the tortoise-rimmed ones with lenses that changes colour according to the light. It may seem something trivial, but he never wore them before, stubbornly opting for sunglasses or a throbbing headache instead. They reminded him too much of the accident and of what he’s lost, and he used to get enraged at the mere view of them. It must mean something, the fact that he’s comfortable wearing them now, but he’s not sure he can name what that meaning is exactly.

Perhaps Anathema is right. He’s relaxing a little bit.

He’s still not wearing them outside of this house, of course. He has standards and they meet none of them.

There is a sudden knock on the door, and Crowley’s brow furrows in confusion. “The f*ck?” He mumbles, but Anathema is already getting up to go and answer.

“Ah yes,” she says, a hint of nervousness. “I forgot to tell you.” And then she’s out in a whirlwind of flowy skirt and wavy hair.

“Forgot to tell me what?” He groans and closes his eyes. It was a nice and relaxing afternoon, he’s not in the mood for socializing of any sort. He hopes it’s her question mark of a boyfriend, because he seems to be a bit scared of Crowley and that means he doesn’t talk.

Instead, he hears a posh English accent coming from the foyer and curses under breath. Of course he comes in when he’s wearing his ugliest pair of glasses. Not that it matters anyway.

Oh, well, it does matter a lot.

Just as Crowley knew they would, things changed for him after their whole hand holding business after the meeting and the talk. His feelings were already clear enough for him, so nothing’s new in that regard. What’s new though is perhaps even more embarrassing than admitting to still being in love with your ex boyfriend of twenty three years ago.

Crowley is pathetically touch starved, and ever since he’s got a taste of that warm, strong hand in his, he’s been acting like a horny teenager with a crush, to put it mildly.

The other day in the bookshop, Maggie came in to retrieve a box of books for her class in the town’s middle school. Aziraphale, sleeves rolled up and everything, picked up the box like it was nothing and loaded it into Maggie’s car without breaking a single sweat.

Crowley wanted to bite him, and had to keep his legs crossed for the rest of the afternoon, not to mention the environmentally insensible long shower that followed.

So yes, that’s an unfortunate business.

Aziraphale is now standing in the living room with damp curls, flushed cheeks and a panting in his breathing, wearing a v-neck, light grey jumper with a blue shirt underneath, and Crowley feels like he should chain himself or something.

Why did he have to be handsome too? Hasn’t Crowley suffered enough?

“What are you doing here?” He says intelligently.

Aziraphale looks at him funnily. “Are those new?” Good lord, the horrendous glasses.

“You look cute.” He simply says, with one of those little smiles of his.

Crowley hasn’t been called cute in - well, he has never been called cute. He’s not aiming for ‘cute’, he’s aiming for ‘please lift me up like I am a box full of textbooks and snog me senseless against a wall’. Nonetheless, he blushes and averts his gaze, mumbling a string of consonants under his breath.

“Right, so!” Anathema claps her hands and gestures Aziraphale towards the armchair. “Have you got the goods? I am so sorry about the weather, we could have rescheduled.”

“Don’t you worry dear, I like the rain,” Aziraphale reaches into a satchel Crowley didn’t notice before and pulls out something that looks like the most ancient book known to mankind.

Anathema’s eyes sparkle. “That’s my baby.” She cradled the book in her arms, careful as to not break it in half.

“What the hell is that?” Crowley blurts out before he can stop himself.

Anathema clutches the book closer to her chest and look at him like he’s offended her first born child. “That is an original manuscript from the 14th Century of one of the rarest spell books known to man,” her sigh can only be described as dreamy. “And it’s worth more than your life.”

“Hence the personal handover.” Aziraphale chimes in with a light chuckle.

“Do you smuggle books?” Crowley asks, and he doesn’t expect the outraged look Aziraphale gives him. “Who do you think I am?”

“Jesus Crowley, it’s a book. Stop looking at it like it’s a stash of cocaine.” Aziraphale’s softens immediately and lets out a bark of laugh at Anathema’s snarky remark.

“Right nerds, I’m making myself a drink.” Crowley decides the conversation is too weird for his liking, so he gets up and starts to limp towards the kitchen. The hip gets immensely worse when the weather’s acting up.

A soft hand on his wrist startles him. “You look like you’re in pain.” Even though his brain is short circuiting, Crowley can see the worry in those eyes and the guilt stings him. He never told him anything, yet Aziraphale still cares.

“Yeah, his hip acts up when it rains,” Anathema intervenes, perhaps sensing the uncomfortable shift in the mood inside the room. “Sit back down, I’ll make us some drinks.”

He lets himself be sat down again by that soft hand still circling his wrist, because he’s not strong and this is definitely doing things to him. Luckily - or unfortunately, Crowley can’t decide - Aziraphale mistakes his flush for embarrassment. “There’s nothing to be ashamed of, you know?”

Crowley inhales sharply. “You don’t know anything about it.”

In his last video call with Dr. Eve, she was very pleased to hear about Crowley’s progress with his writing. After some convincing, Crowley told her about his new slash old friend. Dr. Eve looked very unprofessionally smug, in his humble opinion, and had a lot of questions. To sum it up, she wants Crowley to tell Aziraphale about the Accident, at least part of it. “It seems that you trust him quite a lot, and that the feeling is mutual,” she had said, with her kind yet creepily all knowing smile plastered on her soft features. “You would benefit from letting go of some of your walls.” He would be the first person to hear the story, after the therapist. Crowley is not sure he can talk about it, while the shame and the fear are still so raw.

“That doesn’t affect my previous statement.” Aziraphale finally lets go of his wrist, sitting primly on the other side of the couch, and Crowley almost jumps to resume the contact.

“I’ll tell you, someday.” He mumbles, surprising the both of them. “Soon.”

He doesn’t necessarily want to, but he knows he needs to. If not for himself, he owes Aziraphale honesty, trust at least.

There is a flash of something on Aziraphale’s feature, and he opens his mouth as if to say something, but he is interrupted by Anathema returning and carrying hazardously three mugs simultaneously. Of course Aziraphale is up and ready to help as soon as she spots her, and Crowley tries not show his disappointment when he sits back down the armchair, returning the spot on the couch to Anathema.

Gosh. He is so dramatic.

“Is this alcoholic, dear girl?” Crowley smells the content of his own mug and scrunch up his nose as well. “Bloody hell Nath, it’s three in the afternoon.”

“You’re so boring,” she says, taking a long sip. “I was thinking of making some mulled wine for my stand. Take this as a test run.”

Crowley shakes his head, but drinks the wine nonetheless. It’s warm and spicy, surprisingly really good. Thank God he swallows before Aziraphale has a taste, because it is in that moment that Crowley remembers a detail about him he’d somehow forgotten.

Aziraphale is very… vocal about what he likes, especially drinks and food (and definitely other things, but Crowley’s mind will not go there). And he seems to like the mulled wine a little too much. Even Anathema blushes at that, and Crowley shoots her a knowing look.

“It’s really good.” At least Aziraphale has the decency of looking a bit embarrassed. He recovers quickly, changing the subject swiftly. “I thought you were doing tea leaves, this year?”

“Why not both? Hot drinks and predictions.” She smirks. “I’m going all out.”

“Nerd.” Crowley mumbles in his mug.

“Don’t be rude,” Aziraphale admonishes, sounding like a scolding teacher (Crowley’s mind will most definitely not go there). “I think it’s a lovely idea, Anathema.” She blows him a kiss as well, as Crowley rolls his eyes.

“What are you doing for the festival you wanted to be part of so badly, Crowley?”

What a bastard. “Donating a sh*t ton of money.” He shrugs, before taking another long sip. He was the one to suggest that this year’s charity should be the one he used to donate to yearly back in New York City, an organization that offers lessons in creative writing and other arts to the youth in homeless shelters. Everyone accepted the suggestion enthusiastically, and he admits he felt a bit proud of himself. “Besides, what are you doing, Mr. I’m-the-head-of-the-committee?”

“What you just said, being the head of the committee.” Aziraphale replies, fairly unimpressed. “What would I even do? Sell more books?”

Crowley blinks once. “Dunno, aren’t those live portrait thingies popular at this kind of things?”

He lets himself be proud of his idea for exactly one second, before he senses how tense the whole room is now. Aziraphale laughs, but it’s not the real thing. “Oh dear, I couldn’t possibly.” Why the hell is he fretting? Oh, Crowley thinks. Oh.

“You don’t draw anymore?” Crowley’s attempt at appearing just slightly interested falls flat. He’s aware he sounds a bit pathetic, but he can’t picture living in a world where Aziraphale appears embarrassed of what used to be his whole life.

“It was just a silly hobby, Crowley, don’t be dramatic.” Aziraphale makes a terrible poker player, his eyes are just too expressive. Right now, they’re pleading Crowley to just drop it.

Crowley does not. And, thank Someone, his best friend is equally annoying.

“Well, now I’m curious!” Anathema says, sitting up straighter. “Is this some kind of hidden talent of yours?”

Crowley wants to laugh. He thinks about hands, graphite stains, an entire paycheck spent on watercolors, portraits on beer stained receipts, blank canvas piled up next to Criminal Law textbooks. “Get him a piece of paper and a pencil.”

Anathema ignores Aziraphale’s ever so polite complaint, and gets up eagerly. Crowley turns to look at him, and lounges forward to rest his hand on his arm before he can talk himself out of it. “It was never a silly hobby, you liar,” he smiles, a little and tight crooked thing, but Aziraphale, though extremely flustered and a bit annoyed, curls his lips as well.

“I’m going to embarrass myself,” he says softly, and Crowley wants to smack some sense into him, but he just barks out a final, “Shut up”.

They stare at each other for a moment, before Aziraphale speaks. “It’s been quite a long time.”

Crowley swallows. “I hope not too long,” which is an unfortunate sentence he regrets as soon as it leaves his mouth.

Aziraphale’s expression shifts, turning into something else completely. “Not twenty three years, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

Crowley is not sure they’re even talking about art anymore. He’s not sure what he would prefer. Somewhere in the depth of his brain he’s aware his fingers are tracing along Aziraphale’s forearm, and Aziraphale is not stopping him, he’s not flinching, jerking his arm away. He stays still, looking right into his eyes, and Crowley is not worried about his stupid glasses anymore.

He could kiss him, it’s the thing. He could lounge a little bit forward again and just do it. If he does, he’s not going to be able to stop.

“Can’t believe I couldn’t find a f*cking pencil,” Anathema’s annoyed huff comes from somewhere in the foyer. “I did find some paper, but a pen is as good as it gets.”

Crowley retracts his hand, quicker than intended, and sits back down properly. He watches as Aziraphale keeps his eyes on him a moment longer, before straightening his own posture on the armchair and plastering on his usual, polite look. He unclenches his jaw as Anathema comes back in the room, but Crowley doesn’t, he can’t, fingers digging into his sweatpants and trying to cough the moment away.

Aziraphale takes the paper and the pen from Anathema’s hands, who sits down on the sofa next to Crowley with an excited wiggle. He sighs, eying the both of them with an unreadable expression. “I assume there is no way I can talk myself out of this?”

Crowley envies him for being able to jump back into the previous conversation so easily, when he’s still reeling the feeling of the fabric of his jumper beneath his fingertips.

“Just get to it already,” he mumbles at last, toying with the hems of his own jumper, in an imperfect try at getting some of the feeling back.

Aziraphale looks at him, a fraction longer than strictly necessary, then smiles at Anathema and starts tracing lines on the paper.

Crowley can’t bear to watch him, the familiarity of the movement of his hands crushing down on him, his lungs deflating at the memories of those same hands using his body as a canvas. He dares a sideways glance in Anathema’s direction, whose eyes are focused on the way Aziraphale’s hands flicker on the piece of paper.

Crowley recognizes the look: he’s seen it on oozes of children during the parties he used to drag Aziraphale to, he’s seen it on their parents faces, on the face of every single one of their friends who’s watched Aziraphale doing this, living in his element, unbothered by reality outside his bubble. He’s felt the same look on his own face, the smiles he couldn’t fight back, the stares he couldn’t help.

He stares back down at his own hands, fingers that have typed and written more words than one should type and write in a lifetime, and wonders. Has Aziraphale kept his memories of them stashed in his hands and fingertips? Has he laid them down on some kind of canvas when they started to overflow, like Crowley did? How many secrets do this hands harbor? How many secrets are they willing to share in this rainy, mundane afternoon?

(“Are these my eyes, angel?”

“You know they are. You’re just fishing for compliments.”

“I’m complimenting you, you idiot.”

“You’ve got a weird idea of a compliment, love.”

“You’ve got a weird idea of foreplay then.”

“Really Crowley, really?”

“Alright, sorry, they’re very nice sketches.”)

“Well,” Aziraphale says softly, lifting the pen off the paper. “Since you insisted.”

Crowley thanks the stars Aziraphale didn’t choose to draw him. Instead, he drew Anathema.

It’s a really good sketch, especially since it’s done with a sh*tty pen you’d buy at the Dollar Store on a piece of paper that looks suspiciously like the back of an invoice. It’s incredibly and impossibly detailed, as he managed to somehow add some shading as well.

The Anathema in the drawing sits on the sofa with the mug in her hands and her half suspicious, half interested signature look. The Anathema in real life lets out an honest to god squeak. “What?” She practically rips the sheet out of an amused Aziraphale. “A silly hobby? Are you kidding me? You’ve done this in five minutes.”

Crowley smirks, and he could say something stupid like ‘you don’t know what else he can do in five minutes’ or ‘he likes to deny it but he’s pretty good with his hands’ or ‘the first time he showed me a watercolor painting I nearly cried’, but instead he simply says, “He’s an absolute bastard.”

Aziraphale tilts his head to look at him. “Takes one to know one,” he wets his lips and wiggles happily in his chair, evidently pleased with his snarky remark.

Crowley just hums and shakes his head into his now lukewarm cup of mulled wine, stealing a sideway glance at Anathema who’s now taking a picture of the impromptu portrait on her phone. He wishes smartphones would have been around in the 90s, just so he could have taken pictures of everything Aziraphale ever made him. He wonders, for a fleeting second, if perhaps Aziraphale kept something.

“I’m texting this to Newt,” she muses. “Telling him to up his game or I’m running away with the bookseller who draws me pretty pictures.”

Aziraphale laughs at that and Crowley, who is still going to spend the evening mooning and wanting and wishing, sighs deeply and smiles.

To be fair, Anthony Crowley doesn’t have a good track record when it comes to decisions, especially decisions regarding Aziraphale. This, however, may be the worst one ever.

How else could he describe freezing his buttocks off on the icy ground of a public park, hidden behind a bush, just to spy on two teenagers on a date?

“Would you stop whining, Crowley?” Aziraphale hisses, crouched beside him. “This was your idea.”

Crowley groans. “Why would you ever say yes to one of my ideas?” He shifts a bit, trying to suppress a shiver. “Plus, it was the wine talking. Your wine.”

It really started off as a normal afternoon, Crowley typing something in the bookshop while Aziraphale was doing inventory, or rather attempting to. Then, out of the blue, Aziraphale brought out a bottle of red wine that looked stupidly expensive, and he said, “Care for a drink?”, even if it was way too early for a drink. He looked like he needed one though, fretting and more nervous than usual.

Crowley, who was too busy looking at Aziraphale’s hands uncorking the bottle, obviously agreed. And then, two glasses in, he remembered he should have asked, “What’s gotten into you?”

Aziraphale sighed, fixing his gaze on the glass in his hands, twirling his finger on the rim, and Crowley had to ask him to repeat his answer. “Muriel’s on a date, and I am having a moment.” And Crowley whistled, for whatever reason.

They talked a bit about being old men, carefully avoiding any reference to their own dating adventures. Then Crowley’s useless brain, fogged by excellent wine, came up with what seemed like a fun thing to do. “Aziraphale,” he rolled the five syllable on his tongue. “Do you want to go spy on some teenagers?”

Aziraphale was supposed to be the voice of reason, the mature and functioning adult in the room, but he emptied his glass in one go and smiled. “Why not?”

None of them are smiling now, shivering and damp, hunched behind a bush that doesn’t even let them see anything. It’s so bloody cold Crowley already feels sober.

“You seemed to like the wine,” Aziraphale snarls beside, patting his thighs in a rather pathetic attempt at heating up. “Good Lord, why did you talk me into this? It’s such a-an invasion of privacy and I am not that kind of-”

“Hardly had to talk you into it,” Crowley hisses back. “And it’s hardly an invasion of privacy if we can’t see sh*t.”

Aziraphale plops down from his uncomfortable looking kneeling position, sitting on the ground with his back to the bush, and sighs, scrubbing his hand on his face. With a bit of discomfort, Crowley imitates him and before long, they’re both sitting on the ground, their backs resting lightly on the bush.

Quite the sight.

“I think,” Aziraphale starts, “I think I’m on the verge of a midlife crisis.”

“I think,” Crowley turns sideways to look at him. “You are a tad bit overdramatic.”

“I am sitting on the ground in January, hidden behind a bush.” Aziraphale throws his hands up in defeat, and Crowley snorts. “Well, me too.”

But as the other man doesn’t laugh, nor return his smile, Crowley’s own mirth dies down too, and they sit in silence for a while. Crowley toys with some dead leaves on the ground and deliriously thinks that despite the cold and the hard ground and the ridiculousness of the situation, he’s happy to just sit next to him.

“I just don’t know what I’ll do with myself once she’s off to college.” Aziraphale whispers.

“You have your bookshop,” Crowley replies, a bit taken aback by the revelation. “And, well, friends, a whole town to boss around and such.”

Aziraphale smiles despite his lameness. “You’re too kind.”

“‘M not.” It’s an automatic reply at this point, something he got so used to during the years that his body has now a pavlovian response to the word ‘kind’; he had a reputation to uphold, after all, for reasons that seem so unimportant now.

“You are, and you’re also quite mistaken.” There is a heavy pause before Aziraphale speaks again. “I fully focused on raising her these past few years, and I think I forgot how it feels to have a meaningful…” He looks straight into Crowley’s eyes, somehow bypassing the dark lenses. “Connection.”

Crowley stares back, unable to do anything else. He almost holds out his hand, but he can’t seem to move. The truth is, Crowley had forgotten as well. He’d forgotten a lot of things, such as the peculiar shade of blue piercing his skull.

“I haven’t done anything beside caring and worrying for Muriel for the past eight years, Crowley.” Aziraphale drops his gaze. “I suppose I never stopped to think about the fact that one day she won’t need me anymore.”

Crowley should say something at this point. Perhaps, he could tell Aziraphale that Muriel will always need him, because she loves him and because he tends to have that effect on people; he could tell Aziraphale everyone in this small town adores him as well, and that there are about a hundred things he could do and be the very best at; he could tell him that growing old sucks and that he’s forgotten how it felt to be twenty and hopeful but then he looks at him and he remembers.

“I spent roughly twenty years writing and then I couldn’t do it anymore.” Crowley says instead. “Can’t tell you why, really. I think the source has run dry.” He laughs bitterly.

“I’m sorry,” Aziraphale whispers, his hand coming to rest in the space between them. It is an invitation that Crowley cannot take right now. “That sounds…”

“Lonely?”

“Difficult.” Aziraphale bits his bottom lip, Crowley averts his gaze. “But I think lonely works as well.”

Crowley didn’t plan what comes out of his mouth next. Whenever he imagined this scenario, and he didn’t imagine it often, he didn’t imagine sitting on frozen ground in a semi deserted public park. As if anything in his life has ever gone according to plan.

“Then there was the accident and everything got even worse.”

Even if he’s not looking at Aziraphale anymore, he can sense the way he’s holding his breath in the way he whispers, “The accident?”

Crowley could lie; he could shrug it off; he could tell him he doesn’t want to talk about it.

“Car accident. I was going too fast, I crashed.” He squeezes his eyes shut. He tries to focus on his breathing only, inhale and exhale, and the way the cold breeze hits his cheek. Inhale and exhale. “f*cked up my leg and my eyes.” Inhale and exhale. “It was my fault, obviously, so I couldn’t play the victim card. I broke a lot of things instead.”

He’d broken vinyls and old books, plant vases and ceramic plates, friendships and work partnerships. He’d been a nightmare for months on end, until Anathema, the only living person who he didn’t manage to scare away, dragged him inside Dr. Eve’s office.

Inhale and exhale, inhale and exhale, inhale and - there is a hand on his cheek, which is apparently damp. “Well,” he says, proud of himself for his barely shaky voice (and for not leaning into the touch like a cat). “This is embarrassing.”

“Shut up.” Aziraphale catches one last tear before retracting his hand. Crowley misses it immediately. “I am sorry.”

“It was my fault.” Isn’t that the root of everything that’s wrong? It was his fault, completely and utterly his fault. He can’t forget nor forgive himself, because he doesn’t have anyone or anything else to blame but himself; that’s what he usually tells Dr. Eve, anyway, and she usually says-

“Both things can be true.” Aziraphale replies firmly. “I’ll still be sorry that happened to you, even if it was your fault.”

Of course he would say that. Of course he would. As if Crowley wasn’t already f*cked beyond belief. As if he wasn’t already about to fall. “You sound just like my therapist.”

“Must be an excellent one.” Crowley can just hear the smugness. “Bastard.” It’s barely a snort, but somehow they both start chucking.

Whenever he imagined this scenario, it never ended with them laughing.

“We’re both messes, aren’t we?” Aziraphale says between huffs of laughter.

“You could say that, but I win.”

“It may be the most depressive competition ever.”

“Whatever, I still win.”

After a while, their laughter dies down. “Aziraphale,” Crowley turns to look at him again and finds that the other man’s gaze is a bit watery. He wants to think it’s because of the laughs. “Why are we still on the ground?”

“Mmmh. If anyone asks, we’ll say it was the wine.” He lifts the hand between them and wiggles his eyebrows in a way that shouldn’t be endearing. “Deal?”

Crowley shakes his hand. “Deal.” If he holds onto it for a little while longer than necessary, Aziraphale doesn’t pull away. Crowley wants to pull closer, and closer, and closer, until he can bury himself in all that softness and goodness and smugness and- “Dinner?” He blurts out, regretting it as soon as he does.

Aziraphale’s eyes widen, almost comically, and he opens his mouth once, then closes, then opens it again. He doesn’t say anything for one long moment. Crowley stills, just because he can’t do what he really wants to do (bang his head against a desk, for example). Too fast, he thinks miserably. Too fast, too soon, again. He can’t stand this, not again.

“I mean,” he starts, completely improvising, just trying to take that look out of Aziraphale’s face. “You bring Muriel as well, and I live at Nath’s house so she’s obviously going to be there with her bloke, probably, you know the one? Looks like a question mark on legs?” He stoically marches on, even if he sees the puzzled, borderline worried look Aziraphale is shooting him. “After all that talk about meaningful connections with people, we should probably connect meaningfully.” f*ck. “Forget I said that, please.”

Mercifully, Aziraphale puts a hand on his arm to stop his rambling. “Crowley,” and he would bask in the softness of his own name spoken by the voice, if he wasn’t burning inside. “I think it’s a lovely idea.”

“You do?” He asks lamely.

“Of course,” he sounds sincere, but also a little bit hesitant. “If it is something you’d really like to do?”

To be honest, Crowley blurted out the invitation picturing a dimly lit bookshop, some more wine, perhaps an invitation to see the backroom, maybe to even try out the settee he’d spied some days prior and which inspired an extremely long shower - “Yeah, ‘course.”

He’s not sure how longer he can put up with this whole thing. Then Aziraphale smiles at him, one of those beaming ones, and he decides he will put up with the thing for as long as he gets the chance to.

New York City, March 16th, 2002

Hiya angel,

this may be a little awkward. Jesus, why am I so weird? I’m not even sending these damn letters.

Anyway, I’ve been on a date, just got back actually. It sucked, plain and simple. And the worst thing is - well, there are several bad things actually.

Bad thing # 1: I didn’t want to go, not even a little bit. So you could say I didn’t exactly go in with an open mind. Why did I go, you’d ask? Well, a friend basically forced me and I couldn’t really say no because it was her cousin and, honestly? I was bored. I do stupid things when I’m bored. And he did say he would pay, so.

Bad thing # 2: he was snobbish and pretentious and he wore this shirt with this hideous flamingo print, God, I was embarrassed. And I used to date someone who wore bowties unironically. Well, that someone made bowties hot. Anyway, getting a little distracted.

Bad thing # 3: he did say he would pay for the drinks, and then he didn’t! Can you believe it? Bloody wanker.

Bad thing # 4: I felt like I was cheating on you the whole time, which is probably not healthy. Probably? It’s definitely unhealthy, and the reason why I should have never even said yes in the first place. Perhaps one day I’ll stop feeling this way. Perhaps it’s still too soon? I wish I’d knew how you feel about all this. I would maybe feel less alone if I knew you’d felt the same. In my head at least, you feel the same as I do. I’d like to think I knew quite better than anyone else, so I don’t think my assumption is entirely wrong.

Anyway, anyway. It’s already kind of late.

Maybe I should send you a letter. I’d like to think you’d reply, at least to tell me to f*ck off.

Maybe I’ll move on then.

Until that time, I miss you always,

C.

The impromptu dinner party Crowley came up with on the spot to cover his embarrassment actually happens. He is, obviously, getting worked up over it.

“This is nice.” Question Mark Puppy smiles as he puts down the last of the plates, while Crowley hovers the room like a very anxious hawk.

“Uh?” He replies intelligently, glaring at him from under his glasses.

“It was a very nice idea, this dinner.” His smile drops as Crowley continues to glare at him. “Did I say something?”

“You didn’t,” Anathema makes her entrance twirling her fluffy skirt. “He’s just sulking because he f*cked up when he tried to ask Aziraphale on a date.”

Crowley literally never told her any of it. He’s not even surprised at this point. “‘M not sulking.” He says, rearranging his wine glass for the third time in a minute. “And this whole psychic thing is getting creepy.”

“So you did try to ask him out,” she smirks.

f*ck.

Mercifully, the doorbell rings and he uses it as an excuse to get out of her hands. Question Mark Puppy can deal with her for five minutes.

Not that the prospect of opening the door is a walk in the park. He should really, really call Dr. Eve. At least she won’t make fun of him for his deeply unserious crush.

Since when has he started to think of him as a crush? At forty five? Jesus.

He opens the door and the Fells stand in front of him, matching scarves and beaming smiles and everything. He still has the mental capacity to know that he has to step aside and let them through the door, and he feels proud of himself when they take off the coats and scarves and he still hasn’t managed to say something dumb.

Then he notices it. A little pin on Muriel’s - frankly ridiculous, another thing picked up from Aziraphale - green jumper. It’s a little thing, and yet Crowley’s eyes fixate on it, and he smiles. He’s not sure what to do in a situation like this, let alone what to say, but thankfully he doesn’t have to say anything. “What do you think?” She — they (Crowley will need a bit of practice with that) say, almost sheepishly, as if they don’t know what to expect.

And Crowley, well, he doesn’t really know what to do with all of this trust. Because that what this is, and he is not used to it, not sure if he even deserves it.

“That’s very cool kid,” he says, immediately grimacing. Who says that? “That was the lamest possible reaction, wasn’t it?”

Muriel smiles, in the same exact way the man who now has an arm around their shoulder does. “A solid second place,” they snicker, pointing a thumb in Aziraphale’s direction. “He cried.”

“Oh, really? And you didn’t?” Aziraphale bends a little to press a kiss on the top of Muriel’s head. Crowley’s stomach does something funny. “I’m proud of you, peach.” He says, his eyes all soft and loving. Crowley’s knees do something funny.

“Right, well,” he starts, unsure of where this is even going. “I’m proud of you as well, kid. This is really brave.”

He earns two beaming smiles, and Muriel briefly wraps their arms around his middle. Before he has time to do something stupid, like tear up, they let go. “You always called me ‘kid’, you know? You always kept it gender neutral.” They say, looking shy again. “It helped me realize how comfortable I felt with the whole thing.”

“Right.” His eyes are definitely not burning and tears are definitely not pooling. Gosh, he think he could grow so fond of Muriel so soon. Sure, he always liked kids, but the things he’s feeling right now are beyond regular affection. The Fells must have something in their DNA, it’s the only explanation.

“Go sit down before I challenge your uncle for the lamest reaction.” He blurts out eventually. Muriel giggles a little but wastes no time. As Aziraphale follows them, he stops to squeeze Crowley’s arm briefly. “Thank you.” He whispers. Crowley’s stomach does the funny thing again, only much harder.

“So much for not feeling needed anymore.” He smirks, knowing this will earn him an eye roll. It doesn’t come. Aziraphale looks at him weirdly, but pointedly. He squeezes his arm again.

Then he smiles, and lets go. “Well, I think we were both being a bit overdramatic.”

Crowley’s wishful thinking makes him believe that is not what Aziraphale was about to say, but he shrugs and follows him to the table anyway. It’s already a pretty eventful evening, his(touch starved, rather permanently horny, hopelessly infatuated) mind could very well shut up for a few hours.

Half an hour later, everyone is laughing over something Question Mark Puppy said, that Crowley didn’t quite catch because he was too busy staring at Aziraphale, at the way his eyes shine, at the way his hair is almost golden in the dimly lit dining room, at the way his hands move around like they have a mind of their own when he gets excited about something, at the way his shoulder shake when he laughs.

And it’s nice to lose himself in the happiness lingering in the room; it’s nice to be surrounded by people and enjoying the company without feeling the need to perform an act; it’s just nice, and it feels scarily and overwhelmingly comfortable.

And then Anathema says something about dancing, Question Mark sputters something and before he knows it, and for some reason that cannot be anything else than God hating him, he’s watching Aziraphale twirling her around the living room, and everyone is laughing again, Muriel is asking for the next dance, and Aziraphale blushes and dips Anathema with a ridiculously endearing move and Crowley —

Crowley takes a sip from his wine glass, and falls in love.

so if you’re lonely

darling you’re glowing

if you’re lonely come be lonely

with me

Chapter 8: long drive, could end in burning flames or paradise

Chapter Text

you come and pick me up

no headlights

long drive

could end in burning flames or paradise

“Hello Mr. Crowley. I was kind of surprised to see your message today. Is everything alright over there?”

“I have thoroughly f*cked up, Dr. Eve. You have no idea.”

What a fine start to a late January morning.

“Is this related to what you said during our last session?”

“Nah.” Crowley shrugs, fixing his laptop to look a bit more put together in the webcam. He is still in bed and in his pajamas, but whatever, he can try. “I already knew I was in love with him, I was just being delusional about it.”

“We talked about this kind of language, Anthony.”

“Don’t ‘Anthony’ me, please.” He whines. He cannot handle another lecture about positive self talk. “You’re right, I was protecting my feelings, whatever, fine. Can we move on?”

Dr. Eve shoots him a look that probably says ‘you are the worst client I’ve ever had in my entire career’, but sighs and nods nonetheless. “Very well. What seems to be the problem?”

Crowley wants to laugh, and to scream. Since he already treated himself to a private scream in the shower, he chooses to laugh. “I am so stupid.”

The thing happened last night, at one of those godforsaken meetings for that godforsaken festival he stupidly agree to partake in. Well, it’s actually not that bad, sometimes it’s also kind of fun; he gets to spend more time with Aziraphale while he paints the stupid things, and he also gets to bitch with Nina from the coffee shop about trashy reality TV and to nibble on Maggie’s excellent cakes while simultaneously making fun of Anathema’s tea leaves thing.

“You’re forming new friendships and connections, Mr. Crowley. That’s very good.”

He smiles, but waves his hand dismissively. Whatever, not the point.

Last night, they were talking about the charity, the one Crowley (proudly) suggested. Actually, he was the one to introduce the topic. The head of the non profit organization had contacted him to let him know that they would welcome the festival organizers to tour their facilities with open arms, would they want to actually witness the reality they’d be donating their money to.

Unfortunately for him, Aziraphale was very grateful about it, and actually looked pretty excited about the prospect. When he remembered that the organization’s headquarters were actually in New York City, he looked incredibly tense for a moment (much like Crowley felt inside) and then he said he could drive down there for a day later that week.

At that point Crowley’s brain short circuited. There was something in the image of Aziraphale Fell going to New York City without him that was making him burn up from the inside. It was an insane thing to do, but he couldn’t keep his big mouth shut.

So, here they are, with plans about going to New York City together (which also poses the further problem of sustaining another drive, with Aziraphale driving, good Lord, he needs another private scream) in a few days, like the biggest cosmic joke the universe could ever pull on Crowley. The scenario of his literal dreams, only twenty three years later.

Hence the private scream.

“Well, Mr. Crowley,” Dr. Eve starts, intertwining her fingers on her desk. “That certainly sounds like a potential stressful situation.”

Understatement of the f*cking century. “Yeah, told you I f*cked up.”

“I don’t think that’s the case. It’s clearly something you wanted to do.”

“Yeah, twenty three years ago.” He cuts her off, but Dr. Eve is not one to go down without a fight. To be honest, Crowley is the one to usually admit defeat.

“Clearly, you suggested it for a reason. What do you think that is?”

“Ngk.” Crowley hates this part of therapy, the part where he actually has to think about his feelings and express them out loud. He’s been to enough sessions to know that there is no point in deflecting the question, they would always circle back to it.

“I think,” he mumbles, hoping his voice is loud enough for the speakers despite the sh*tty wi-fi. “I think I couldn’t bear the thought of him going there without me, after everything that’s happened. It’s stupid and borderline creepy, I’m aware.”

“I wouldn’t say that.” Of course she wouldn’t, she’s paid to say nice things to him. He groans, because he knows he’s not supposed to think about things like that, but it’s hard sometimes not to fall back into that kind of mindset.

“I would say you’re trying to recreate something you longed for for a very long time, something you’d chosen to forget about during the years and has now resurfaced. It’s not stupid, nor creepy.”

“Nnh.” He groans louder, burying his face in his hands. She’s good at this.

“I think you’re scared, and that is a perfectly normal reaction to this situation. Now, what are you afraid of?”

What is Crowley afraid of? A number of things. The most practical one is his panic around cars, which Dr. Eve tackles easily. He hasn’t had issues with the longer drive before, it’s highly unlikely he would panic around someone he trusts so deeply.

Crowley doesn’t mention the fact that he may panic in an entirely different way for entirely different reasons, like seeing Aziraphale’s hands on the steering wheel and being jealous of said steering wheel and let’s not even think about the gear shift; she’s his therapist, but she doesn’t need to know about what a horny mess he is. That is for his shower’s eyes only.

“Correct if I’m wrong, but I think you’re afraid of what the City means to your relationship. You’re scared that coming here together will bring up a lot of suppressed feelings, and you worry this will damage the relationship you have now. Am I wrong?”

“Mmmh.” She’s not wrong. Crowley wouldn’t have articulated the feeling so well, but the core of it is true.

If the trips goes well, he will just have more to mourn. The lost years would be even more painful, in his mind. He’s pretty sure he will see the twenty something version of Aziraphale roaming the streets beside him, the ghost of what could have been haunting every single step he’ll take. He spent months, hell, even years imagining Aziraphale in the City with him, he would fall asleep at night making up scenarios in his head of the two of them strolling through Central Park, dining at every single fancy restaurant in the West Village, spending Sundays in Coney Island. They were just dreams, harmless fantasies. He’s not sure how he will cope with reality.

“So, what do I do?”

“Identifying your fears and potential stressors is the first step, as you are now very well aware.” She gives him a soft smile. “You have all the means to deal with it now, I am sure of it. Remember the tricks we learned together and all the progress you made.” Crowley is definitely not sure of it, but he nods anyway. If anything, he can still trust her professional judgement. “As to what to do next, the choice is yours. You could see this outing as an opportunity to spend time with a person you trust and care about, and you could open yourself to the possibility of having fun.”

He grimaces. “Or I could call the whole thing off because there is no way in Hell I’ll be able to go and not make a fool of myself.”

She gives him another soft, almost all knowing smile. “The choice is yours.”

Crowley actually reflects on it. He’s terrified of everything that could happen, and he is pretty sure it’s not going to go well. But he also thinks of twenty year old Crowley, who spent his every waking moment dreaming about this thing. He would never forgive his older version for not grasping this opportunity, and Present Crowley owes him a lot.

That kid never gave up. Except when he purposefully missed a certain someone’s calls. He also owes a lot to that kid who called him every single day for an entire month from the other side of the Atlantic Ocean, before giving up for good.

He sighs, looking straight into Dr. Eve’s pixelated eyes. “If this goes pear-shaped you’re going to make a sh*t ton of money.”

As soon as the calls disconnects, he enjoys another private scream.

(London, June 2000

Crowley is flying. Perhaps it is the high still lingering from Graduation Day, perhaps it is the prospect of an entire summer of celebrating with his boyfriend. The last summer of their youth, as Aziraphale always says. A bit ominous, but Crowley doesn’t disagree. He just replies that it will be the first summer of the rest of their lives.

They’re proper adults now, and sooner or later real life will catch up with them, bursting the bubble of happiness of their shared University days.

Thankfully, Anthony Crowley always has a plan. And his plan is rather brilliant, if he says so himself. In the past few months, he’s done quite a lot of thinking, and he came to an unequivocal conclusion: the root of their problems (Aziraphale’s constant and growing anxieties, their constant need to hide, art supplies being purchased using only cash, among other things) is Fell & Partners, the family firm looming over their horizon ever since they first got together.

He understands Aziraphale and his family have a deal, and he knows he’s expected to come to work for them as soon as he’s done with Law School. Perhaps ‘expected’ is not the right word here, because Aziraphale is all but being forced to do it, as they never gave him a bloody choice in the first place. Had they done it, he would never touch anything else but a brush for the rest of his life, Crowley is sure of it. And that’s what he’s doing, tonight: giving him a choice. Well, a very expensive bottle of wine and two one way plane tickets that cost more than his life.

And he’s mad, his plan is absolutely mad and if he’d tell anyone about it they would probably tell him not to do it, that they’re way too young and they won’t last and moving across the world with nothing but a simple plan and a lot of hope is something that only works in the movies.

The thing is that nobody else knows what it’s like, to have what they have. No one else knows that their spark, their connection is not something fleeting; it is everything.

Perhaps, it’s a bit of a dramatic thing to say, but Crowley believes it wholeheartedly nonetheless: they are everything, and if he hadn’t chose to use his cheesiest pick up line in that pub four years ago, he would have never found the sun.

What can he say? He’s a writer; always had a touch for the dramatics.

He paces around the flat - technically, it’s Aziraphale’s, but he spends so much time over here that they’ve been practically living together for years -, almost bouncing in excitement. He’s already cooked and set the table, the wine is cooling in the fridge, the candles have been lit. He’s just waiting for Aziraphale to come home after his meeting with his wanker of a brother. He absentmindedly scrunches his nose in distaste; gosh, Aziraphale’s nerves are going to be wrecked, just like after every single one of those meetings.

Well, that means his surprise is going to be even better. If everything’s goes according to plan, he will never have to endure another meeting ever again. Crowley could jump.

Oh, he’s spent months picturing tonight. Well, not specifically tonight, but the moment he’ll finally confess to Aziraphale what he’s been planning. He’s always been evasive when they talked about their plans post graduation, and even though he’s breaking him to see Aziraphale growing anxious over his future as well, he’s been keeping this a secret for a reason.

And now, finally, it’s going to be out in the open. They are going to be free, together, with an ocean between them and their enemies. Well, Crowley’s enemies, which happen to be his significant other family members. As always, a touch for the dramatics.

After what feels like an eternity spent pacing and fretting over nothing, Crowley finally hears the front door opening.

He’s in Aziraphale’s space before he can even close the damn door, pressing a quick kiss to his lips. “Hiya, angel.”

Aziraphale returns his smile, albeit a little shaky, a far cry from his usual beaming self. f*cking Sandy. “Hello to you too.”

“I made dinner,” Crowley tugs on Aziraphale’s hand to get him to follow him to the kitchen table he so carefully set. This is step one of his plan: woo your hopeless romantic of a boyfriend with some candles and whatever.

Aziraphale gifts him another smile at the sight, brighter than the last one. “Oh, this is so nice,” he breathes, and gives Crowley’s hands a little squeeze. “Thank you Crowley.”

His plan is obviously going well, since he also earns a kiss on the cheek.

“Dear, I need to tell you something.” Aziraphale says after sitting down, already tormenting his ring with his other fingers. Crowley frowns.

He can’t stand to see Aziraphale so anxious, so pale in comparison to his usual glowing self. And it’s always, always their damn fault. Not anymore though; seems like he needs to jump ahead a few steps with his plan.

“Actually, there’s something I need to tell you.” He leans forwards to take the restless hands into his slightly shaking ones. The final step: make one hell of a speech.

“So, Aziraphale, angel. We’ve been together for a while now, but sometimes I feel like we’ve been together for an eternity already, and I know you feel the same. Ever since we met four years ago, it’s always been us, you know? I could always rely on you, and you on me, and I’ve been in love with you ever since I saw you in that pub and, f*ck, I’m already rambling.” He lets out a breathless chuckle. Aziraphale doesn’t move.

“What I’m trying to say is, I’m tired of hiding, angel. I’m tired of not being to tell everyone I love you, and that you love me, and that we have something no one else in the world has, because that I’m sure of. I want to hold your hand and to kiss you on a dancefloor and to go out with friends and introduce as my boyfriend, and I know you can’t do that, love, I know why. But it doesn’t have to be forever, not anymore.”

He frees one hand and reaches inside his jacket, taking out their tickets to freedom. “We can get away from them, angel, away from them and their toxic ways and I know you want this as much as I do. I certainly don’t need them, but you don’t either, you clever thing. We will be just fine, just the two of us, we’re both brilliant enough to have a nice life away, with an ocean between us and them.”

He gives Aziraphale’s hand a final squeeze. He still doesn’t move, but tears start to run down his pretty face. Crowley takes it as a good sign. “Let’s run off together, you and me. What do you say?”)

Well, the drive is - the drive is. Definitely something.

First of all, Crowley knew Aziraphale would be an over zealous driver, it’s just in his nature. It is, after all, the same man who used to tear up at the sight of a dog ear on a book. He’s just over zealous in everything he does.

It’s just that they’d probably get to New York City faster by walking.

And Crowley doesn’t like fast, not anymore, for very obvious reasons. He also doesn’t like people coddling him, and he is pretty sure there is no way in heaven nor hell Aziraphale usually drives this slow. At least, he hopes so; could anyone get arrested for driving too slow?

“You know,” he says, when they get overtaken by the fifth car in under a mile. “I can handle being in a car.”

Aziraphale doesn’t even tilt his head in Crowley’s direction, keeping his eyes on the road and both of his hands in the perfect placement on the steering wheel. Crowley definitely doesn’t stare. Obviously.

“I know you can, Crowley. Why would you be here if you didn’t?” Another car overtakes Aziraphale’s old Toyota, a beige thing that screams suburban dad. Crowley almost called off the entire thing when he saw it earlier that morning.

“I mean, you don’t have to go this slow on my account. You can, you know, actually use the gas pedal.” He makes a weird hand gesture to further illustrate his point, regretting it immediately. Thank f*ck Aziraphale refuses to lose sight of the road and doesn’t even spare him a look. Crowley can see the way his nose scrunches up adorably (adorably, Jesus Christ) either way.

“I’ll let you know I perfectly know how to use it. My driver’s instructor always said I was his best student.” He wiggles in the driver’s seat as Crowley rolls his eyes. “And, I am driving at a perfectly normal speed.” As he says this, yet another car speeds past them in a symphony of blowing horns. Aziraphale huffs. “Dreadful behaviour.”

Crowley barks out a laugh at that, because Aziraphale is possibly the most ridiculous person he will ever meet, and of course Crowley had to fall in love with him. Again.

If he thinks about the situation he’s currently in for more than a few seconds, he will probably end up dissolving in hysterical giggles, or sobs, depending on how the mood strikes.

They are going to New York City. Together. Twenty years after that disaster of a mock proposal that wasn’t even a proposal no matter how much Crowley wanted it to be a proposal. The important part is that it was a disaster. And now here they are, because the universe likes to play unfunny jokes at Anthony Crowley’s expenses, in a really ugly car driving painfully slow towards the City that broke them the first time.

“Are you alright?” Aziraphale suddenly asks, shaking Crowley from his musings. “You’ve been…giggling?”

Oh, good Lord. He didn’t realize he was doing that out loud. “Yeah, yeah, well. Yeah.” Such a paragon of eloquence as usual. “Just, don’t pay attention to me if I get weird.”

“Crowley,” Aziraphale says, and it is hard not to focus on how impossibly soft he sounds.

“I always pay attention to you.”

And, well, honestly. Honestly, this not something you can just say, especially not to an emotional mess that’s already being pushed to his limits. Crowley freezes, at first, forgetting he’s supposed to breathe for a while, the force of all the love he’s been feeling almost knocking him out completely. Then, as he starts to breathe again, he feels the anger boiling up, a familiar, acid taste on his tongue, and he knows he won’t be able to keep his mouth shut, not this time, not in this car driving in this specific direction.

“Shut up.” He barks out, and he doesn’t have to look at Aziraphale to know he flinched at the harshness of his tone. Instead, he chooses to gaze out of the window, trying to find some sense in the scenery outside. They are still far away from the freeway, as Aziraphale’s snail pace is definitely not helping to speed things along.

“Crowley-”

“I said, shut up.” Crowley shuts his own eyes as well, trying his very best to ignore him entirely.

“I don’t think I will.” Stubborn, stubborn creature. Crowley knows they are on a precipice right now, and he could laugh about it. That’s exactly what he thought would happen; the two of them and the wretched City are a recipe for a disaster. He thought this would happen once they actually reached the City, but apparently they won’t even survive the drive there.

“You should.” Crowley mumbles, and if he’s being a bit childish is not anyone’s business.

“What have I even done?” Aziraphale whines, sounding almost desperate and a lot exasperated.

Oh, the nerve of this man. What has he done? “Oh, I could answer that in about a million ways.”

“One would be sufficient for now, thank you.”

“You drive like a grandpa who’s having a stroke.” Not a lie, still not the truth.

“I am being considerate and responsible.” If there is one thing Crowley hates about Aziraphale (there’s absolutely none) is his holier than thou attitude that shines through at the worst possible moments. Specifically, this one.

“You’re such a- a-”

“A what? A careful driver? Forgive me, speed demon, if your chaperone isn’t up to your standards.”

Any other day, literally any other day, Crowley would have laughed at that. For some mysterious reasons, today this sets him over the edge.

Some part of him knew this moment would come the moment he sets his eyes on Aziraphale Fell again, twenty three years after the last time, on the porch of a house that’s not his own, in a ridiculous small town he wasn’t even supposed to be in in the first place.

He knew accepting his friendship would just be delaying the inevitable. Yet, he accepted, because he couldn’t not do it. He couldn’t not bask in his light for a little while more, he couldn’t not steal some more peaceful moments with the only man he’s ever really loved. Even if it was bound to end, again.

So, it doesn’t really come as a surprise when his mouth moves by its own accord, and he spits out words that have been waiting to spill out for almost two decades.

“Why didn’t you come with me?”

The world doesn’t end, at least. There is no thunder nor lighting, there isn’t a fire and there aren’t sirens blasting around them. The temperature inside the car drops nonetheless, and as he hears Aziraphale sharp inhale, he continues to stare out of the window, hoping to see the first signs of the Apocalypse outside.

“I see.” Aziraphale whispers, and he -impossibly- slows down even more. Crowley doesn’t even realize what’s happening before the car is stopping altogether in what looks like a lay-by.

“The f*ck are you doing?” He can only asks, a little breathless, as he turns to look at Aziraphale again, shooting him daggers behind his glasses.

“I pulled over, obviously.” Aziraphale replies, stopping the car with shaking hands. “You can’t tell me that and expect me to keep on driving.”

Crowley barks out a laugh without a trace of mirth in it. “You really should shut up, right now.”

“You are the one who brought this up!” Aziraphale shouts, eyes wide and pleading, looking so grey and stormy one could forget how blue they can be. He takes a deep breath, as if he’s trying to brace himself for impact. Crowley doesn’t move. “Sorry for yelling,” he mumbles, and Crowley wants to kiss him.

“You’re a ridiculous person,” is all he can manage to say.

“Why did you bring it up?” He’s pleading, eyes wide and chin slightly wobbling. Crowley promises himself he will not kiss him.

“Why didn’t you? Do you honestly think I can forget about that?” Crowley knows his voice is shaking, but it is the least of his worries right now. “Please, start the car.”

“No.”

“Aziraphale, start driving.”

“I won’t.”

“I swear, start the bloody car right now or I’m going to walk back to New Dawns on my own, or I will call the police on you saying you kidnapped me, and you know how convincing I can be-”

“Do you think I forgot about that?” Aziraphale cuts him off. He’s always been good at eye contact, and Crowley can’t stand it. “Do you really think I don’t think about that every time I look at you?”

Crowley is not a religious person, but he prays silently in his mind to make Aziraphale shut up, or close his eyes at the very least. He could never, ever stand those eyes and the way they act like a mirror to Aziraphale’s very soul.

“Could have fooled me.” He runs a hand through his hair, tugging a bit at his scalp. There is no way he can survive this conversation. Perhaps calling 911 is not that bad of an idea.

Aziraphale mercilessly marches on. “Do you honestly think it’s not the biggest regret of my life?” His voice breaks on the last word, and Crowley needs some air. Or extraordinary amounts of alcohol. Or a kiss from the angel on the driver’s seat.

He doesn’t bolt, and he doesn’t call the police. Instead, he whispers, “Then why didn’t you come with me?”

Aziraphale is still looking at him, obviously. And his eyes are screaming in pain. “Why did you miss my calls?”

Because I was so mad I couldn’t breathe, I couldn’t even think. I was so mad the mere thought of you and your eyes and your face and your hands sent me into a panic attack. I was so mad I wasn’t sure I could even write another word in my life. I was so mad but I was sure if I heard your voice I would have jumped on a plane back to England and never leave you again. He doesn’t say any of this. Instead, he says: “Do you honestly think it’s not the biggest regret of my life?”

Crowley doesn’t know if he’s the one who moves first, or if Aziraphale is the one who leans in. What he does know is that there are hands cupping his cheeks and lips on his own and he’s gripping an hideous jumper like it’s a lifeline and he’s kissing Aziraphale.

He feels and tastes the exact same, like tea and butter, and his lips are still as soft as they felt in his memories and dreams. The kiss is not sweet, nor slow; it’s angry, and desperate, and they’re kissing like it’s their last day on Earth, fast and hard, Crowley’s hands moving up to grip the base of Aziraphale’s neck, to bring him closer, closer, closer.

Aziraphale’s own hands move to Crowley’s hair, not scratching, not hugging, just holding, cradling his skull as if Crowley’s about to break in half. Which, given everything, is a pretty accurate prediction.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale breaks the kiss, panting, looking at Crowley with blown pupils and swollen lips. “We really should talk some more.”

Crowley shakes his head, too desperate to think. He can only look at those kiss swollen lips, drunk on the knowledge that he’s the one responsible for it. “Shut up.” And he kisses him again.

It’s eager, heating up almost immediately. At the first swipe of tongue on his bottom lip, Crowley knows he’s done for. He will never be the same again. Some delirious part of him is happy about it, ecstatic even; the other part of him is more than terrified; the lower part of him is, well - satisfied with the newest development. Then Aziraphale’s lips part and he stops thinking altogether.

Aziraphale kisses like he did when he was twenty; he kisses Crowley like he’s a delicacy, some decadent dessert he’s so fond of; he kisses Crowley like he’s been starved for centuries; he kisses with thirst, hunger, desire.

The sound Crowley makes when those lips find the underside of his jaw is downright embarrassing, but he is too lost to care about it. His hands roam Aziraphale’s chest, and he needs more, more, more. He whines as he finally slides them underneath the thick jumper - and the bloody undershirt, Jesus f*ck the bloody layers. The skin is so warm, and soft, and exactly like he remembered.

He digs his fingers into Aziraphale’s back, and the lips that have been trailing open mouth kisses down his throat stops to huff out a strangled breath. If he had any presence of mind, Crowley would smirk.

Aziraphale’s fingers have just started to unbutton his shirt and Crowley is thinking about how much he would f*ck up his hip if he just went and straddled Aziraphale’s lap and how much he actually cares about it when a knock on the window makes them jump.

“Buggering sh*t,” he moans as he rubs the back of his head after a less than pleasant collision with the window on his side. A very disheveled looking Aziraphale - gosh, he really likes his hair - turns sharply in the direction of the noise, looking ready to fight, until he doesn’t.

“Oh, good Lord.” He whispers, before rolling down the window. Crowley is a little confused, but when he actually focuses on his surroundings instead of how pretty Aziraphale’s lips look, he gets it.

“You can’t stop here, Sir,” the honest to God and baby Jesus cop staring at the both of them says. Crowley’s manifestation skills may be a little over the charts.

“Right, officer, of course.” Aziraphale replies, sounding all proper and chipper like he doesn’t look snogged within an inch of his life. Crowley doesn’t say anything.

“We just had to, you know, take a little break. From the driving, I mean.” At least Aziraphale has the decency of sounding broken by the last word. Crowley wonders if someone can actually die of embarrassment.

“Right. I figured.” The cop raises an unimpressed eyebrow. “You need to go now, though. You can’t stay here.”

“Of course, of course we can’t. We were just about to get a wiggle on.” Why is Crowley letting Aziraphale do the talking?

“I’ll let you go this time, but don’t do this again.” The cop gives them both a once over. “Aren’t you two a little too old for a stunt like this?”

Before Aziraphale can reply to that, Crowley sighs and puts a hand on his arm to stop him. He tries for a smile. “Definitely. We’ll go now, and we are sorry for the inconvenience.”

The cop nods and takes his leave, leaving the two of them in the most awkward silence in the history of mankind.

“Well,” Aziraphale is the first to break it. “That was definitely a first.”

Crowley snorts, because what else is he supposed to do? He just had the make out session of his life, in the ugliest car ever, with Aziraphale Fell of all people, interrupted by a cop. It’s either hysterical laughs or a drive off a cliff. So, he laughs.

Before long, Aziraphale loses it too, collapsing in a fit of giggles that has him hide is face in his hands, while Crowley guffaws fill the car.

“You should, oh f*ck,” he begins, completely out of breath. “You should start driving before we get arrested.”

Aziraphale turns the keys, his shoulder still shaking with mirth. “I can’t believe that just happened to me!”

“First time getting co*ck blocked by a cop?”

Aziraphale laughs so hard he almost slams the brakes in the middle of the road. “Don’t ever say something like that again.”

Crowley’s dying duck sounds die down after a few second, even though he doesn’t stop smiling. “You were right,” he says out of the blue, because now he’s feeling a little braver. “We really should talk some more.”

Aziraphale looks pensive, but he’s smiling as well. “I know,” he says. They both know there is a long overdue conversation looming over them, but somehow it’s less scary than it was ten minutes ago. Or it’s just Crowley’s lizard brain speaking. “Though I did enjoy the non talking bit.”

Crowley chokes on air, and laughs again. Absolute bastard.

New York City, June 12th, 2002

Angel,

Hi. Two years since I last saw you. Is it pathetic that I’m keeping count? I think we’ve already established this.

I dreamt about you last night. I used to dream about you a lot more one year ago, but it still happens sometimes. It was a pretty nice dream. We were on one of those stupid boats in Central Park, it was a very nice day and you looked beautiful. You were smiling like anything.

You know, you would like Central Park way too much, I can picture you clean as day strolling and feeding the squirrels and the swans like you were bloody Cinderella. That’s why I never go there; I’ve been there probably twice in all the months I’ve lived here. It reminds me way too much of you, and it’s really a cruel thing because you’ve never been here with me. Remember? You said no.

I sometimes wonder why you kept calling me. You were pretty clear on your intentions that night, I thought there was nothing more to say. What more did you want to tell me? I also wonder what would have happened if I just picked up the phone, or called you back. I really think I should have.

Well, I guess we’ll never know.

I think it would have been fun if you’d said yes. I was sure then, as I’m still sure now, we would have been happy.

I think I’m going on a stroll in Central Park today, just to think about you some more. Just to bask in that dream some more.

Miss you as always you insufferable twat.

C.

An hour later they’re sitting in the frankly sh*tty coffee shop of a random rest stop in Connecticut, surrounded by truck drivers and families with screaming kids on bathroom breaks. Crowley texted the people waiting for them to tell them they weren’t going to make it, having a feeling whatever they are about to do will be long, and he still has some manners.

“You really do hate coffee.” Crowley comments, eyeing Aziraphale’s disgusted look as he sips on his paper cup.

He hums in agreement, keeping his eyes focused on his hands. No matter how much he tried to tame them, Aziraphale’s curls still look embarrassingly messy. The sight makes Crowley’s heart race a bit.

“That day, when you asked me to leave,” Aziraphale begins with a deep sigh, still keeping his eyes averted. Crowley freezes, even though he knew this was coming. He grits his teeth and stays silent.

“I told you I needed to tell you something, before it all went pear-shaped.”

“Pear-shaped?”

“Yes.” Aziraphale lifts his head to look at Crowley, startling him a bit. “May I go on?”

He just nods. He admires Aziraphale for soldiering into this conversation.

“My family knew about you, about us. I don’t know how they found out, I never really asked, but they did. That’s what brother dearest told me that afternoon.”

Crowley feels like he’s just been washed in icy cold water. It’s amazing how the Fell family still makes him feel after all those years. Scared, mainly; angry, definitely.

“He knew a lot about you, somehow. He knew you wanted to be an author and that you went to school for it, and he was pretty adamant in reminding me how our family could use its means to influence publishing houses.”

If Crowley felt ice before, now he’s feeling fire. Rage, burning under his skin and threatening to set the whole shop on fire.

“It was simple, really. Either we parted ways, pretending nothing ever happened, or they would ruin your career before you even had a chance to start.” Aziraphale’s eyes, previously focused on Crowley’s face, drop back into the paper cup.

Crowley’s rage turns into desperation. “Then, why the f*ck didn’t you come with me? Remember my whole point? Get the f*ck away from the wankers?”

It seemed like a brilliant plan twenty years ago, and now that he knows this little detail it seems like an even more brilliant plan. Crowley is more confused now than he was before, and he’s starting to regret this whole conversation.

“Ah, well. He also said I shouldn’t even think about running, because he would find us anywhere. Which I now realize was a pretty empty threat, but at the time I was twenty two, burnt out, incredibly over stressed, and terrified of the lot of them. I had a lot of issues, I think, I went to therapy for them later on. Anyway, I was terrified they would find a way to ruin you if I stayed with you. So, when you asked, I did what I did, said what I said, and ran.”

Crowley wants to do a lot of things: track down Sandy Fell and kill him; track down Aziraphale’s parents and kill them as well; build a time machine to go back in time and hug twenty two year old Aziraphale until he can’t breathe; kiss the man in front of him again and possibly never stop; cry; drink an entire wine cellar.

“You daft bastard.” He says instead. “I always told you you were too good.”

Aziraphale gives him a shaky smile. “I regretted it as soon as I was out of the door. That’s why I kept calling you. I wanted to tell you everything, I wanted to try and fix things but I got the hint that you didn’t want to, after a while. Not that I blame you.”

Crowley wants, no he needs to say something. He needs to apologize as well, he needs to tell him he should have just picked up the phone, damned be his pride, but Aziraphale doesn’t stop talking.

“And then I saw your first book on the shelves in a bookshop and I was so happy, so relieved, so proud. I thought I did the right thing, letting you go. You made it, as I knew you would. I bought your book as soon as I saw it, you know? And when I read the dedication, God, I hated you a little bit, you know? But I read it anyway. I read all of them, multiple times. You are truly an excellent writer.”

Crowley knows it is too much when Aziraphale mentions the dedications. He knows, he knows, but he doesn’t know anything, does he?

Aziraphale’s still rambling about something when Crowley yelps, “Shut up for a second, will you?” Aziraphale does. He even takes a little sip of his awful coffee.

Anthony J. Crowley is a man of words, and yet he hates conversations, especially difficult ones. He’s good with written words, but spoken ones? Not so much. He doesn’t have the best track records when it comes to speeches and declarations. So, when he does speak, it is a bit of a mess, but it is also real, and raw, and the most important words of his life.

“I don’t have a reason for not returning your calls. I was just really f*cking mad at you.”

“I don’t blame-”

“I said, shut up.” Aziraphale does. Crowley breathes.

“Right, like I said. Really f*cking mad. Angrier than I’ve ever been at anyone, ever. So, when you called me, I didn’t pick up. Ever. And then you stopped, and I wanted you to call again. Just once, and I would have picked up.” He has to take a sip of the sh*ttiest coffee ever to change the taste of concrete on his tongue. “So yes, I realized I f*cked up as well when my phone didn’t ring anymore, but it was too late at that point. You tried, I didn’t, and I’m sorry for that. And if I could murder your entire family right the f*ck now, I would and - God, are you smirking? You utter psychopath.” Crowley smirks as well. “Anyway, you’re an idiot, and a buffoon, and I’m still kind of mad at you, and I am a fool, and a stubborn bastard. And I would write ten more books just so I could dedicate them all to you.”

It’s terrifying how nice telling the whole truth is. Laying one’s heart on the table of a sh*tty coffee shop in the middle of nowhere feels both electrifying and mortifying.

Crowley takes off his glasses, and raises an expectant eyebrow, looking at the man in front of him (his friend, his best friend, his biggest regret, his favourite what if) without barriers. “So, we talked now.”

Aziraphale leans forward and takes one of Crowley’s hands in his. He’s shaking, and Crowley as well. His hands are warm, like the rest of him, and his eyes are glassy, but so blue, and though his bottom lip is trembling, his smile is glowing. “Will you tell me to shut up if I asked you to dinner?”

and when we go crashing down

we come back every time

‘cause we never go out of style

Chapter 9: the one I was dancing with in New York

Chapter Text

the burgundy on my t-shirt

as you splashed your wine onto me

and how the blood rushed into my cheeks

so scarlet, it was

maroon

“Now, this is definitely the home of someone who calls me posh.”

“You had your own place in Soho when you were twenty, you don’t get to say anything.”

They decided to go to New York City anyway, after the little interruption.

However much Crowley wishes he could say it was an impromptu, impulsive and romantic (yes, romantic, Jesus Christ, he’s aware) grand gesture, he really can’t. It was more of a very hastily (and perhaps poorly) organized weekend getaway.

Especially because it featured an embarrassing phone call to Anathema Device, PA and occultist, specialized in humiliating Anthony J. Crowley (“Say that word again and I swear I’ll fire you.” “What word? Sexcapade or condoms? And you’ve already tried to fire me twice in the last week.” “Three times the charm.” “Whatever. Can you ask Aziraphale if I can make the kids try my tea leaves thing?” “Please don’t.”), and an equally embarrassing, if slightly more amusing, phone call to a certain all knowing teenager (“Stop squeaking, Muriel, this is a serious conversation.” “Yes, yes, I feel terrible about spending a night with my friends and Anathema and all of her witchy stuff, I’m going to cry all nigh-” “Must you be like this?” “Relax, Uncle Azi. I’ll be fine.”).

So yeah, real life is definitely a thing, and families are embarrassing. Despite all that, they smiled like fools all throughout the phone calls and the rest of the trip.

And really, offering to drop by his place in the City was just merciful towards his very, very anxious driver, who bordered suicide territory as soon as they started driving on Brooklyn Bridge, and he needed to unwind before they could even set foot in the City. His place had an underground parking spot and a lot of wine. And a nice big sofa.

And a bed. Big windows. Nice natural light. Lots of pillows.

No other reason.

“This is a penthouse in Manhattan, Crowley.” Aziraphale sighs, sipping red wine while sitting down on Crowley’s couch, in front of his frankly obnoxious windows. The City unfolding in front of them looks just as beautiful as he did one month ago, and just as scary as well. Not as beautiful as him, though, and definitely not as scary, his brains unhelpfully supplies.

“Yeah, well. The Netflix pays well.” He sprawls on the couch, his knees casually (obviously) brushing Aziraphale’s, who’s trying really hard to hide his smile into his glass. “Honestly, I bought it for the windows.”

“They certainly are..big.”

Crowley smirks. “You don’t like it.”

“I didn’t say that!” Aziraphale replies immediately, his wine almost spilling out. “It’s very, well. Modern.”

Crowley laughs at that lame conclusion. “It’s fine, really. I knew you wouldn’t like it.”

“Is that so?”

Crowley remembers the moment the real estate agent first showed him the penthouse. His first thought, for whatever reason, was that it was the exact opposite of Aziraphale’s place in London; all sleek surfaces, hard lines, grey walls. No bookshelves, no cozy fireplace, no fluffy pillows anywhere. Nothing that could remind him of London or Aziraphale in any way. He bought it the next day.

“Yeah, you would have gone for whatever the opposite of this is.” He makes a vague hand gesture to further prove his point. “Bet you especially hate this couch.”

Aziraphale makes an indignant sound. “I would never hate your home, Crowley. It’s just…different.”

“You won’t hurt my feelings, Aziraphale,” he smirks. “It’s just a house.”

All the places he stayed in New York City had just been houses. Some were nicer than others, some harbored better memories than others, some he even missed sometimes. But at the end of the day, they were just houses, places he stayed in, never places he longed for. Cruelly, if he thought about home, he thought about a flat in Soho, London; a cottage in West Sussex; lately, a weird bookshop with hideous bean bags; an even weirder house with the ugliest purple couch in the history of mankind. Funny, how these things work.

Aziraphale is looking at him like he’s trying to read his mind and, knowing him, Crowley feels he’s going to be successful.

“The house I live in New Dawns is Muriel’s home, my sister’s home.” He speaks calmly, softly, and anyone else but Crowley would miss the lingering sadness in his tone. “It’s never really been mine. Or perhaps, I never really wanted it to be.”

They’ve never really been much different, underneath it all. Their friends in University used to be confused by their closeness, regarding them as living and breathing proof of the fact that opposites attract. Truth was (and, for some reason that Crowley is not ready to fully absorb, truth still is) they weren’t opposites at all. They were people with very different upbringing, past experiences, emotional baggages, but at the very core of it, they were too similar not to fit perfectly: they were both looking for something they couldn’t name for the longest time, until they met each other and everything clicked.

Crowley has read and heard that infamous quote from Emily Brontë too many times not to find it annoying at this point in his life, but it still applies.

“What about the bookshop?” He asks, remembering the time Aziraphale whispered him his dreams on a couch way more comfortable than the one they’re sitting on.

“Oh,” Aziraphale breathes and perks up immediately. “That is definitely mine, bean bags and everything.” He winks at Crowley, the bastard. “Yes, I made it mine. It’s the closest to home I’ve ever felt on this side of the Atlantic.”

“I like it,” Crowley says earnestly, mainly because he cannot possibly reply ‘Me too’. “’S cozy.”

Aziraphale smiles, looking incredibly smug. “I knew you would like it.”

“Cheeky.”

“It’s true! You will never admit it but you love coziness.”

“I didn’t say I loved it-”

“But you do.” Aziraphale smiles dims by a fraction. “Don’t you?”

“I do.” Crowley’s not talking about the bookshop. He hopes Aziraphale isn’t either.

Gosh, he’s so f*cked.

“So, will you show me your favourite places in the City?” Aziraphale empties his glass and places it on the table.

Crowley promised him he would while they were driving. To be honest, he only did it to motivate Aziraphale to press down on the damn gas pedal, and he hoped to distract him once they reached their destination. He should have known it would have backfired on him.

It’s not that he doesn’t want to, it’s just that his stupid heart beats faster at the mere thought of taking a stroll through New York City with Mr. Fell in front of him; it’s too much of an impossible thing for his little brain to process.

And, there is the other thing, the thing that makes his stomach cramp.

“We will have to take a car, by the way.” Crowley waits for a beat, but he’s met with silence. He doesn’t look at Aziraphale. “Can’t really walk a lot with this.”

The hand that was vaguely gesturing his lower body is abruptly stopped, engulfed by a palm that is as warm as it is steady. “It would be truly awful, Crowley. Being driven around all day instead of walking in the cold? Preposterous. How will we ever cope? A borderline hom*ophobic suggestion.”

When you spend twenty three years hating (at first) and simultaneously idealizing (for the most part) a person, you tend to forget certain things about them. Time blurs the edges.

Crowley remembered Aziraphale had the most beautiful eyes he’s ever seen, but had forgotten the exact shade of blue, and the way they turn grey when the weather changes; Crowley remembered he liked Aziraphale’s hands, but had forgotten how they felt on his skin, the heat they always exude, the softness of an ever present manicure; Crowley remembered Aziraphale was the only one who could make him laugh in his embarrassing, duck-sounding way of his, but had forgotten why.

“You’re insufferable, and I cannot believe I brought you here willingly.”

“Technically, I brought us here.”

Just because he can, Crowley kisses the smugness off his face. (Isn’t that a miracle? To be able to say, just because I can.)

It’s just a peck, really, lips touching lips and drawing back almost immediately. Obviously, much like every single thing that has ever happened to the two of them, it’s still impossibly intense. The promise of something more; the long awaited reply to a question asked a long time ago.

“Still want to go out and explore?” Crowley mumbles, so close he can feel Aziraphale’s breath on his lips. There is a finger tracing his eyebrow, the curve of his jaw, the slope of his throat, and the lips he just kissed pressed on his cheek, and then right where is heart is pulsing, beating so fast Crowley’s afraid it will stop soon.

He knows they should talk about whatever this thing is between them actually is, but he also thinks that, for the time being, he should keep his big mouth shut and count his blessings.

“Of course! We still have the entire afternoon.” Just like that, Aziraphale gets up, offering him a hand, like nothing even happened. Absolute bastard. Crowley looks up at the smirking man, and falls in love a little more.

“Oh, and could we take one of those yellow taxis?”

Draft One: Untitled Project (for now) (obviously) [wait this could be a funny title]

Plot (roughly): the murder mystery is just background noise. This is the story of a supporting character who’s been a supporting character all his life, who has no intention of becoming the main one, nor the hero. He just wants to mind his business and go on to live his quiet life [maybe with a love interest? We’ll come back to this later]. In the background, people try to get him involved in the mystery, but the focus is on this guy who honestly doesn’t give a f*ck. Clues and whatnot are scattered through the pages for the reader to pick it up if he wants to, but if he doesn’t, this can be read as a slice of life ? / character study ? / bildungsroman ? / whatever it’s the story of this guy [and perhaps his love interest who’s definitely not a librarian / bookseller / professor because I am not that embarrassing]

[for future Crowley: yeah I know the plot sounds insane and probably doesn’t make sense, but trust the process my friend. Present Crowley is currently sitting in a very cool bookshop and he’s telling you this is a good idea. Probably no one is going to publish it and Anathema is going to murder me, but still. Trust the process. Trust me. This could work.]

Chapter One

The thing about Gregory Thompson was that, generally speaking, he didn’t give a damn.

About what, you may ask? Generally speaking, anything.

And he liked it. He knew what his place in the world was: the side character. He was the funny best friend no one really knows anything about; the comedic relief popping out at the most random of times at the office; the somewhat lonely, weird looking bloke who everyone knows but no one will ever call.

And he was fine with it; somewhat happy with it even, on the good days. He was just born to blend in, not to stand out: not everyone can be a hero, after all, the dashing main character people wants to read about.

He was fine with being good old Greg, no one in particular, a random man who was just dragging himself through the motions of real life, hoping to save a good enough amount to move away, to be even more lonely, but somewhere he actually liked.

(Somehow, he entertained the notion of doing all of that with someone he actually liked, not for long, mind. Mainly, because he was sure no one would ever like him enough for that. No matter how big his next door neighbour smiled at him, no matter how much he replayed that smiles on lonely nights. He didn’t care that much.)

Remember and repeat, wake up and do things, every day, until he could finally stop pretending to give a damn about anything.

That was the reason why he was mildly annoyed when his boring neighborhood (that he specifically selected for the boredom) started to become less boring.

Specifically, when the old bloke down the street got himself killed by some stranger, and everyone seemed to give a damn about that.

Gregory Thompson was just trying to water his plants.

Crowley found out about the Cloisters a little over fifteen years ago. The date had been a disaster, but the place the bloke had chosen stayed with him, becoming a favourite.

Surprisingly, to be honest, because Anthony Crowley doesn’t look like the type of person who would enjoy medieval art and architecture, but still; they are such peaceful, delightful respite from the hustle of New York City that he couldn’t help but be drawn to the peace, to the quiet, to the beauty of the gardens.

Ah, the cloistered gardens. Definitely his favourite part. They are beautiful today, even if the usually lush courtyard is naked in the crisp winter air, the sun still shines through the arches of the covered walkways.

If there is one person in the world who looks like he belongs in the Cloisters, that’s Aziraphale. Crowley is very proud of this date idea (well, to be fair, he has been thinking about it for roughly fifteen years, so).

The thought immediately prompts a question: is this a date? Since he’s not fifteen or someone who enjoys being humiliated, he cannot and will not ask this question out loud. Still, it would be nice to know for sure; he thinks this is a date; he thinks they are dating. Does Aziraphale think the same? What does he want out of this? Does he like this place? Is it boring?

“Crowley?” Aziraphale’s voice wakes him up from his musings, as he realize he probably missed some kind of question.

“Uh?” Eloquent as usual. “Sorry, I was…thinking.”

“That’s usually dangerous.” Aziraphale smirks as Crowley rolls his eyes. “What were you thinking about?”

“You know,” he doesn’t know how this sentence will end. “…Things.”

God definite exists and is merciful, because Aziraphale laughs at Crowley’s lame response. “Well, I was saying that this place is absolutely stunning.”

Crowley nods, secretly relieved. “It is.”

“Thank you for taking me.” Aziraphale stops walking, twirling around to take in all of his surroundings. He looks perfect, with his old fashioned coat and soft smile and genuine, child like enthusiasm, and Crowley thinks about how easy it was to fall in love with him again. “Do you come here often?”

Crowley shakes his head. “Not as often as I’d like to. Especially after… you know.”

Aziraphale nods, because he does know. He knows, and he didn’t run away. He still doesn’t know the whole story, how much of a recluse Crowley had become, how much self destruction he spread around, how much of it still permeates the apartment.

“You’re here now.” Aziraphale smiles at him, and takes Crowley’s hand. He very nearly falls over.

He looks down at their joined hands, and realizes he’s been staring when Aziraphale murmurs, “Is this okay?”

“Are you seriously asking?” He blurts out before he can put a filter on his big mouth, but honestly, how can he ask something like that? To Crowley, who’s pretty sure he will fall over if Aziraphale dares to hug him in public.

They never did something like this, ever. Four years together, four spent living and breathing near each other basically every single day, and they never held hands outside the comfort of their home. Not even once had Aziraphale reached for him in public; their love had to be confined to four walls, dark corners, private beaches, toilet stalls on one memorable occasion. The outside world has never caught a glimpse of the enormity of their feelings.

He takes a deep, grounding breath. “I mean, of f*cking course it’s okay. It’s just new.”

Aziraphale’s features do something complicated before understanding downs on him. “Oh, Crowley.” He shifts his hand so that their fingers are now intertwined, and Crowley is very proud of himself for not falling down on his arse. “You’re right, it’s new.”

“Weird,” Crowley blurts out, and immediately wants to punch himself in the face when Aziraphale tries to remove his hand, the soft smile gone. “Good weird! I mean, nnh. Nice?”

Jesus f*cking Christ. He cannot believe people pay him to write words. He takes a deep breath, and squeezes Aziraphale’s hand. “I mean, we never did this, you know? Before, when we were young, and I was… surprised? Whatever, it’s fine, do you want to see the terrace? Let’s go see the terrace.” He physically drags Aziraphale to the terrace, making good use of their joined hands, effectively shutting down any possible reply. Aziraphale follows him silently, mercifully choosing to not comment on Crowley’s rambling.

The terrace is nice, and the view is even better. If Crowley’s soul wasn’t about to jump out of his body because of a single instance of hand holding in public (at forty five years old, mind you), he would probably appreciate it way more. As it is, for some unfathomable reason, he is still rambling. Anything not to think about the tingling feeling at the end of his arm.

“J.P. Morgan,” he says, as if it’s a perfectly normal thing to say while looking at the Hudson River. “Did you know, he bought like a ton of the coastline so they couldn’t build on it and f*ck up this view.”

“It’s beautiful.” Aziraphale breathes, but Crowley doesn’t look at him.

“And then one of the Rockfellers, you know the ultra rich bastards, loved the view so much he donated acres of New Jersey, as if that’s a normal thing to do.” Rambling about the Rockfellers? “Donating a piece of a state, just like that.” He snaps his fingers, for some idiotic reason. Not even the most idiotic of reasons could justify what comes out of his mouth next. “Sounds like something your dad would have done.”

Obviously, in truly Anthony Crowley’s fashion, there is a lot of spluttering and unintelligible throaty sounds that could be interpreted as an apology of sorts, if the other person is particularly fluent in Anthony Crowley. Thankfully, he is.

“If you’d shut up for a second, Crowley,” Aziraphale’s other hand reaches out to still Crowley’s flailing arm. “It was funny, I’ll admit that.”

“I truly don’t know why I said that.” Proper words, that’s already an improvement.

Aziraphale smirks. “No? I thought you liked making fun of my, what did you used to call them? Flamboyant daddy issues?”

“I definitely did not say that word.” He pauses. “Plus, it was one time, a f*ck ton of time ago. How do you even remember?”

It had been a bad day, Crowley remembers vaguely. He’d gotten incredibly mad at Aziraphale and after making kind of a scene at the library (“I literally just brushed your hand, Aziraphale. You’re exhausting sometimes.” “You don’t understand, Crowley. You truly don’t.”), Crowley hadn’t talked to him for two whole days.

It was hell; if someone had told that Crowley that he wouldn’t speak with Aziraphale for twenty three years eventually, he would have died. He’s actually pretty proud of that boy for not doing it.

But right now he’s talking to Aziraphale, he’s holding his hand in a very public setting and, even if he still hasn’t fully processed it, he can kiss him. Again.

“There aren’t a lot of things I don’t remember about you,” Aziraphale is saying, like it’s something Crowley can process without needing to lay down for a bit. Aziraphale is still smiling, but the previous smugness is replaced by something softer. “You were ever so patient with me, I never thanked you enough.”

“Was worth it.” Crowley’s reply is automatic, it feels more natural than any other truth he’d ever confessed. He glances down at their still intertwined fingers. “Still is.”

The Hudson River in front of them flows undisturbed, big and terrifying and captivating, as the pale winter sun makes the surface glimmer. It really is a beautiful view, and even if it was preserved by old rich men’s entitlement and obnoxious wealth, Crowley isn’t hypocritical enough to complain. Especially because he’s not even looking at the river, focusing instead on the grayish blue eyes looking back at him.

“It really is beautiful out there.”

“You’re not even looking at the river, an-Aziraphale.” It’s especially hard to bite back the old endearment when Aziraphale is right in front of him basking in sunlight, but he manages. It’s too soon. Whatever this is, it’s too soon.

“Oh, do shut up.” Aziraphale tilts his head up, and Crowley does.

“So, what you’re saying is, you’re not worried?”

Gregory Thompson was just trying to tend to his garden. He liked flowers, he liked planting flowers, he liked watching flowers grow, he liked watering flowers.

He didn’t like murderers, obviously. Especially in his neighborhood, especially because they apparently got his neighbors all worked up and up in his business.

At least, the neighbour who was bothering Gregory today was the nice one. [insert short description later. he will NOT be blond!! i am NOT that pathetic]

“Should I be? Are you the murderer?” He didn’t even know the man’s name and yet, he was out there accusing him of being a serial killer. There were reasons as to why Gregory didn’t like spending time with people. [this guy sounds too much like me. may need to rewrite]

“I wouldn’t tell you if I was.” His neighbour smiled at him, for some reason. For some reason, Gregory smiled back. “That sounds like something a murderer would say.”

[perhaps a bit too rom-com-y? anathema would make fun of me. readers would probs be confused?]

“Seriously, though. You are awfully calm, given our situation. How do you do it?” Seeing the man’s forlorn expression back on his face, Gregory felt a twinge of something he hadn’t felt in a very long time. Possibly, ever. Not that he was any good at offering comfort, but he could try.

The man was always nice to him, after all, it would be the humane thing to do. And he quite liked seeing those blue eyes [change this please literally any other colour i am so embarrassing he can NEVER read this] animated by mirth, rather than fear.

“I just, you know, don’t really give a damn. Generally speaking.”

There are some moments in life in which you realize some things were created to fit in a certain place. For example, when you find a bedside table and it fits perfectly between the bed and the wall, no previous measurements needed; or when you take Aziraphale Fell to a place full of books.

Albertine Books looks like a place straight out a fantasy novel, with his blue ceiling decorated with golden stars and an equally golden drawing of the zodiac. It’s simultaneously homey and ethereal, a reading room you could find in both a pretentious French philosopher’s mansion and the enchanted castle of some obscure wizard.

It’s the kind of weird place Crowley liked the most. And judging by Aziraphale’s dopey smile and perpetually upturned gaze, he likes it as well.

“Your neck will hurt like hell if you keep that up.”

Aziraphale dismisses him with a careless hand gesture and a huff. “It’s so pretty.”

Crowley has enough self respect to not actually reply with “You are”, but it is a close call.

“’S cool, isn’t it?” He lets his fingers trace the hardcover of some book. “I don’t even know French, you know? I just come here for the ambience.”

“I tried to learn French, once. Some years ago.” Aziraphale says, nonchalantly. As if the mental image of Aziraphale speaking French isn’t enough to make Crowley blush like a bloody teenager.

“Did you now?” He tries for cool and lands just south of it.

Aziraphale hums, lost in the stacks of books in front of him. “Où est la plume de la jardinière de ma tante?”

Crowley gulps. It’s botched French at best, yet still the hottest thing he’s ever heard in his life. He definitely looks as flustered as he feels. “You don’t have an aunt?” He comments lamely. The wink Aziraphale offers him doesn’t help the situation in the slightest.

“So you do know some French?”

“Yours is bad enough for an ignorant English speaker to understand.”

“Rude.” Aziraphale huffs indignantly. “My teacher actually said I wasn’t bad, but I stopped attending the lessons before learning much more than that.”

Crowley can imagine why. Aziraphale has always been blind to the effect he has on people, oblivious to the way people react to his beaming smiles and gentle mannerisms. Crowley never was. “Did they now?” He tilts his head to the side. “Why did you stop then?”

Aziraphale blushes quite furiously. “Oh, well. Reasons.”

Crowley saunters in Aziraphale’s direction, enjoying this flustered version of the usual smug bastard. “Such as?”

Aziraphale knows as well as he does that he won’t let this go; stubborn bastard, after all.

“Well, if you must know,” Crowley smiles triumphant as Aziraphale rolls his eyes. “Monsieur Rossignol was quite a persistent man and couldn’t, as the youth says, take the hint.” Aziraphale grimaces at the memory. “I liked the crêpes, though.”

Crowley barks out a laugh. Such a ridiculous person.

He feels a little hitch, but he cannot bring himself to be jealous: it had been decades, and it’s not like he didn’t try to move on. Apparently, if Aziraphale’s sour expression is to be taken as proof, they had similar results in the dating department. And, more importantly, teasing him is fun.

“My my, Mr. Fell. Seducing and abandoning a poor teacher?” He gets even closer, effectively crowding Aziraphale’s personal space.

“He was hardly poor, dear.” Aziraphale mumbles, circling Crowley easily, certainly not impressed by Crowley’s attempt at being suave. “I think his bank account was the only part of him that was, you know.” He gives Crowley a once over. “Satisfying.”

He really should have known better than to try and embarrass Aziraphale. Somehow, he is now a spluttering mess who doesn’t know wether to laugh or dig his own grave, and still this is exhilarating. Getting to see this side of Aziraphale, soft, mild mannered, perpetually kind Aziraphale, has always been a privilege, something Crowley used to think was almost sacred. No one else knew Aziraphale like Crowley did; no one else was allowed to. This part of his personality was a gift not given freely, another thing he thought he’d lost forever.

And boy how he missed this. “You absolute-”

“Bastard? That you said.” Aziraphale finally drops the act and giggles. “I’m so sorry, Crowley, but you get so cute when you’re all flustered.”

“I am not cute.”

Aziraphale just laughs at him, which is fair, if rather rude. He’s pretty sure his currently and perpetually besotted expression isn’t helping his case, but he cannot bring himself to care much; not when Aziraphale is looking back at him with the same expression Crowley saw him use for his rarest books.

The first time Crowley set foot in Albertine Books was 2016, and it was for some kind of philosophical night Anathema wanted him to attend, for some still unknown reason. It wasn’t necessarily boring, but it wasn’t exactly his cup of tea, so he spent the evening roaming and reminiscing, because of all the places in New York City Anathema chose to send to him to the one place that screamed Aziraphale’s name the most.

It wasn’t her fault, no one else but Crowley knew anything about him at that point, but there was a reason he avoided the Library at all costs, and the reasons were his stupid mind and his stupid memories and his stupid inability to just let it go.

He’d gotten drunk, he’d stumbled home, and had written a letter that night.

“You know, I showed you mine, you should show me yours.” Aziraphale says, gently cradling an ancient looking tome in his hands.

“Ngk?”

Another breathy laugh. “Embarrassing dates. Tell me something.”

Crowley opens his mouth to say something, then closes it again. He does the same thing twice. “You—wh—why?”

“You don’t have to,” Aziraphale backtracks, probably a little put off by Crowley’s gaping fish impression. “It was kind of fun for me and, well, I—” A deep, steadying breath. “I missed a lot of your life and I thought we could use this little date to—”

“Date?” Crowley whimpers, coughing a little to try and mask the most embarrassing sound he’s ever made in his life. (He fails.) “Is this a date?”

“Is it not?” Aziraphale looks horrified. Nice job, Crowley. “Oh dear, I’m so sorry. I was under the impression— this is rather mortifying, forgive me if I—”

“It is!” The few other visitors in the bookstore all turn their heads to look at the shrieking man disapprovingly. Whatever, they can stare, they don’t know anything. “It is! A hundred percent a date. Very date-y.” f*cking hell.

Crowley sends a silent prayer to Whoever is listening to just take him out of his misery, but Aziraphale simply beams at him. For a second, Crowley forgets why he’s so embarrassed.

“That’s settled then.” He deflates a bit, probably realizing the ridiculousness of the whole exchange. “We truly are quite the mess, aren’t we?”

Crowley doesn’t trust his big mouth with another reply, so he just chuckles lightly. Finally, now that the initial cringe is subsiding, he can focus on the other thing Aziraphale said. I missed so much of your life. And apparently, he wants to know, if the eagerness he saw in those stormy eyes is anything to go by. Aziraphale was never made for small talks, for fake interest for the sake of politeness: he wants to know because he does.

Crowley, on his part, missed an entire move across the ocean, a custody battle with the Fell clan, an entire child Aziraphale has effectively been parenting for years. And he finds himself wanting to know everything else he missed, drinking bits of a life he missed out of the lips he can’t stop staring at.

His head spins a bit. I should have sent those letters, he thinks suddenly, deliriously. I should have told you every single thing that happened to me in the two decades I was away. I never wanted you to be a stranger. I never wanted to be a stranger to you.

Well, isn’t this what people do on a date? Getting to know each other?

“Got set up with this bloke once,” he says, eyes not meeting Aziraphale’s. “Talked the entire night about Microsoft, and he made me pay for the drinks after he’d told me he would pay.”

Aziraphale, if a little taken aback by the sudden shift in conversation, doesn’t miss a bit. “Unforgivable. How many best sellers had you published by then?”

Crowley ignores him. “And, and, he wore the ugliest shirt I’d ever seen in my life. I still see those flamingoes in my nightmares.”

“Flamingoes?” Aziraphale laughs. “Well, to be fair, you used to date someone who wore bow ties unironically.” He looks a bit bashful as he finishes.

Crowley, way past the point of embarrassment given his previous performance, simply grins. “Yeah, but he was hot,” he mumbles, enjoying the way his date’s (his date! Jesus Christ) cheeks blush. “Why did you stop wearing them, by the way?”

The question has been on his mind since the first time he saw Aziraphale again. He was always so damn proud of the stupid things, even if he was the only person under the age of sixty in the entire United Kingdom who actually purchased them. Crowley loved them of course; the tangible proof of how profoundly different Aziraphale was from everyone else.

The smile in front of him drops. “I had to wear a proper suit at the firm, and after a few months I’d lost the habit.” He pauses, seemingly choosing his next words carefully. “I think they reminded me too much of you, in a way.”

How many times had Crowley tied the ridiculous thing for him in the morning? So many he thinks his muscles still have the memory to do it in his sleep. How many many times had he let his fingers untie it in the evenings, whispering sweet nothings, unwrapping him, layer after layer. That too, he still could in his sleep; he spent years doing it in dreams.

“I’m going to buy you the ugliest tartan bow tie New York City has to offer. Let’s go.”

Crowley stretches his hand. Aziraphale takes it without hesitating.

“Let me check out this book for Muriel first. Notre Dame de Paris was always a favourite in our house.” He smiles. “But yes. Let’s.”

“You care about these flowers a lot for someone who so desperately wants me to believe you don’ t care about anything at all.” Nice neighbour’s voice [have to give him a name soon. please Crowley anything that doesn’t start with an A please] broke Gregory out of his reverie.

“Flowers don’t talk.”

“Aren’t you delightful on this fine morning?” Weird, he thought. Neighbour was smiling. Usually, a snarky remark paired with his devil may care attitude was enough to send people running away. It was a weird feeling, having someone actually seeking out his company.

“Why are you here then?” His petunias suddenly didn’t look as interesting anymore. The neighbour had pretty eyes, now that Gregory was actually paying attention. “You keep showing up right after the cops. I’m starting to believe you’re actually the murderer.”

Nice neighbour [this is getting ridiculous I need to name the poor sod], for some reason, giggled. Gregory did not make people giggle, ever. And he didn’t smile this much at strangers, or at anyone really.

“If you must know, I find your company rather calming.”

“Calming?”

“You’re the only person in this neighbourhood who isn’t losing their mind. It is kind of refreshing, seeing you minding your business and your flowers while everyone else is, well, going insane.”

“You don’t look like you’re going insane.”

“That’s because I come here.”

[add some prose, can’t be all dialogue here. also, name the bloke!! anything that doesn’t start with an A please]

“Well, now that you’re here,” Gregory didn’t give out his gardening tools, to anyone, ever. “You might as well help me.”

“Promise we won’t talk about the thing?”

“Petunias are much more interesting.”

As far as dates go, this was going pretty well in Crowley’s humble opinion; especially after he confirmed this was, in fact, a date. He decided to bring in the big gun, so to speak.

There was always something special about a sunset in the City, and this spot was particularly perfect.

The Brooklyn Bridge Park has always been a favourite of his; it is the skyline, he thinks, that view of the skyline over the Hudson River that has always hypnotized him, especially during the sunset.

He’s not looking at the sunset though. Sitting on the stairs in front of the carousel, his eyes are fixed on the angel next to him, basking in the golden light like he was born to do exactly this, like he could never do anything else.

“Gorgeous.” Crowley’s words are merely a mumble, but Aziraphale hears him, averting his gaze from the pink sky to look at him properly.

“It is, isn’t it?” He’s smiling softly as he focuses on the view again. “This is a very nice spot.”

Crowley hums noncommittally, refusing to blush. He was obviously talking about the sunset. Obviously.

Aziraphale is wearing his new bowtie. It’s tartan, and it’s horrendous, and ridiculous, and Crowley adores it. The look on his face when he finally put it on is something Crowley will never forget; the sound he made, however, is something he’s actively trying to forget.

And Aziraphale is also fretting, failing rather spectacularly at hiding it.

It’s kind of miraculous how well Crowley can still read him, can still remember all of his quirky mannerisms, even after all this time. He wonders briefly if it’s the same for Aziraphale, if he can still read Crowley just as well: there were times, forever ago, in which Crowley suspected his boyfriend could actually read his mind. He thinks about the dimly lit bookshop, and the swing in that playground in New Dawns, and his chest feels tighter.

“I can hear you overthinking from here.”

Aziraphale huffs. “I am not overthinking. I am just…thinking.”

“You can check your phone and stop fretting, you know?” Crowley says, smirking at Aziraphale’s wide eyed stare. “Come on, you thought I wouldn’t notice? You’ve been trying to be sneaky all day. Failing, obviously.”

“I’m sorry, Crowley, truly.” Aziraphale averts his gaze. “That was terribly rude of me, wasn’t it?”

“Nah,” Crowley simply shrugs. “You’ve got a whole kid at home. I mean, fine, they’re not a child technically, but I get it.”

“How did you know it was about Muriel?”

Crowley rolls his eyes, forgetting about his glasses for a moment. “Who else would you text while out on a date? Any secret partner I don’t know anything about?”

Aziraphale snickers and elbows him lightly. “It’s silly, but I do worry.”

“You don’t say? Aziraphale Fell worrying about things?”

“Is this of your long buried fantasies? Tormenting me in front of the sunset?” He quirks an eyebrow up.

The bastard. Surprising mostly himself, Crowley doesn’t splutter. (Much.)

“What I was trying to tell you, you pervert,” he starts, ignoring the few stares he gets from the people around them when he slightly raises his voice on the last word, “It’s fine, really. It’s obvious you’re worried about them, and I would never ask you not to.”

He gets another wide eyed stare, filled with something else this time. Something Crowley thinks it would be reflected into his own eyes, were they unmasked.

“Thank you.” It’s barely a whisper. “I will always worry about them. Especially now that we had that big talk about gender and pronouns — which I didn’t know about, I didn’t know anything about it, and I still feel guilty—”

“I told you once already, remember?” He cuts off the rambling. “You’re great. And they obviously adore you.”

This earns him a small smile. “They like you tremendously, you know? As the person, not just the author.”

Crowley grins. “They once grilled me about the books’ dedications. Little bastard just like their uncle, onto me like some kind of detective.”

Aziraphale’s blasphemy is muffled by the hands in front of his face. Crowley just grins wider. “When? Where was I? They never said anything!”

“Obviously, it was a private conversation.”

“What exactly did you tell them?”

“Again, private conversation.” Unfortunately for Aziraphale, Crowley has some experience in resisting the puppy eyes. “I like them as well, by the way. If that wasn’t clear.”

The smile in front of him may very well be the sun. “I can see that. I can’t tell you how important that is for me.” He pauses. “They have never, ever met any of my previous…acquaintances. I never wanted them to.”

Crowley’s heart makes a weird thing. He wants to be the last acquaintance Muriel will ever meet. He wants dinners, and lunches, and more discussions about his books, and more teasing, and more, more, more. The skyline in front of him seems so inconsequential, all of a sudden.

“If, if we do this,” he starts, feeling brave and hoping the feeling sticks. “I’d like to spend more time with them, if you’d like.”

Aziraphale’s smile drops. He looks serious, and kind of terrified, and Crowley feels this moment is somewhat monumental. “Do you want to do this?” He says, terribly soft, as if he’s letting Crowley in on a secret kept for centuries.

More than anything in the world. More than I ever thought I would ever want anything. More than I thought was possible. More, more, more. Let me in your life, I will never leave again. “I promised you ten more books in the middle of a block. What do you think?”

The subsequent laugh gets them more than a few stares. They don’t care.

Perhaps they have gone mad; no, scratch, they have definitely gone mad. It's fast, way too fast. They haven’t discussed logistics, wether this thing will be long distance, or wether Crowley wants to leave New York City for good, what Aziraphale will do once Muriel is off to college, how their lives will even fit together, after so long. The only thing they decided is that they want their lives to fit. It’s not enough, it’s not the adult way of doing things, it’s possibly dangerous and definitely mad.

Somehow, while the sun sets over the Hudson River, while the sky is painted red and orange, while people stare at the two of them, two grown men sat in front of a carousel laughing like fools, it’s enough.

Crowley will address all the other things another time, he promises himself he will. For now, he simply puts his hand onto Aziraphale’s. “Didn’t you promise me a dinner?”

New York City, January 31st, 2024

Angel,

First of all, I think I am going to send you this letter. Not now, but soon.

Second of all: a month ago I said I didn’t love you anymore. A blatant lie, because I do.

Your hair in the sun looks like a halo and you’re still so caring and your hands are soft and you are such a bastard and we went on a date. f*ck. I think it well rather well.

I want to show you all the letters. I want to be wherever you are. I want to be part of your family, if you’ll have me. And I rather think you will.

Third: you still look hot in a bowtie. Twenty year old Crowley would have had a stroke at the hot professor look you pulled off today. Forty five year old me almost did.

I love you. I hope I can tell you soon. I hope you’ll say it back.

Now I am going to get out of this toilet and join you at our table. You pulled out my chair like some kind of regency man, it was ridiculous, and the waitress stared at us. I love you.

Please don’t make too many erotic sounds, I’m not sure I can take it.

I love you. I hope you’ll stay with me.

Love,

C.

and I chose you

the one I was dancing with

in New York, no shoes

looked up at the sky and it was

maroon

Chapter 10: give him my all when I don't even have it

Chapter Text

you came out the blue on a rainy night

no lie

I’ll tell you how I almost died

while you’re bringing me back to life

Every September without fail, Crowley promises himself he will start going to the gym. He purchases the right clothes, a gym bag, fancy looking water bottles. He tours a few establishments, and then always chooses the first one he stepped foot into. He buys a membership, usually the most expensive, all inclusive one, and carefully rearranges his schedule to fit two to three nights at the gym.

Every September without fail, Crowley doesn’t go to the gym, not even once. He owns a few gym bags, dusting in the back of his closet, and a lot of gym appropriate clothes, which are not in the back of his closet because he doesn’t know where they are at all. The gym calls him a few times to remind him of the already paid membership, and he always says that it was an incredibly busy week, he will get around next week.

He doesn’t. Not even once. He did all this many Septembers in a row.

It is February now, and last September he had a - well, not really an excuse. A justification; it’s hard to hit the gym when you got the hip of an octogenarian and the mental well being of a war prisoner.

Anyway, that is to say: Anthony Crowley has not the best track record when it comes to promises made to himself. Promises to other people? Slightly better, especially when legally binding (he did give Morningstar Publishing three books; he did not read a single article off the conspiracy magazines Anathema continues to send him. Can anyone blame him?).

So, he promised himself he would send the last letter he wrote: he hasn’t done it. He promised himself he would think about his future plans: he hasn’t been able to. He promised himself he would talk to Aziraphale about said future plans: he has not, since he has not thought about future plans, and he doesn’t really want to share them in case they don’t align with Aziraphale’s own ones and oh God he just got him back - he kind of got a little bit worked up over all that.

Hence the stalling. Well, it is a very nice stalling in this case, because it entails walks and dinners and lunches and lounging around doing nothing, together, talking about anything and nothing at the same time, falling back into what they once were so easily it’s almost spooky, sometimes.

If Aziraphale doesn’t bring it up, why burst the happy bubble?

For the sake of a healthier communication, Dr. Eve would say. Whatever, she’s not here right now. She would keep her mouth shut as well if she was sitting on Aziraphale’s couch, in his actual house, after a dinner they cooked together, teaming up with Muriel just to annoy him. It’s wonderful, and fun, and domestic, and oddly something Crowley craved unknowingly.

Not totally unknowingly, actually. There were moments, even before New Dawns, moments in which he would feel a longing, a yearning, an almost all-encompassing desire he didn’t know where to put, or what to make of it. In another life, he used to say, shrugging and going on with his day, his life, feigning nonchalance, hiding behind aloofness.

In another life, but the thing is that he doesn’t get another life. This is all he will have, this is his only chance, his one go at finding somewhere to put all of his wants.

The thought used to be ominous; these days, it feels lighter. Then again, most things feels lighter these days.

“I should have known this would happen,” Aziraphale is saying in faux annoyance. Perhaps the annoyance is a tiny bit real, and that makes Crowley grin wider.

“I should have never let you two interact.”

“It’s not our fault you have the technological knowledge of someone still worried about the Germans flying overhead.” Crowley sips his own cocoa, pleased to see Muriel snickering in their own mug. Another thing he apparently craved, cocoa and sweet things in general.

Again, not something he was completely unaware of: he’s always had a sweet tooth, but it was easier to hide behind six shots of espresso, as black as his soul, than to give in his craving for sweetness.

“Crowley, really now.” Aziraphale huffs, clearly pleased with his joke but forced to point out it may have been kind of inappropriate in front of their audience.

“It was funny!” Said audience urges to clarify. “Very historically insightful. And true, by the way. I heard you say things like ‘please, if you’d be so kind’ to Alexa.”

It’s such a ridiculous image, and such an Aziraphale kind of thing to do, that Crowley can’t help but snort. He would be the kind of person to say please and thank you to bloody Siri, if he’d only knew what Siri was.

“May I remind you that I’m the one who pays for all of your technological knowledge?”

Muriel, sitting on the floor and inches away from leaning on Crowley’s legs, sits up straighter and goes for their biggest winning smile. “You’re the best!” It somehow comes out more like a question, and Crowley laughs. “That was one hell of a comeback, kid. He got us this time.”

Muriel bends their neck to look at him and pouts, and they look so much like Aziraphale Crowley’s heart clench. “Don’t pout, he’s still a luddite.”

“Oh, good Lord. I am not, I own a smartphone.” He says the last bit scrunching up his nose in clear distaste. Crowley has to think really hard about all the reasons why snogging in front of a barely legal teenager is wrong.

“Only because I bullied you into buying one.” Muriel enthusiastically jumps back in the rant. “And I am surprised that thing still works.”

“Still, it’s a smartphone, and I own it. And, and I even have accounts on those social medias.”

“That I manage! You don’t do a thing with them.”

Crowley knows about that, but the fact that he knows has never come up; it’s not like he discusses social media with Aziraphale. He may have every single post on that Instagram account memorized, so what? It’s a good profile, the kid may have a future as a social media manager. So what if he had a small panic attack about said photos? It was a shock, he has a right to be shocked. So what if he saved some of them? Whatever, shut up, you don’t know anything.

“Do you follow us, Crowley? I never asked you.” Muriel asks, already picking up their phone from the small coffee table in front of them.

Well, well. “Well, I - I don’t think, - do you now? Manage it?” He splutters, blushing for some godforsaken reason.

“Oh my God.” Muriel smiles. “You’re a lurker!”

“Muriel!” Aziraphale admonishes, but the curious twinkle in his eyes betrays his stern tone.

Muriel ignores him. “Are you?”

“Not a lurker,” Crowley lies. Why does Muriel always have to grill him on something embarrassing? “I may have taken a look. Once.” And had a breakdown right after. They don’t need to know that. Muriel laughs even harder, and even Aziraphale starts grinning, clearly pleased at the turnaround in the conversation. “Did you now?”

“I can’t believe you stalked him on the Internet!”

“Hey! I didn’t stalk anyone ever. And I liked it better when you were on my side.” He nudges their shoulder with his knee.

“You are both so ridiculous it’s actually embarrassing.” The worst thing is that Muriel’s right. If Crowley had any dignity left, he would probably be embarrassed with the dopey grin plastered on his face as he looks over to Aziraphale. But as it stands, he doesn’t have dignity left and, more importantly, there is an equally dopey grin on the other man’s face.

Utterly ridiculous.

They spend the rest of the night like this, with Muriel making fun of them both some more, with the three of them discussing college acceptance letters and Crowley finding out about what Ivy Day is, with endless questions about their New York trip (Crowley will not blush in front of a child. He refuses to), with more discussion on pronouns and gender expression (Crowley actually tries to go and leave the two alone for this, but Muriel yanks him back on the sofa, tells him he can stay, and Aziraphale smiles so softly and so lovingly and he stays. He listens, he laughs, and he promises he will find some very interesting pictures from their University days).

Eventually Muriel stretches and says they’re going to enjoy the technological advances privately, bids Aziraphale goodnight with a peck on his cheek and gives Crowley’s hand a light squeeze before retreating to their room. (He does not get emotional.) And they’re alone.

They wash the dishes in silence. Crowley washes and rinses, Aziraphale dries and puts them away, just like they used to do. They don’t need to discuss it, they act on muscle memory.

If Aziraphale remembers, he doesn’t say anything.

It’s a quiet moment. It would be the perfect moment for Crowley to say something along the lines of “hey, so you know how I was supposed to stay here for a couple of months? That was before I knew you were going to be here, and now I don’t know what to do, I just know I don’t want to lose you, and I just got you back, please tell me what you want from me, from us.”

He takes a deep breath and gathers himself. He says: “I’m writing a book about a guy who doesn’t give a f*ck.”

Aziraphale very nearly drops the glass he’s been drying. He eyes Crowley expectantly, and when he doesn’t add anything else, he speaks. “About what?”

“About anything at all. Generally speaking.”

Aziraphale’s face breaks into a beaming smile. “Oh, dearest. You’re writing again!”

“Uh, you saw me writing in the bookshop? Like, almost every day.”

“Yes, I know that, you daft thing,” he smacks his arm with the towel. “But you never talk about it. You actually threatened everyone not to say a thing about it.” Which, true. “Thank you for telling me, that’s all.”

It wasn’t what Crowley wanted to say at all, but he won’t complain about the end result. He bends down slightly to press a kiss on Aziraphale’s cheek. “So, the guy’s doesn’t give a f*ck, and everyone bothers him because there’s a murderer in his neighbourhood —”

“Wait. He doesn’t care about that?”

“He likes his flowers. Anyway, yes, doesn’t give a damn and he has this neighbour —”

“Uh, a love interest?” Of course, the bloody romantic’s interest peaks.

“Nnh, well, maybe.” Definitely. “The guy doesn’t have a name yet. Actually, you know what? Tell me names.”

“Names? You want me to name the love interest?” Aziraphale’s eyes go all big. Crowley wonders wether this may be a good time to tell him the bloke kind of looks and talks exactly like he does. Something he absolutely cannot do. He will change the damn characterization by the time he’ll have the final draft ready, anyway.

“Anything that doesn’t start with an A is fine by me.” He should shut up. Right now.

“Why ever for? I wasn’t about to suggest Anthony—”

“He’s already very British and has blue eyes and maybe I wrote something about blond hair and - mmh. I’m going to keep my big mouth shut.” Well, that went down like a lead balloon.

The inside of the sink is exceptionally interesting on this fine night. Crowley wonders how hard he has to manifest if he wants the Earth to open up and swallow him whole.

“Crowley, darling.” Ngk. “Look at me?”

Crowley’s eyes stay fixed on the bubbles in the sink. Very interesting tomato stain on this plate. “Can I pass?”

He hears a huff and then two hands are squeezing his cheeks and turning his face. Which, ouch, his neck. “You’re ridiculous.”

“Mmyeah.”

Aziraphale presses a kiss onto his lips. He’s still being squished, and he can’t reciprocate properly and the angle is all off; it’s everything, and it’s perfect, and he’s definitely naming the poor sod Avery or something.

“Perhaps an A name would be a bit of an overkill.” The smug bastard says nonchalantly, as if he’s not aware of the fact Crowley's about to die of humiliation.

Crowley rolls his eyes and groans. “Please, dishes,” he mumbles. He gets another kiss.

They continue to do the dishes, thankfully. Aziraphale knows a lot of names, apparently. Crowley pretends to be annoyed and wonders about how many characters he can come up with if he has Aziraphale to name them.

Tomorrow, he will say what he needs to say.

He will do it, and he will do it tomorrow.

(London, New Year’s Eve 1998

“So, three wishes for the New Year.”

Aziraphale huffs and rolls his eyes. Crowley can’t stop watching his sparkly bow tie. Some days he cannot believe he fell in love with someone who willingly leaves the house dressed like that.

“I told you I don’t like New Year’s Resolutions. They’re empty promises made just to —”

“I didn’t say resolutions. I said three wishes. Come on!” Crowley nudges his shoulder, both to annoy him and to seek some kind of body warmth. It’s freezing outside on the balcony, but they both needed a break from the party inside the flat. Well, Aziraphale certainly did, and Crowley wasn’t about to let him go outside alone.

Even if it is really bloody cold.

“Are you shaking?” Aziraphale asks him, sounding equally scolding and worried. “I cannot believe you.”

“Beauty is pain, angel.” Crowley has lost count of the times Aziraphale tried to make him wear something like a scarf. He’s not a retiree, thank you very much, he can use his usual jacket all winter long, and look good doing it.

Though, it really is bloody cold. “Don’t you dare complain about this,” and then there is a tartan scarf wrapped around is neck and an angel glaring at him.

“No, please, it’s horrendous.” And also very warm, and soft, and it smells like Aziraphale. He doesn’t take it off.

“You’re welcome.” Aziraphale’s hands stay on his shoulder for a moment longer. For a second, Crowley thinks he’s about to be kissed. Naturally, the hands drop the moment after he’s had the thought.

“Hey! Don’t distract me. Three wishes, go.”

“Fine! Let me think.” Aziraphale hums. “Let’s do it together. I’ll tell you one and you tell me one of yours.”

Crowley smiles. “Deal. Go.”

“I wish my boyfriend would let me read his manuscript.”

Crowley groans. He mentioned the damn thing once in passing weeks ago, and Aziraphale has decided he would the most annoying about it.

Thing is, of course he will be the first to read it, there’s no doubt in Crowley’s mind about that. It’s just that the manuscript is barely a first draft. It’s unfinished, unedited, borderline on bad: it’s the outline of what could be a good book, but it falls just short off the mark.

He doesn’t want to show it to Aziraphale before it’s edited, polished, and absolutely perfect.

“Well, I wish my boyfriend would trust me when I tell him to wait and see.”

Aziraphale pouts. “Annoying. And, you want to waste a wish like that?”

“You didn’t even want to play this game!”

“Well then, wish number two-”

“No, no, fine, you’re right.” Crowley ignores Aziraphale’s smirk. “I wish to buy a car.”

Aziraphale quirks a curious eyebrow. “You already have one?”

“That abomination I drive is a pathetic excuse for a car. I want a real car.”

Then, he rambles about all kind of cars, his penchant for old, classical cars and his plan of actually buying and restoring a 1933 Bentley, what has been his dream car since he can remember. Aziraphale doesn’t know anything about cars, he doesn’t even drive, but he listens to him with an amused, if at times confused, soft smile on his lips.

“You don’t even know what I’m talking about, do you?”

“Darling, I barely know what a steering wheel is.” Crowley laughs. “But, I find the image of you fixing a car very inspiring.”

Crowley knows that if there wasn’t a party going on inside their place, they would certainly be inspired enough to not even make it to the bedroom. Alas, he can only wiggle his eyebrows in a way that’s honestly more ridiculous than sensual, but it’s okay, because Aziraphale giggles, and tells him he’s cute, and he snarls and says he’s definitely not.

If there weren’t all those people in the living room just, he would kiss him on this balcony.

“Alright, my second wish, let’s see. Ah, yes: I wish to learn how to bake.” Aziraphale beams, and Crowley snorts, recalling their attempt at baking cookies last Halloween. He mercifully decides not to comment on the fact that this is more a resolution than a wish.

“I’m not sure putting you and an oven together again is a good idea, angel.” The kitchen still kind of smell like smoke.

“That’s why I need to learn.” Aziraphale pouts, then nudges him lightly. “Come on, your turn. We cannot stay here til midnight.”

Crowley thinks they should. Just the two of them, together on this balcony, huddled up to find some solace from the bitter cold of a London winter, the clock striking midnight and a gentle kiss. He just sighs, and says: “I wish to get a tattoo. And, before you ask, I want a snake.” He grins as he notices a faint pink tinting Aziraphale’s ears. “What? You find this image inspiring as well?”

“Oh, good Lord,” he mutters. “You’re horrid. And yes, obviously.”

‘Obviously,’ Crowley mouths, using all of his willpower not to throw out all of their guests - their friends, actually, though it’s very difficult to view them as more than annoyances right now. Later, he thinks, later.

“You’re drawing it, by the way.”

Aziraphale looks kind of surprised. “You’re joking.”

“Hell no.” He would let Aziraphale draw every inch of his body, hell, he wants him to do it. The tattoo is just an excuse. Besides, he may be (definitely is) biased, but he doesn’t think there is a tattoo artist in the whole of London that’s more talented than his boyfriend.

“If I do it, you’re going to be a part of it. And save all of your buts for later, I’m freezing my arse and people are going to come look for us if we don’t hurry up.”

Aziraphale frowns and pouts, and he will definitely not tell Crowley he’s right but he knows he agrees, if reluctantly. “Final wish, then. Give me a moment.” Aziraphale hums thoughtfully, and then something seems to struck him. He straightens up, wiggling a bit, and his eyes sparkle when he turns to face Crowley, smiling his impossibly soft smile. “I wish to be braver,” he says, and then Crowley feels the ghost of a hand on the back of his, and for a moment he stops breathing altogether. The hand settles on his elbow - plausible deniability, after all - and it squeezes. “For you.”

Aziraphale is brave every time he buys a new canvas; he’s brave every time he dips the brush into his watercolors; he’s brave every time he kisses Crowley, even if it’s just behind closed doors; he’s brave every time he says ‘I love you’, because he does so despite everything he’s been taught, despite everything he’s still being subjected to.

And Crowley would say all of this, he would scream all of this if - just, if. He’s not sure what comes after this particular if, but it’s something that doesn’t allow him to say any of it.

“I wish,” he says instead, fixing his eyes on Aziraphale’s - they’re grey tonight, he notices - and hoping to convey every single thing he cannot say out loud, “I wish to stay with you. This year, the year after that, as long as you want.” Forever, if you’ll keep me.

He sees everything he feels in Aziraphale’s eyes, and he know deep in his bones that is it for him; there will never be anything else like this ever again. Perhaps he is young, foolish, a little tipsy, delirious from the cold and all the love, but he knows. He just does.

Even if he ends up wrong, he will forever have this moment on the balcony, this feeling of all encompassing certainty and clarity, this epiphany of sorts. Perhaps this will truly be a good year.

“Darling,” Aziraphale breathes, just as Crowley murmurs, “Angel,” and he could swear they are both leaning in, just so, just the right amount, until the window behind them slams open.

“Guys! It’s two minutes til midnight!” Ariel, a girl in Crowley’s Contemporary Literature class who’s always too loud and too honest, squeaks. Crowley thought he liked her, up until thirty seconds ago.

“Jesus Christ Ari, quit with the shouting.” Crowley grimaces, the cold settling back into his bones all of a sudden.

“It’s literally New Year’s Eve AJ, let me live.” Also, the only person who insists to call him AJ. Aziraphale, the bastard, smirks. “Anyway, come inside, we’re about to begin the countdown.”

“Thank you Ariel, we’re right behind you.” Aziraphale gives Crowley an apologetic look and one last squeeze on his elbow. ‘Later’ he mouths, and Crowley sighs, following him inside nonetheless.

Later it is. Perhaps, next year, they will share an actual New Year’s Kiss.)

Crowley has to admit that, for someone who writes books for a living, he doesn’t know much about books themselves. For starters, he didn’t know that there was an entire highly specific market branch dedicated to trading antique books and tomes, before stepping foot into A.Z Fell Books. He certainly didn’t know much about book restorations either.

“You know,” he says, sitting on an armchair stuffed with pillows under his left side (curtesy of Aziraphale’s fussing), watching as the owner of said establishment carefully lifts extremely frail looking pages using some kind of weird tool, sleeves rolled up, white gloves on, tiny spectacles perched on his nose. “This is somehow doing it for me.”

Aziraphale hums, not lifting his gaze from the old Bible currently sitting on his worktable. “Ah yes. The inner eroticism of book restoration.”

He clearly means it as a joke, but Crowley, well - let’s just say you find out something new about yourself everyday. “How did you even learn to do all that?”

“Oh!” Aziraphale puts down his tools, ever so delicately, and pets the pages lightly before looking at Crowley. “Back in London, actually. I stumbled across this bookshop on my way home from work once, such a weird little place - but then again, you know how Soho is. I don’t know how I never saw it before that evening, you know? I’ve always wondered where on Earth did it come from, but anyway, am I rambling?”

He is. Crowley just shakes his head and makes a vague ‘go on’ gesture with his hand. He loves hearing Aziraphale rambling about things he enjoys; his eyes go all sparkly and he looks cute enough to bite.

“As I was saying, I started to pop in here and then because I just loved the place so much, and one day the owner approached me to tell me about this kind of workshop about restorations. I said no, at first, because I didn’t have the time to eat lunch most of the times, but then as I came home that night I realized spending time in that weird little shop surrounded by dusty book was the highlight of my week.”

Crowley’s heart clenches at that, but doesn’t comment on it. He already knew Aziraphale was miserable working as a lawyer, no matter how good he was at his job. Still, knowing something doesn’t make it any less painful. “So you said yes at last.”

“I did.” Aziraphale smiles. “I loved it, and I still do. There is just something about caring about old books in such a delicate, careful way, you know? It’s ever so rewarding.” He pats the old Bible again. “And honestly, at that point in my life, it was either that or alcoholism.”

Crowley snorts, which is probably various degrees of inappropriate, but he can’t help the cackles escaping from his throat. “f*ck, you say the most unhinged things sometimes.”

Aziraphale gives him a sly smirk. “Mostly to you.”

Isn’t that a thing. Crowley has had this thought before, countless of times in his lifetime if he’s honest, and it still manages to knock the breath out of his lungs momentarily.

He decides he wants to be closer to Aziraphale now, despite how bloody comfortable this armchair is (he actually suspects this pillows are some kind of medical pillows, and it would be Aziraphale’s style, but he hasn’t mentioned it, so Crowley doesn’t either).

His intention was to saunter over there in a somewhat enticing way, but he’s forced to abandon his plan as he gets up with the same grace of a Golden Girl, probably. “Laugh and I’ll leave,” he drawls, knowing full well Aziraphale wouldn’t laugh.

He most definitely would say something witty and snarky, though, best not to risk it.

“You’re awfully endearing sometimes.” Or worse, he says something cute. Crowley groans.

“Especially with your turtle glasses.” Crowley groans louder. Trust Aziraphale to find his most horrible pair of glasses cute. So what if he doesn’t take them off as soon as he leaves the house anymore? Whatever, none of anyone’s business.

So, as he very much doesn’t saunter over there, he decides to ignore Aziraphale’s already upturned head to circle his chair and put his hands on his shoulders, squeezing lightly.

He does not expect the honest-to-God-and-baby-Jesus moan. “Oh, that would feel very good, darling.”

“Going to kill me one day.” Not that Crowley’s plan was to give him a massage, but he certainly won’t complain. He doesn’t remember the last time he ever gave someone any kind of massage, but he’s always been good with his hands, and he can do very interesting things with his fingers. Judging by the sounds Aziraphale’s making (good Lord, the sounds), he’s doing a bloody stellar job.

“I’m the one who’s going to be dying if you keep that up - oh, right there.”

Crowley laughs (a bit hysterically) and stills his hands. “Thank f*ck the shop is empty. You’re insane.”

“Why did you stop?” Aziraphale basically whines, as Crowley leans over the back of his chair to comb his fingers down the front of Aziraphale’s sweater.

“Because you’re insane.” Aziraphale huffs, kind of annoyed. “Bet they can hear you over at Nina’s shop.”

And Nina already looks too smug for Crowley’s liking. He went to pick up coffee the other morning and she had one eyebrow quirked up for their whole interaction. Her saint of a wife had to tell her to knock it off and let him be. Thank f*ck her coffee tastes great.

(And she already knows Aziraphale’s favourite pastry, so that he could bring it to him and get his reward in affection and silly pillows. Again, not anyone’s business.)

She also asked him how long he plans on staying in New Dawns, still with a quirked eyebrow and still under her wife’s reproachful gaze. He spluttered, muttered a string of consonants under his breath, and promptly fled the scene. He hasn’t been back since, which is probably childish and definitely something his therapist wouldn’t approve.

Far away, he hears Aziraphale talking about something. He vaguely registers some words in the back of his mind (“Such a dear girl, really, but her meddling, oof”), and he assumes he should say something back, something light, easy, fun. He’s still practically drained over Aziraphale’s shoulder, so close that if he turns his head just so he could nuzzle his cheek, like an overly affectionate cat.

The problem is that he cannot stop thinking about bloody Nina and her stupid question. Though, it’s not really about the question. It’s about his answer, the one he already knows but doesn’t want to admit to himself yet, the same one he came up with when he was twenty. Decades after, a whole life after and the answer is still the same.

Forever, if you’ll keep me.

What a sap.

He doesn’t even really care about New Dawns or New York City. He just wants to stay with Aziraphale, today, tomorrow, next month, next whatever. The fact that he’s willing to uproot his entire life for a man he’s been with for a few weeks should maybe raise a few red flags.

This is not a man he’s known for a few weeks. This is Aziraphale, the man he’s been obsessed with for over twenty years, the man he wrote an encyclopedia of letters to, the man he held as a paragon of all things good and holy ever since they met, his favourite what if, his best kept secret, possibly (definitely) the love of his life.

Crowley knew it when he was twenty. Crowley knows it now that he’s forty five. Crowley’s probably known it his entire life. This is it for him.

It’s probably mad. Bordering on insane actually. Right, well. He should probably ring his therapist.

Or, he could circle around to the front of the chair and sit on Aziraphale’s knee. Apparently his brain thinks this is a better idea.

“Mmmh,” he mumbles, nuzzling his nose into Aziraphale’s cheek, much like an overly affectionate cat. It’s exactly as nice as it was in his fantasy. “Hi.”

“Well, hello darling. You could have just told me to, how do you always put it so sweetly? Shut my big mouth?” Aziraphale says, somewhat amused, and Crowley nuzzles closer.

He forgot Aziraphale has been talking about something during his musings. “Didn’t want you to stop talking, just,” I was just thinking about moving in with you not even two weeks into our (new?) relationship. Absolutely not too fast at all, I’m just the king of commitment. “This is better.”

“It is quite cozy.” Aziraphale circles his arms around Crowley’s waist, finally, and sighs, resting his cheek on copper hair. “Are you tired?”

“Worrywart.” Crowley mumbles into Aziraphale’s neck, not moving. Aziraphale is always worrying about something: if not Crowley’s health, it’s Muriel’s college decisions, or some book he’s tending to, or Crowley’s own book, or the general wellbeing of literally every single person he knows. “I’m perfectly fine. You and your special pillows.”

Crowley cannot see his face but he can feel his happy little wiggle. “I’m so glad you like them. I had to order them from the Amazon.”

Crowley snorts. “Just Amazon, Aziraphale, for the love of Someone. ‘The’ Amazon is a rainforest in Brazil.”

“You should have majored in Geography. Anyway,” he shoots back primly, and Crowley snorts again. “I know it’s worse when the weather acts up. Just say the word if you need something.”

“I’m fine right here,” Crowley says, and unfortunately Aziraphale has no idea that he’s talking about his situation in a much broader perspective. Crowley wants to say, please let me stay right here, with you, I don’t care about living in a small town with nosy neighbours if that means that I’ll get to do this at the end of every day. That would be very weird though, so he just nuzzles closer, hoping to communicate all of this in a telepathic kind of way. (As if purring like a cat on someone’s lap isn’t somehow weirder. Whatever, Crowley never claimed to be good at decision making).

But oh, how nice is this. It’s warm, soft, incredibly comfortable, quiet and gentle. The hands running up and down his back, his arms, the side of his legs are slow but steady, gentle but sure. He could very well fall asleep like this, in this warm cocoon of absent minded affection.

Obviously, Aziraphale chooses to speak. “Crowley?”

Crowley doesn’t reply, but makes a sort of humming sound. Aziraphale laughs softly. “When you’re done with your impersonation of a house cat, I was hoping to talk to you about something.”

This what it feels like when cats fall in bathtubs, Crowley supposes.

There is no universe in which the words ‘I need to talk to you about something’ mean well, especially in Crowley’s experience. They usually mean disruption and destruction for whatever kind of peaceful existence he managed to carve out for himself, and this time he cannot handle it. He just can’t, he won’t.

If he were a better person, he would say that he, too, needs to say something, that he needs to have an actual conversation with Aziraphale about the future. He is however very, very scared of breaking his cozy, domestic bubble, so instead he does the first thing he can think of.

He kisses Aziraphale.

Though he makes a surprised sound, Aziraphale kisses back almost immediately. It starts as a chaste, closed-mouthed thing, but Crowley takes advantage of the other man’s pleased sigh to deepen the kiss, putting two fingers on the pulsing point of Aziraphale’s throat.

It’s muscle memory, all of it; his brain may have forgotten the many little things that trigger all of Aziraphale’s sounds, but his body hasn’t. Judging by the way Aziraphale’s hands immediately finds their way to Crowley’s hair to give it a little tug, his body hasn’t forgotten anything either.

“You’re trying to distract me,” says the man himself, a bit breathless. “Fiend.”

“I’m trying to snog you, in case you haven’t noticed.” He shifts a bit on Aziraphale’s lap, and smirks. “I think you did notice, though.”

Aziraphale’s glare is less effective than usual, given the state of his flushed face, swollen lips and wild, wide eyes. Crowley kisses him again, harder, messier.

They’ve been kissing, these past weeks, quite a lot. More than kissing, too.

That night in New York, back at Crowley’s flat, they decided to take things slow, to get to know each other all over again before jumping at each other. An hour later, they were sweaty, panting, laughing at all the pillows they had to rearrange and at the socks they didn’t even manage to remove, while Aziraphale was tracing circles on Crowley’s chest while mumbling, “I knew we couldn’t be trusted alone”, and Crowley snorted, nose buried into impossibly blonde curls, breathing in the scent of sweat and lingering lavender, and said “We’ve never taken a sensible decision once in our life.” And yet, that felt too perfect to be a bad decision.

So, that went well.

It’s never been quite like this, though. It’s been gentle, and curious, and a bit rushed at times, always all consuming, but never quite like this. Never quite this hungry.

Crowley’s writer mind (which in all honesty could awake in different circ*mstances) is providing him with all sort of metaphors: this feels like eating an ice cream during the worst of summer heat, tasting and licking and swallowing while the sweetness melts onto your fingertips; this feels like a last supper, without capital letters, a moment so monumental in its mundanity that the grief anticipates the pleasure. It doesn’t have to be like this. Crowley doesn’t want it to be like this.

He pulls away, his breath ragged and his jaw wetted by Aziraphale’s ministrations, and he pants against a throat that pulses as wildly as he feels. “I want you.”
“I gathered that.” Aziraphale presses a kiss against his temple, equally breathless but clearly amused. “The feeling is mutual. But we -”

Crowley lifts his head and cups Aziraphale’s face. “I know, I know,” he whispers. “I know. You’re right.” Another kiss, a simple peck, on that annoyingly perfect nose. “It’s just that - mmh. f*ck it. We’re in this bubble, you know?” Not even Crowley knows what on Earth is going on about, but even though he lifts an eyebrow, Aziraphale nods.

“A bubble,” he says, pouting a bit. Crowley doesn’t lean in again, and he would give himself a pat on the back for his self control.

“Right, a really nice bubble full of, of-” One of his hand leaves Aziraphale’s face to gesture wildly at the small space between them, while his head bobs frantically up and down. “Of this.” Seriously, people pay him to write things. It boggles the mind.

“Snogging?”
“Yes! Well, not only. Dinners, and lunches, and doing the dishes, and the walks, and your stupid pillows, no one has ever bought me pillows, can you believe that? Bloody nice pillows. And the tea! You always make me tea.”

Aziraphale squeezes Crowley’s waist with the hands still resting there, bringing them even closer. “Darling,” he says, effectively shutting him up. It’s a small mercy. “What do you want from this bubble?” Damn him and all his metaphors.

There are many possible answers, and some of them would definitely be better than the one Crowley settles on. But it is the only right one. “You.”

It is an old thing, this dance between the two of them. The said and the unsaid, the half truths and the little white lies, the circling around the root of the problem. Crowley pushes through. “Just you. That’s enough.”

“Oh,” Aziraphale whispers, like he did not expect this answer, like he did not know it was the only viable option, like he had any doubt at all. “Oh, sweetheart.”
That’s a new one, and damn if it’s not doing it for Crowley. He uses his hand still on Aziraphale’s cheek to bring him close again, losing himself in the softness of lips, in the warmth of his mouth, in the smoothness of his tongue.

“What if we burst the bubble?” Aziraphale breaks the kiss, and he sounds almost pained.

Crowley looks at him, his stormy eyes, his ever-flushed round cheeks, his cotton candy hair that no one could ever tame. He remembers a moment, twenty five years ago, in a house by the ocean, during an unnaturally sunny English summer. He used to tell Aziraphale he was the one who had brought the sun to West Sussex. Secretly, he hoped to be around to see all the places to which his angel would bring sunshine.

Now, Aziraphale is looking at him like he’s the sun.

“We’ll make another one,” he says, and, for some reason, he believes it now. “If we want to. We can always make more,” he stops himself, biting the inside of his cheek so hard he almost tastes steel.

Aziraphale smiles so brightly he looks twenty again, all softness and kindness and warmth and goodness. He looks like a new beginning. “We’ll think of something,” a breath. “Angel.”

Suddenly, he’s not on a warm lap anymore, which he would protest against if he wasn’t being picked up like a box full of books, straight out one of his fantasies. He’s not that bad with words, if this is the reward.

He doesn’t register much of his surroundings untile he’s being deposited on a couch that has, frankly, seen better days, and registers they’re now in the backroom. Not that he’s about to complain about anything right now.

“Do you have any idea,” Aziraphale says against his neck, while his fingers are already working on the buttons of his shirt. “Any idea of how much I missed hearing that?”

“Ah, well,” Crowley rasps out. “I think I’m starting to - f*ck”.

“All in due time.” Aziraphale bites back, releasing one of Crowley’s nipples to focus on the other one. His curls are already a mess, so Crowley’s hands decide to tangle them up even more. “Relax, sweetheart. Let me take care of you.”

Crowley is anything but relaxed. Deliriously, he remembers something. “Isn’t the shop technically open?”
“I locked the backroom, obviously.” When? “And it’s a Tuesday afternoon, always pretty quiet.” He says, calmly, as he unbuckles Crowley’s belt with one swift gesture. Crowley squeezes his eyes shut and thinks about wet socks very very hard.

“You have to be a little, ah these wretched things—“ he adds, fighting with Crowley’s jeans. He would not have chosen this specific pair this morning had he known about this new exhibition kink. Aziraphale wins the fight shortly after, with minimum wiggling required and a very hard tug. Crowley thinks about wet dog food very very hard.

“As I was saying, be a little quiet.”

“Please, you weren’t worried about making a show earlier. I could just say you were giving me a back ru— Jesus f*cking Christ.”

It’s hardly the first time, but Aziraphale’s mouth is always something bordering on other worldly, at least in Crowley’s experience. He has to use all of his willpower not to move his hips too much (though Aziraphale makes an encouraging sound, as insane as he is), and he bites on his knuckles too stop himself from making sounds a back rub would most definitely not justify. His other hand stays firmly entangled in blond curls, gripping so tightly he’s fairly certain it must hurt. Aziraphale locks eyes with him and winks.

Wet socks, wet dog food, hair stuck in the shower drain.

Then, Aziraphale’s fingers start tracing the length of Crowley’s scar, an ugly thing that starts at his hip and runs along his entire thigh. The night in New York, he tried to hide it in any way he could think of. “It’s bad,” he’d said, and Aziraphale had just smiled. “It’s part of you.”

And now he’s touching it, featherlight and almost reverent. It’s that touch that undoes him completely (alright, that and a particularly interesting thing Aziraphale does with his tongue). He barely has the time to hiss out a warning before he lets go, biting down on his forearm, and he soars.

“sh*t.” He blurts out once he’s calm enough to talk. “Buggering sh*t.”

Aziraphale giggles, because of course he does. Crowley laughs at this impossibility of a man and extends his arm. “Come here, up, up.” He’s pretty sure he’s going to die if he doesn’t kiss him right this second.

Aziraphale obliges, and kisses Crowley’s cheek before looking down at him with an expression that’s just a little bit too smug. It’s just a moment before it melts into something much, much softer. “So, we’ll have more bubbles?”

Crowley smiles, putting his hands underneath Aziraphale’s jumper. “All the bubbles you want, angel.” How he missed those two syllables rolling off his tongue. He missed it so much he whispers them against Aziraphale’s cheek, the underside of his jaw, his chin, his neck —

There’s a knock on the backroom’s door. They look at each other, freezing, and they remember.

“So, I assume this door is locked because you’re having kinky sex and forgot about our tea.” Anathema’s voice is entirely too chirpy and enthusiastic for the situation. Crowley feels a bit hysterical, and he’s still too blissed out to panic properly, so he hides a laugh into the crook of Aziraphale’s neck.

“Oh, well, if you’d just give us a minute, dear girl,” Aziraphale begins, not even bothering to deny anything, and Crowley laughs harder.

“Don’t stop on my account, please. God knows you both need it. Congrats! I’ll see you at home, ginger.” She says, matter-of-factly, and knocks again once to bid them farewell.

“Oi, witch girl! Turn the sign on ‘closed’ while you’re at it.” Crowley yells back, and hears the sound of her laugh from the other side of the door.

“Crowley!” Aziraphale swats his chest lightly, and he has the audacity to blush.

“What? I’m not done with you, angel.” He kisses him again, just because he can. “Not even remotely done.”

New York City, February 14th, 2016

Hiya angel,

Valentine’s day, uh? Remember that time you tried to bake me brownies but they sucked so bad I had a stomach ache for a week straight? I can’t believe I took one look at them and still ate them. They looked like rocks.

You were so cute though, with flour and cocoa powder everywhere and your big doe eyes so full of hope. What could a man do if not eat the damn brownies to the last crumb?

Anyway, I don’t have a date tonight, which is convenient as I don’t have to spend money on overpriced bouquets that are just going to die in a day anyway. Does that make me cynical? Am I a spinster? I probably am both.

I wonder if you have a date. You probably do, hot London lawyer that you are. I wonder who is the lucky bastard, and if you ever baked him brownies. I truly hope not.

I bet he’s bringing you red roses because he doesn’t remember you like yellow ones, even if you know the meaning and you just choose to ignore it. I bet you’re probably having dinner right now at some fancy place with your fancy date who brought you red roses and store brought chocolates. I bet the bastard is a pompous ass who only talks about finance and is on a keto diet.

Anyway, your Valentine’s Day surely looks better than mine. I’m thinking about getting a cat. You liked cats.

Well, time to wallow in self deprecation and expensive wine. Til next time, angel. Miss you.

Love,

C.

Carlos Miguel Sepulveda (1979 - 2016)

Madeleine Seraphina Sepulveda-Fell (1980 - 2016)

LOVE’S NOT TIME’S FOOL

“Right, uh. Uhm.”

Crowley is sweating, which is an anomaly for two different reasons. First, it’s literally February in bloody Connecticut; second, he never sweats, not even when he runs.

Not that he runs often, mind you. Part of the reasons why he always quits the gym, eventually.

Anyway, the matter at hand. Crowley is sweating, in February, in the middle of a graveyard, in broad daylight.

“This does not have to be awkward, you know?” Aziraphale whispers from beside him.

“It’s not Valentine’s Day.” Crowley blurts out, pushing his (sweaty) hands in the pockets of his coat.

Aziraphale sighs. “I come here with Muriel on Valentine’s Day.” Of course he does, Crowley is just an idiot. “This year is special. They’re eighteen, there’s the college thing and the coming out thing, and all the things. I wanted to come here with you on a different, ah, day.”

“I’m an idiot.”

“You are not. This is kind of silly.”

“It’s not!” Crowley yelps, before he remembers they are in a graveyard and not alone. Some of the other visitors look at them weirdly, and Aziraphale smiles apologetically. Crowley takes a deep breath.

“I mean, it’s not. You wanted me to meet your sister.” He says, at a much more subdue volume. He doesn’t mention the fact that he almost cried when Aziraphale asked him and had to take a cold shower back in his room.

This is something kind of monumental for Aziraphale, something incredibly vulnerable, and Crowley is incredibly proud. In an another life, they would have met at dinner, Crowley would have brought wine and would have been a stammering mess and he would have blushed every time Aziraphale looked at him. This is the life they have though; Crowley is going to make the most of this graveyard.

“Hi,” he says. “I’m Crowley. First name’s Anthony, but I don’t like it. I’m the one who corrupted your brother.”

Aziraphale snorts. “Honestly.”

Crowley ignores him. “Brought him straight into my den of inequity, you’ve no idea. Also, Seraphina as a middle name? Your parents shouldn’t have been allowed to name children.”

“Oh, she hated it. I called her Seraph sometimes just to annoy her.” Aziraphale says fondly.

Crowley coughs around the knot in his throat. “Sounds like you.” He looks at the grave for a moment. Crowley doesn’t have siblings, but he regards Anathema as a sort of little sister. He could not imagine what it would be like to lose her, and to find himself responsible for a child at the same time on the other side of the world. No one will ever make him prouder than Aziraphale.

“You were closer to her than the rest of your family, weren’t you?” Crowley remembers the only happy stories he ever heard about Aziraphale's childhood were about his little sister.

“Yes, even though we grew a bit apart when she moved here.”

“Wasn’t she awfully young to be moving abroad with a boyfriend?”

Aziraphale gives him a pointed side eye glance. Crowley remembers, and barks out a laugh. More passers-by turn to look at him. “f*ck, I’m officially old.”

Aziraphale huffs, but smiles a little. “She was. Carlos was an exchange student, and they moved to Boston together for college, right after secondary. They got married before courses even started, and the family basically disowned her. We still called and exchanged letters, but it wasn’t quite the same.” He sounds wistful. “She always was the bravest of us. I should have been a better brother.”

Crowley takes his hand, and gives it a squeeze. “You were a kid yourself. And in the end, she did choose you for the most important thing.”

At that, Aziraphale smiles. “She did. They both did.” He coughs discreetly to cover up how choked he sounds. Crowley squeezes his hand once more. “I still cannot believe it, some days, how much they trusted me. I’m very glad they did.”

Crowley thinks about Muriel, who has their father’s eyes and their mother’s smile, matching with their Uncle who fought sharks and left his whole life behind to honor a responsibility he didn’t know he had. “I’m very glad too.”

There’s a beat of silence, broken by the chirping sounds of the first, bravest birds that are starting to fight off winter. “Did she know? About - you know.” He trails off with an awkward shrug.

Aziraphale tenses up a bit before replying. “No.” It’s the answer Crowley expected, but it still stings. “I mean, I never told her, but I always had a feeling that she knew nonetheless.”

He takes a deep breath, and squeezes Crowley’s hand. “You were always one step ahead of me, Maddy.”

There’s another silence, longer this time. They stand there, holding hands in a graveyard, and Crowley feels strangely at peace. He would have loved to meet her properly, he thinks. Maybe he would have gotten along with at least another Fell.

“She called once, during our third year.” Aziraphale says suddenly. “I remember you were sleeping in the other room, and I was in the kitchen talking to her. She asked me if I found someone, with great emphasis on gender neutrality.” He laughs quietly, a bit breathless. Crowley waits. “I told her yes, but I wouldn’t talk about it. Pretty sure she did the math.”

Crowley smiles. This simple information shouldn’t make him this happy. “Well then Maddy, hi again, I was that someone. Still am, if you can believe it, though there was a substantial break in the middle of it. Mostly his fault, by the way.”

“Don’t listen to him, Maddy, he’s a menace.”

By the time they walk away, Crowley doesn’t feel awkward anymore and Aziraphale is giggling. They told Madeleine the story of how they met, how they lived together all throughout university, how they fell apart and found each other again. Aziraphale told her all about Crowley’s books and how good he is with Muriel, Crowley blushed and stammered and tried very hard not to tear up.

He thinks that Maddie would have liked him.

“Most definitely, darling.” Aziraphale tells him, while they walk hand in hand back to Main Road. He smiles, glancing down at their joined hands. “I still can’t believe it sometimes,” he mumbles, not completely sure of why he says it out loud.

“What can’t you believe?”

Crowley thinks about his answer for a bit. The list is considerably long. “That we’re here right now, together. I didn’t even want to come to this blasted town, Anathema and my bloody doctor nagged me for almost a year.”

Aziraphale snickers, bringing their joined hands to his lips to press a kiss against Crowley’s knuckles. “I’m glad they did. So very glad.”

I love you. I love you. I thought I stopped but I never did, not really. You were always with me. “Did you ever —” he stops, pursing his lips. He’s not about to ask that.

Obviously, Aziraphale doesn’t let it go. “Go on. Did I ever what?”

“Forget it, it’s stupid.” He looks around, desperately trying to find a distraction, failing. Bloody small towns who always look the same.

Aziraphale stops in his tracks. “Crowley,” he commands and, well, Crowley is just a man. He looks at him. “Did I ever what?”

Well, what’s another embarrassing moment? This has been the wildest month of his life, after all. “Did you ever think about me?” He blurts out, but he says it so quickly it comes out a bit more like didyoueverthinkaboutme.

Aziraphale’s face does that melty thing Crowley adores, and he feels warm lips pressed against his before he can process his embarrassment. When they pull apart, Aziraphale is looking at him with such raw emotion in those stormy skies of his that Crowley almost feels light headed. “I need to show you something,” he says, and leads them both toward his house.

Untitled Draft #1, still untitled

Excerpt from Chapter 15

“Do you honestly still think I can believe you?” [name the poor bloke Crowley at this point an A name is fine] spat out. Gregory expected the anger, the annoyance, the bitterness. He did not expect the sadness, nor the sheer hurt. His stomach did something unpleasant. His hands dug deeper into the ground.

“What do you want to do? Do you want to give them my name?” When they bite, bite back. That what his father always told him anyway. He purposefully chose not to turn his head. There were many things he could do at that moment, but looking at his neighbour was not an option.

“Your name? Do you think I’m talking about that?” Gregory felt something else in Aaron’s [???] voice. Desperation. He dug deeper, deeper, deeper; deep enough his hands could reach the Earth’s very core. “I don’t believe you don’t care about anything. I don’t believe you don’t care about me.” At the Earth’s very core, everything would be warm. No more sadness, no more hurt, no more desperation, no more blue eyes, yellow flowers, pretty hands.
“You don’t know anything about me.” There would be plenty of defenses, at the Earth’s very core. “Leave my property.”
“Look at me then. Look at me and tell me you don’t care.” The Earth’s very core would be warm, safe. Also hard, unapproachable. “Tell me you brought me flowers because you didn’t care, tell me you stayed the night because you didn’t care, tell me that if he came for me, if I died tomorrow you wouldn’t spare a thought for me.”

Gregory realized he couldn’t dug any deeper.

“I don’t believe you don’t care. Not for a single moment.”

The Earth’s very core, some said, would be impossibly cold. “I don’t know how to do anything else.”

started giving up on the word forever

til you gave up Heaven so we could be together

oh my angel, angel baby

Chapter 11: you showed up just in time

Chapter Text

in losing grip

on sinking ships

you showed up just in time

According to the Cambridge Dictionary, hoarding is ‘the act of collecting large amounts of something and keeping it for yourself, often in a secret place’.

(He will never admit it, but Crowley is a hoarder. Even if we decide to ignore the amount of feelings he kept hidden during the years, he has a hidden file on his laptop that takes up approximately 70% of its available space. He calls himself a minimalist, but then again, he calls himself many things.)

Aziraphale is a hoarder. Crowley has known this for ages, ever since he first stepped foot into his flat in Soho and found himself looking at a veritable library instead of a living room. His studio, though, was always a sort of sanctuary: the usual messiness permeating Aziraphale’s life and all the rooms he ever set foot in was never welcome in the studio. It was always neat, tidy, perfectly organized.

His studio in the house he lives in New Dawns is, well. It’s a bloody mess.

“I know, I know,” Aziraphale says, seemingly reading Crowley’s mind (or, more likely, his worried expression). “It is a mess, I know that. It’s what happens when you have to condense your whole life in a single room, I’m afraid.”

There are books basically on every surface, which is to be expected since it’s Aziraphale we’re talking about. But there are also pieces of papers stacked haphazardly on top of piles of books, pens and pencils scattered on what looks like a worktable, along with pastels, acrylics, brushes of all shapes and sizes that are everywhere but in a box.

“Why a single room? Your house is not small.” Crowley comments, picking up a piece of paper absentmindedly. He smirks: it’s a pencil sketch of Jane’s Carousel, with two figures sat down in front of it. Their faces aren’t sketched, but their identities are unmistakeable. Aziraphale must have drawn it from memory. He makes a mental note of asking him if he can keep it.

“Ah, well. Not really my house.” Aziraphale opens a little closet behind the desk, which is obviously overflowing with various objects. It’s a miracle of physics it was even closed to begin with. “It felt wrong to flood my sister’s house with all my knickknacks, in the beginning. I already felt like I was stealing her life, in a way. So, a room was it.” He turns around to give Crowley a small, sad smile, then bends down again to continue rummaging in the little closet.

“Have you ever dusted this room?” The room has its own charm, Crowley has to admit. It’s very much an artist’s den. It’s also a health hazard and a violation of every single fire safety regulation ever invented.

“Crowley, my dearest darling, I cannot remember the last time I saw the floor. Where on Earth did I put the bloody thing?” Aziraphale puts out a box, just to have a number of smaller boxes falling at his feet. “Oh, drat.”

Crowley raises both his eyebrows. “May I help?”

“No. Just sit there and look pretty.” Aziraphale seems to be very focused on - and mildly horrified by - the content of a smaller box.

“I’m not sitting down, angel. Pretty sure I would encounter some sort of new life form.”

This does earn him a glare. “It’s not that bad.”

It is that bad, but Crowley doesn’t reply, leaving Aziraphale to his - well, whatever it is that he’s doing. He continues his curious exploration of the various sketches he finds.

There are pictures of what he supposes will be the stands at the Valentine’s Day thingy; there are a few drawings of some sort of garden with various decorations, and Crowley smiles when he spots the note at the bottom of the page - M’s Graduation Party?. Leave it to Aziraphale to be the messiest and simultaneously most organized person in the world (by 1958 standards, obviously).

“Nice garden you have here, by the way. Could use a few flowers and perhaps one of those balloon arch thingies you see all over Instagram. Well, I see all over Instagram at least.”

Graduation, Crowley remembers, is in May. He knows what he’s implying, and he knows they agreed before (well, they talked about it in circles like they always do, but he’s pretty sure his bubbles and Aziraphale’s bubbles were the same kind of bubbles), but his heartbeat picks up nonetheless.

He hears Aziraphale’s rummaging still. “You would have to help me with that. If you’d like, that is.” There’s a hint of doubt in his voice Crowley doesn’t like.

“Of course I would.” He aims for nonchalant, landing just south of it. He clears his throat. “I will. Anyway,” he says, trying to keep the smile out of his voice and to not jump up and down, because that would be too embarrassing even for him. “What the hell are you doing?”

“I’m looking for something.”

Right. Crowley gathered that. “And you’re having trouble locating it despite your pristine organization?”

“I’ll reconsider locating it in the first place if you keep this up.” Aziraphale moves to the other side of the cabinet. “I actually moved it from its designated place some weeks ago. And now it disappeared,” he says, a bit whiny. This is usually the point when Aziraphale uses his big blue eyes to manipulate Crowley into helping him, but he’s purposefully avoiding his gaze now.

“You sure you don’t want my help?”

“Yes. Keep looking at whatever you were looking at.” Crowley, who was looking at the drawings while simultaneously ogling Aziraphale’s arse, grins. “Will do.”

He is pretty curious about whatever it is Aziraphale’s looking for. He does not want to get his hopes up, but given the urgency and the secrecy he thinks it will be something ridiculously sappy. His money is on some sort of scrap book Aziraphale made during the years, a trip down memory lane just like the nostalgic, hopeless romantic he is.

Still, he keeps his expectations at bay. Aziraphale could very well be looking for a snuffbox.

He goes through some more papers; most of them are just doodles, really, though the talent underneath is still plenty visible. Crowley grins as he spots a few bird sketches. “I like ducks.” Aziraphale hums, ignoring him otherwise. “Remember when we used to go and feed them in St. James? Pair of nerds.”

“It was a very wholesome activity.”

It was just them and a bunch of elders spending their Sundays at the duck ponds. It was extremely dorky, and Crowley would have never admitted to liking that particular activity, let alone that it was the highlight of his week. He remembers, though, how the rare London sun used light up Aziraphale’s hair just so, how he used to laugh whenever Crowley would pick up fights with the old people about the correct way to feed ducks, how they would come up with different names each week for the little buggers.

He’s never fed ducks with anyone else. He’s never fed another animal ever since, not even a goldfish. He’s always been a little overdramatic like that.

“Oh, there you are!” Aziraphale finally emerges with… a box. A big, very heavy looking cardboard box that would make Crowley wonder how it even fit inside the cabinet if he wasn’t too busy staring at Aziraphale’s arms.

Crowley smirks, ready to come up with some ridiculous flirty thing he knows Aziraphale adores, when his eyes meet a stormy gaze and his smile wilts. His hands are hovering somewhere over the top of the box, deposited quite haphazardly onto the table. He toys with the cardboard flaps for a bit before taking a deep breath. “This is kind of a secret thing.”
“Is it now?” Crowley says, and it comes out more breathy than he intends. The nervous energy Aziraphale is exuding permeates the air. It feels kind of staticky.

“Yes.” Aziraphale continues. “It’s also kind of ridiculous. I am being kind of ridiculous, actually.” He huffs out a small laugh.
“You’re always kind of ridiculous.” Crowley grins, Aziraphale glares. “Affectionately, of course.”

“Of course.” At last, Aziraphale gifts him a small, almost private smile. “Go on, open it. It’s yours, after all.”
By the time Crowley opens the box his fingers (and his heart) are shaking like anything. If - and the if is becoming more and more a when as the seconds pass - he opens the box and finds drawings and paintings of himself, he’s probably going to pass out.

He has thought about it during the years, especially whenever he was writing his letters. Would have Aziraphale done something similar, in his own way? Would he have stashed away sketches and doodles of Crowley’s face, his eyes, his hands? Or would he have stopped painting him completely, erasing his face from his memory while trying to move on? He thought the last option was the most terrifying one. But right now, faced with the possibility of his hurt and longing being shared, he’s not sure anymore.

He wants to see it, though. He opens the box, and the journals he finds inside of it. Well, he starts with the one at the very top, labeled “One” with Aziraphale’s elegant handwriting on the cover. He flips through the pages, stares at the (undoubtedly beautiful) sketches and frowns. “Who are these people?”

They’re not drawing of his face - which, ouch. They’re drawings of people he doesn’t recognize, people he is sure he hasn’t seen before in his life, doing all sort of things. Namely, the one is staring at is is a sketch of a man watering a cactus, of all things.

“Look a little closer.” Aziraphale says softly, his smile turning sly at Crowley’s evident confusion. “Come on. It’s yours.” He says again, with much more emphasis on the last part.

Crowley’s frowns some more, turns another page and - “f*ck!”

It’s his book. His first book, A tale of stars and succulents. Crowley finally, finally recognizes the scene he’s looking at, where the main character is talking to his succulents about the weird things going on at his seemingly boring job. It’s something that happens in the first few chapters, something he’s written so long ago he doesn’t even remember where he was. Probably still in London, while living with Aziraphale in Soho and perpetually evading every question about his manuscript. He doesn’t recognize the people in the sketches because they’re his very own characters viewed through Aziraphale’s eyes.

He might still pass out, after all. He clutches the first journal close to his chest, as a petulant child would with his favourite toy, and looks inside the box again. There are more journals, each labeled with a number Crowley now knows corresponds to each of his novels. He wants to flip through each and every one of them, cataloguing each and every detail until they are imprinted on his mind forever. “You - you - all of my books?”

Aziraphale nods. “You were always my muse, remember? Just, in more ways than I thought was possible.”

“f*ck.” Crowley says again, intelligently. He then picks up the journal made for Driving through fire and other remedies for a sore throat, because it’s his personal favourite and he needs to check if Aziraphale’s got the thing right. “Yes, yes! Of course you knew it was a Bentley!”

Aziraphale laughs. “You wouldn’t stop talking about it, how could I not? Though I always wondered why you never mention it explicitly.”

Crowley only described an ancient, sleek, black, car in the book, leaving the rest to the reader’s imagination. At the time, he told himself it was just a stylistic choice. It never really was. “You were the only one who knew about the Bentley.” It was always the same reason, after all.

Aziraphale gives him a beaming smile. “Pick up number three and tell me if I got Ash right.”

Crowley doesn’t know how much time pass while they flip through all the pages. They end up on the floor, thighs pressed together and Crowley’s head on Aziraphale shoulder as he looks and looks until his eyes burn, until his fingers have traced every single sketch, until he’s laughed at the characters Aziraphale got terribly wrong (“She was specifically described as a brunette!” “But she works so well as a blonde!”) and marveled at the ones taken straight from his brain (“Now you absolutely nailed Ash.” “Oh, did I? She’s not too much of a goth?” “She’s the perfect amount of goth.”).

After they close the last journal, neither of them move nor talk for a while. Seeing his own words translated into images was the last thing he expected when he opened that box, and yet it’s probably the best outcome. It’s personal, intimate, so intrinsically Aziraphale. “You would illustrate all of my novels because you missed me. Of course you would.”

“Well,” Aziraphale says into Crowley’s hair. “Portraits would have been so terribly cliché.”

“Obviously. Not what I expected when I opened the box at all.”

“Mmh. Not at all. You’re way too smart for that.”

“Shut up.” Crowley reaches blindly for Aziraphale’s hand, keeping his eyes closed, as if he can engrave the pictures onto his brain better this way. He lands on a wrist and starts tracing idle circles with his thumb. “You’re a sap,” he adds for good measure.

“You’re writing a book in which I am the love interest.” Aziraphale says primly, sliding his palm so that he can give Crowley’s hand a squeeze. “How is my Aaron getting on?”

“His name is not Aaron.” Crowley mumbles, making a mental note of changing the name as soon as he can. “And maybe I’ll kill him off.” He also makes a mental note of erasing the ending he already wrote that has the words ring and pocket in it.

“Certainly. Just, don’t drown me. I like swimming too much for it.”

Crowley bites back a snort. “Wanker.”
“Mmh.”

The floor is not comfortable, the dust lingering in the air is making Crowley’s nose runny and he has quite a lot of paper cuts on his fingers. Yet, the last thing on his mind is moving or getting up. He opens his eyes again, tips his head up to gaze at Aziraphale’s unfairly perfect side profile, the surge of love blooming in his chest almost knocking the air out of his lungs. He realizes, not for the first time in his life, that he wants to keep him forever.

“Can I keep the journals?” He asks instead. I want to keep this part of your soul, he thinks. No one else gets me like you do. No one else ever had, no one else ever will.

“Of course! I told you, they’re yours.” Aziraphale says, and presses his lips to Crowley’s forehead. Wildly, Crowley thinks they could be theirs, if they had one house, one studio, one room to hoard all of their combined secrets. He tries really, really hard to think about the fact that they’ve been together less than a month this time around; though, his brain supplies unhelpfully, the first time the cohabitation happened after two weeks. And look how that ended. Rationality is a bit harder to grasp with those eyes so close to his face.

“What are you two up to?” They both jump at the voice startling them back to reality. Muriel is standing by the door, an amused smile on their features and a phone pointed at them both.

“Did you just take a picture?” Crowley says, while Aziraphale yelps, “When did you come back?” at the same time.

“Like, five minutes ago, what’s for dinner? And yes, I did. It was all very cute.” They gesture at the two of them. Crowley realizes they are still very much on the floor, very much closer than they ever been in front of Muriel, having agreed to keep the PDAs to a minimum in front of them. The reason for this? They just didn’t know what to do and this felt like the most appropriate thing. It’s not like either of them had any experience with the whole thing whatsoever.

“Cute?” Aziraphale asks, as Crowley simultaneously says, “Let me see the pic,” which earns him a look. “What? We don’t have any together.” This earns him a fond look.

“Sent,” Muriel says just before Crowley can hear his phone vibrate in his back pocket. “So, dinner? Can I look at whatever it is you two are looking at?”

“No.” They both exclaim. Aziraphale starts putting the journals back into the box, not at all frantically of course, and Crowley has to stop white-knuckling the first one to deposit it carefully on top of the rest.

“Fine, fine, keep your secrets!” Muriel giggles, raising their hands in mock defeat. “I am kind of hungry, you know?”

Crowley laughs as Aziraphale rolls his eyes. Muriel may not be biologically Aziraphale’s kid, but boy do they have a lot in common. “Angel, I don’t know if you noticed but the kid is feeling a bit peckish.” This earns him an elbow in his ribs.

“What do you say to pizza, you terror?” Aziraphale squeezes his hand before asking, “Are you staying darling?”

Crowley barely - just barely - puts together enough brain matter not to reply always. “Sure, if you’d like.”

“Of course we’d like!” Muriel chirps. “You promised we’d finish the last season of that old show you like last week.” He did, and he smiles at the memory. He just didn’t think they would actually wait for him to go on. His stomach feels all funny.

“That old show? Buffy is a classic, Muriel and I can’t believe you-” he stops, grimacing. “f*ck. I sound like him, don’t I?”

Muriel laughs and nods, while Aziraphale just huffs. “I’m going to pretend I didn’t hear that,” he says in that tone that makes Crowley feel a lot of inappropriate things.

Since he’s still floating on the giddy feeling that has settled into his chest ever since Aziraphale pulled out the box, he feels bolder than usual. He leans forward and kisses the frown between Aziraphale’s brows. “I’ll order the pizzas, my treat.”

The beaming smile he gets in response is worth the pang of embarrassment that comes with doing this in front of an infant. “That’s more like it. Peach, go and set the table, and don’t you huff at me.”

Muriel huffs, and exchanges a grin with Crowley before blowing a kiss in his direction. “Thank you!” They turn and starts to leave, before stopping in their tracks. “That was disgustingly cute!”

“I’m not cute!” Crowley mumbles, only getting matching giggles in response.

He lets the now dangerously familiar warm feeling settle over his chest, and welcomes the butterflies in his stomach with a half smile.

Later that same night, once the pizzas have been eaten and arguments on 90s show have been had, Crowley sits on the couch with a dozing Aziraphale on his shoulder and Muriel’s sock cladded feet in his lap, and pulls out his phone to do two very important things.

First, he posts on his own Instagram account for the first time in two years. It’s disgustingly soppy and he cringes at himself while he’s doing it, but the picture Muriel took is actually kind of adorable. Plus, he’s waited twenty years to tell the world about Aziraphale, so he will do as he damn pleases (after asking Aziraphale. Of course he asked him, he’s not a monster. He definitely didn’t tear up when he said yes too). And if he captions the picture with the angel wings emoji and a heart, whatever, shut up, you don’t know anything.

Once that’s done, he turns off the notifications and he texts Anathema.

yes I know I posted that picture don’t make fun of me it’s already bad as it is

anyway

how powerful is your printer?

AW OH MY GOD

WHO TOOK IT

that’s adorable

let me comment something embarrassing

please don’t

i beg you

ANATHEMA

i’m deleting that

it was funny

the literal KID who took the picture follows me

a million people follow you

plus nothing muriel wouldn’t approve of

love them

likewise

anyway

printer?

?

who owns a printer

what do you even MEAN

everyone?

why do you even need a printer?

we sign contracts with electronic signature

i don’t need to sign a contract

UGH

i just need one

why

oh god

something embarrassing isn’t it

i’m not telling you

but i need to print a lot of stuff

???

why

think about the trees

i write books for a living

and you work for me for a living

someone who writes books

fair but

how much is a lot of stuff

c?

i can see you typing

and deleting

and typing again

f*ck. like a lot

fine i’ll tell you

you won’t say ANYTHING about it

sure

i need to print say twenty three years worth of letters

oh my god

are you SERIOUS

quite

he showed me something today

did he now

shut up

i mean something he made for me

usidbisflbis

f*ck

listen i really need that printer

you’re so ridiculous for each other it’s actually endearing

ok so i’m gonna be helpful now

why don’t you ask mr brown?

hard pass

he always flirts with aziraphale right in front of me

knob

he works for the town’s newspaper and you need a big ass printer

but, if i may

printing them is the most unromantic thing ever

i know that

it’s not like i can rewrite them all by hand

and i didn’t expect to ever give them to him so i just typed them

oh god you’re right

should i rewrite them all by hand

what was i THINKING

A BLOODY PRINTER

calm down

it’s not that bad

az is already head over heels

it’s not like you need to woo him

nath

he illustrated all of my books

in journals

that he kept hidden from anyone else but me

hand drawn illustrations

WATERCOLOURED

oh

well first of all

did you cry?

and second of all

you need to rewrite that sh*t on f*cking PARCHMENT

i hate you

u right

i hate my life

wait

wouldn’t it be like a bit unauthentic

crowley do you want to email them to him?

I HATE MYSELF

sh*t gotta go he’s waking up

we’ll brainstorm tomorrow

what a fun way to spend my friday

planning your grand romantic gesture

good thing i love u

love u too

UGH

i’m feeling way too many things

oh god he nuzzled closer to me

he’s adorable

i WILL rewrite anything

screenshot and saved it for your wedding

YOU CANT SAY THINGS LIKE THAT

Sprawled on Anathema’s stupidly ugly purple couch, head in hands and foot tapping wildly, Crowley feels dangerously close to a mental breakdown.

“I’m going to cut your foot off,” says Anathema, weirdly calm as she inspects the pages of Crowley’s very secret file. She did promise she wouldn’t read anything, merely estimate the rough number of pages, but he still worries. He did pour his heart into the things, and he did write some highly embarrassing thing.

“Wanna know the worst thing? I actually wrote the first of the lot by hand and then I got lazy and it was just easier to type them out whenever I felt like it.” He’s moaning, definitely overcomplicating the situation, but he can’t help it.

He cannot stop thinking about how utterly cold a bunch of printed sheets would look like in comparison to Aziraphale’s journals. Where would he even put them? In a manila folder?

“You’re being over dramatic. It’s fine, it’s Aziraphale.”

“Exactly!” Anathema doesn’t get it. Or, he could just be a tad hysterical. “You were the one who brought up the whole unromantic business!”

She looks up at him from the rim of her thick glasses, one eyebrow raised. “Evidently, I should have kept my big mouth shut.”

Crowley sighs, runs a hand through his hair, willing his body to calm the hell down. He’s being ridiculous. “I’m being ridiculous.”

“Yes. And this is longer than an encyclopedia.”

“I told you I needed a big printer.”

Anathema closes his laptop and hums thoughtfully, her eyes closed. Crowley hopes she’ll have some kind of divine inspiration or occult revelation or some other witchy thing.

Honestly, he doesn’t even know why he’s getting so worked up. It’s good enough to know that Aziraphale never stopped thinking about him either, he doesn’t need to do some big gesture. He knows his angel would be delighted with an email.

His angel. He hasn’t thought about that for a while.

He doesn’t need to worry himself this much over the whole thing, but he wants to. He wants to see Aziraphale as emotional as he was when he showed him the journal; he wants him to feel everything Crowley felt in those twenty three years of separation; he wants him to understand that even though his life moved on, even though he’s been happy, he never, ever forgot him, not even a little bit, not even for a short while.

He wants him to know he’s always been with him. And he doesn’t want to do all that with an email.

“Well, Mr. Fell loves books,” a male voice says from somewhere in the living room.

Ah right, the boyfriend who looks perpetually confused. “Where did you come from?”

The man - Crowley swears he knows his name. It’s something reptilian, definitely - looks even more confused. “I basically live here.”

“What?”

“I make you coffee in the mornings.”

Crowley is sure he would remember him if that was true. Well, fairly sure at least. “Really?”

“Okay, Crowley, you shut up. Newt, babe, what were you saying?” Bingo! It was something reptilian. Anathema glares at him while Crowley just shrugs.

The man - Newt, he supposes - brights up again. “Well, I mean, you could bind the letters in a proper book, make it a sort of epistolary novel just for him.”

It’s, for some absurd reason, the best damn thing Crowley ever heard. Crowley stares at him, gaping. Anathema is speechless as well, but the look in her eyes is more of adoration. Newt just sips at his coffee and looks at the both of them, with his perpetually sort of empty eyes. “What? That bad?”

“That bad?” His voice is too high pitched, so he coughs and starts again. “That bad he says. Listen, lizard boy, if you ever need some money call me up and I will buy a goddamn house.” Crowley gets up to pat Newt’s shoulder twice, just for good measure. He could kiss the man right now.

Aziraphale will go crazy for something like that. He can see those big blue eyes lighting up, the million watt smile, the look of absolute delight and love and he can just feel the way he would come up to him and - “So! Can I do it here? Do you know a place or someone who does things like that?” He stops, feeling his grin slipping into something slightly manic. “And please don’t answer Mr. Fell.”

Newt is definitely scared now. Poor bloke. “Uhm, I mean, I can think of someone, but you wouldn’t like it.”

Crowley’s face falls. “No.”

Anathema huffs. “He’s right. I told y-”

“Absolutely not.”

“He literally works with Aziraphale on his book bindings and restorations business, he knows all about -”

“Nath, I said no. I will turn to Google and find something else.”

Anathema just taps her foot on the ground. “He’s already here, he will undoubtedly work faster. It’s the most convenient option, you’re just insane.”

“I do not give a single f*ck.” He’s being stubborn, he knows he is. But there is no chance in Hell nor Heaven he will give something this precious to that absolute knob.

“Well, if I may,” Newt cuts in, bravely ignoring Crowley’s murder stare. Honestly, f*ck him for even suggesting it. “I do work with Mr. Brown, and he’s not that bad once you get to know him.”

“Not that bad?” Crowley’s pacing now. “Nah, you have no idea boy. He’s always popping in with a cupcake here and a treat here, the absolute wanker, like I’m not right there. Oh, and the touches, have I told you about the touches? He’s always so touchy, no concept of personal space, right in front of my cuppa, the obnoxious knob.”

First time it happened, Crowley was just lounging in one of the armchair and nursing a cup of tea, staring at Aziraphale while he was busy reshelving some of his books, as one does. That was when the knob has barged in like he owned the place, rambling about some idiotic thing Crowley didn’t even hear because the knob’s hand was squeezing Aziraphale’s shoulder and then petting his arm. The touches didn’t stop not even after Aziraphale introduced Crowley as his beau (because he’s adorable like that), the wretched creature just acted like he wasn’t even there.

“He won’t ever touch my letters.” He finishes his rant, panting.

“Right.” Anathema deadpans. “Like I said, insane.”

She’s right, Crowley knows she’s right. This notion won’t stop him from throwing a temper tantrum. “Nath,” he whines. “Do you have a single better idea?”

“No.” Well, the brutality helps. “Plus, Newt will help with the process.”

“Will I?” Newt asks, a hint of exasperation in his rather strained tone.

“Of course you will. You work there as well.”

“I am a reporter—”

“Hush babe. You like helping, don’t you? Plus, there’s not much to report in New Dawns and you know it.” Anathema smiles, looking a bit like a shark, as poor Newt nods dumbly. Crowley feels a pang of sympathy for the guy.

“Well then! That’s settled. Your big romantic gesture is go!” She claps her hands excitedly, clearly proud of having manipulated her boyfriend into doing God knows what exactly. Crowley is equally admired and terrified.

“Ah, Crowley speaking of work,” Crowley winches. They were not speaking of work. “Do you have something we can send over to Lucy? Anything will work, really, just to stop her passive aggressive emails. And, worse, the emails of her assistant.”

Crowley swallows, lets out a string of consonants and tries really hard not to blush. “Might do. A first chapter and a full outline, actually.”
Anathema stares. Then stares some more. This may be a bit of shock to her, Crowley muses. He hasn’t written this much in years, not to mention she’s usually the firs to be updated about his progress. “Why are you telling me this excellent news like you’ve got a gun to your head?”

Crowley squirms, blushes some more. He can feel the vein on his neck throbbing. This is going to be humiliating. “It’s, uhm, different than my usual stuff.”
Anathema keeps staring at him, now with the addition of an interested eyebrow. “Different how?”

He sighs. There’s no need to keep the charade up. “There’s a love interest, alright? A love interest who is pretty vital to the plot. And, before you ask, yes, it’s exactly what you’re thinking. I’m going to send you what I have and we will not speak of it again.”

His words are met with another raised eyebrow and a quivering lip, clearly trying (and failing) to stifle a laugh. “What’s this love interest name? Azra? Ezra? Azir?”

“No!” He’s pathetic, but he’s not that pathetic. “It’s Aaron.” He absolutely is that pathetic.

Anathema snorts, and her pearly laughter follows him even after he shuts the door of his bedroom.

Only then, in the safety of this ugly room he’s grown quite fond of, he allows himself a smile. He’s grateful he has friends who put up with his nonsense, and he should perhaps learn to show this appreciation better.

And if he doubts big bad Lucy will appreciate his little love story with murderous interruptions, he pushes the thought aside to focus his worry on the other book he’s now apparently working on. Well, other people are technically working on it, but those letters are his soul: his life work, his magnus opus, his best kept secret and the weight on his shoulder he was never able to really lift. He really, really can’t wait to share the weight with someone else. A very special, very specific someone else. Someone who gifted Crowley his own soul, engraved in old journals with watercolors and pencils.

Take that, Mr. Brown and your stupid cupcakes.

By some miracle, the book is ready for Valentine’s Day.

(It’s not a miracle. It turns out Newton Pulsifer, natural born disaster and general destroyer of things, is actually good with his hands. Specifically, he finds out he has a talent for book binding, and after asking his boss some very vague, very generic questions, he manages the entire thing on his own. Crowley promises he will buy him a house again, and smiles at him for the very first time. Newt says he doesn’t want a house, but he would very much like a new laptop. Anathema pats his cheek and tells him a house would be a lesser fire hazard. Crowley is way too pleased to question it.)

There is no text on the spine or on the cover, which is a deep, rich yellow, almost ochre, what Crowley knows is Aziraphale’s favourite color.

(“Really angel, yellow? No one’s favourite color is yellow!”

“Why, it’s mine. And I like a very specific shade of yellow.

“Course you do.”

“Actually, it reminds a bit of your eyes.”

“My eyes are not yellow!”

“No, they’re not. But they’re such a light brown, sometimes in the sun they look like pools of honey.”

“Ngk. You- you can’t say that. You can’t!”)

On the first page, Crowley reads:

TO AZIRAPHALE Z. FELL

written and curated by Anthony J. Crowley

bound by N. Pulsifer

February 2024

New Dawns (CT)

He stares at it, dragging his fingers over the words. He saw his name on books more times than he can count, but it never felt like this. Each and every one of his book is personal, in a way; you cannot write anything without giving away a little bit of your soul, his favourite professor used to say.

This feels way more than a little bit. But it will be Aziraphale’s, so it’s fine.

He turns another page, and reads his very last letter. Sort of prologue to this book, sort of epilogue for this part of his life. Somehow, it’s one of his favorite thing he’s ever written.

Angel,

when I first started writing these things, I was an angry, heartbroken twenty something who was sure he would never see nor speak to what he thought as the love of his life ever again. So, because he was a sorry sod and way to dramatic for his own good, he decided to write letters he would never send, pour everything he wanted to say to you in them and hide them away, tucked away in a dusty corner of his horrid flat first, and a hidden file in his laptop next.

It went on for roughly twenty years, what started as a sh*tty coping mechanism became my diary. Every time something major happened in my life, I’d write you a letter; every time I was transcendentally bored while working, I’d write you a letter; every time I missed you so much I would start seeing white blond hair on strangers on the streets, I’d write you a letter.

I cannot tell you why exactly I decided not to send them. I think after the first few months they became something I did for me, rather than you. You weren’t real, after all.

You were my memories, the voice inside my head, the place I went to when the real world got to be a little too much. But you weren’t real. So I wrote to the angel I knew, because you were the only one who always listened.

Then you were real again. Just like that, when I stopped looking for you in strangers on the streets, in the last place I would ever think of you, you showed up. Out of the f*cking blue, let me tell you, nearly killing me in the process. Warn a man next time, will you?

You told you missed me. You told me you wanted to be my friend again. You introduced me to your family, your friends, your new life. You showed me all the things I didn’t know I wanted.

Just like that, I was twenty something again. Not the heartbroken, angry one; no, I was the one who asks the pretty boy in the pub on a date and nearly falls off the stool when he says yes; the one who cannot seem to leave you alone once he got a taste of you; the one who wanted to write books for you just because you smiled at the idea.

You’ll notice, in the last letter I wrote before arriving in New Dawns, I told you I didn’t love you anymore. It took one look at you in your dimly lit bookshop to realize it wasn’t true. I’ve been falling for you again ever since you nearly killed me with a bean bag.

I hope you like this gift. I hope you don’t tease me too much for how embarrassing some of them are. I hope you cry at the most emotional ones because, honestly, past Crowley bared his soul to you, he deserves some tears at least. I hope you forgive me for never sending them to you.

I’ve spent most of my life missing you. I hope I never have to again.

Love,

C.

He wraps the book in some generic brown paper, as best as he can. He places it on his bed, and thinks.

He cannot give him the book today, of all days. Not with all the grief and mourning packed into the universal day of love. Just his luck, obviously.

It’s just that now that the book is in his hands, he has an itch. Possibly, the biggest, itchiest itch he’s ever had. He’s dying to scratch it, he’s dying to just to put the book in Aziraphale’s hands and scream in his face, “SEE? I never stopped being obsessed with you!”

Bit overkill, maybe.

Just as he’s taking out his frustrations on his nails, his phone vibrates. He smiles as he pick up, unable to do anything else.

“Hiya angel, good morning.”

“Good morning darling,” Aziraphale doesn’t sound as chirpy as usual, but he doesn’t sound necessarily sad. Could be a good sign. “Happy Valentine’s Day.”

“Uh, uhm, you too!” Crowley grimaces, muttering a few swear words under his breath. “I mean, happy Valentine’s Day, angel. I wasn’t sure you’d want to… you know.”

“Oh, how thoughtful.” Crowley would have said lame, but he’ll take it. “It’s not a bad day per se, you know? It’s been an awfully long time. It’s more melancholic than anything else really.”

“Bittersweet?”

“That’s it. Bittersweet. I like that.” Crowley can feel Aziraphale’s smile, and smiles as a reflex. “I have a feeling this year will be a little bit sweeter.”

Crowley giggles, then immediately coughs rather violently to cover it up. “Mmyeah. Ngk. Sap.” His fingers tap wildly on his thigh, as Aziraphale chuckles in his ear.

“How’s your pain today?” Aziraphale asks.

Aziraphale always asks, every day, usually first thing in the morning, wether by text, in person or with a phone call. Crowley stopped tearing up and feeling out of breath, after the first few times, but the flutters in his stomach are still very much there.

He wiggles around a bit, assessing the situation before answering. “Mmh, not too bad I’d say,” he says finally, which Aziraphale knows it means not too good either. He hums thoughtfully.

“I’ll make you a thermos with the tea you like so much, what do you say? The one with lavender. It helps a bit, doesn’t it?”

Crowley fight the urge to refuse. He knows Aziraphale will say “But I want to!” in response to his “You don’t have to.” It’s been a slow process, but he’s starting to accept Aziraphale little thoughtful gestures without fighting him about it first (and without Aziraphale having to literal manipulate him into accepting it: “But darling, it would make me ever so happy if you say yes!”. The bastard). Dr. Eve helped and is still helping him realize people’s affection is not conditional, nor transactional; if Aziraphale wants to do something for him, he will, for no other reason other than he cares; Crowley will just have to accept it or refuse it. He’s never been able to refuse anything by his angel.

“Yeah, it does. Little bit.” He mumbles into the phone. “I’d like it.”

Aziraphale hums happily, and Crowley can picture his happy wiggle. Sometimes, very rarely mind you, he wonders how on Earth he managed to fall for him, twice.

They chat for a while longer, making broad arrangement on when they’ll see each other today. Crowley has no intention to linger at the festival thingy longer than he has to. Aziraphale hasn’t either, but he is required to. Crowley snorts at the bitchy way Aziraphale complains about it. “You’ve brought this all upon yourself, angel.”

“I know!” Aziraphale whispers-shouts. “It’s not like I did this on purpose, mind you.” He sighs. “At least Muriel seems happy.”

“That’s good.” Crowley thinks about Muriel’s easy smiles and decides enduring a whole day of clichés and ridiculous small towns shenanigans is worth it. “That’s the point.”

“It is, isn’t it? Though it’s- yes, Maggie?” Crowley can hear some shuffling and a couple of muffled voices in the background. He grins as he enjoys hearing the overly polite, clearly exasperated Mr. Fell be his bitchiest self.

“Say angel, how about I come and save you at about 5?”

“But that’s so far away! No, no I wasn’t talking to you, leave it there.”

Crowley stifles a laugh. “It’s earlier than I promised you.”

“Fine.” Aziraphale huffs. “But don’t be late, or I will be very cross.”

“I’ll bring you a gift.” He hears his mouth say. f*ck! That wasn’t the plan. Well, he didn’t have a plan, but it certainly wasn’t this.

“Oh, Crowley,” Aziraphale says, and Crowley knows he’s doing that melty thing with his face. “You shouldn’t- I didn’t even know you wanted to celebrate - oh dear, why didn’t you tell me? I said put it back down, Jeremy!”

“Angel!” Crowley cuts off the rambling before it gets worse. “It’s okay, it’s not a Valentine’s Day gift, you can relax. It’s just a thing. For you. You’ll see it later, okay? Hang in there and don’t murder anyone, I believe in you sweetheart, bye!”

He ends the calls and yanks his phone across the bed, groaning into his hands. He managed to put a natural worrier into an even worse frenzy than he already was into, great job as usual.

He eyes the brown, unsuspected package warily. It better do its damn job.

The festival is cheesy. There are fairy lights all over Main Road, various stands that look straight out a Hallmark Movie (not that Crowley ever watched one!), quite extraordinary amounts of alcoholic beverages that Crowley honestly didn’t expect to find in a sleepy town in Connecticut. He’s actually impressed by the all the special coffees Nina came up with.

He scans his surroundings for a shock of white hair, but only notices Anathema doing weird things in a cup while Muriel listens attentively. He shouldn’t encourage the relationship so much.

His searching comes to an end as he feels something being thrusted into his chest. A tartan thermos.

“You cannot call me sweetheart and hang up on me immediately afterwards.” Aziraphale’s curls are even wilder than usual, as though he spent the entire day tormenting them, which is likely. He’s growing his hair out a little bit, giving his wispy tufts a chance to grow into proper curls. Crowley is extremely into it. He runs a hand through the mess, unable to resist.

“Did I?” He takes the thermos into his own hands, enjoying the warmth. “Sorry. Hair looks great.”

“Flattery will get you nowhere.” Aziraphale says, but leans in to peck Crowley on the cheek all the same.

“Doesn’t look like it. Nice bowtie, by the way. Who got it for you?”

“Someone who promised me he wouldn’t be late and would bring me a gift.” Aziraphale gives Crowley a once over. “Zero for two, I’d say.”

Crowley rolls his eyes, looking at his watch theatrically. “It literally seven minutes past five. And, your gift is waiting for you in your mailbox.”

He decided this on a whim. Well, not really. Let’s just say he started to think about things a little bit too hard, especially big blue eyes and pouty lips and tears, and he decided he couldn’t bear to watch Aziraphale uncover his deepest secrets. He knows it’s silly, but the mortifying ordeal of being known is still a little bit too much for him to subject to.

A part of him wants to; a part of him really wants to drink every single one of Aziraphale’s reactions, every sigh, every gasp, every smile. Another part of him knows it will be just too much for him to witness.

The big blue eyes and pouty lips makes a special appearance. “Why?”

Crowley aims for a nonchalant shrug. “Mmmnyeah. Patience is a virtue angel.”

“Oh, you’re blushing. It’s quite fetching.”

“I’m not!” Crowley says, blushing further.

“Of course you’re not. Say, do you want me to open it alone?”

Crowley is downright squirming right now. “Perhaps.” Aziraphale look at him like he hung the stars. He now knows he absolutely made the right decision. No chance he would have survived a live reaction to the book.

“Then I will. I’ll have to wait to tell you how sweet you are.” He pats Crowley’s burning cheek as he tries to glare at him.

“Will you two stop flirting with each other for one minute and come see the sights?”

The way Muriel has the ability to always make them jump should be studied. Aziraphale groans, Crowley snorts, but they still follow their summon, arms entwined.

Crowley leans a bit of his bodyweight into Aziraphale’s side, exhaling gratefully. The hands on his arm squeezes tighter.

It’s in the little things, he thinks.

Crowley enjoys watching as Aziraphale’s smile grows tighter and definitely bitchier as they walk through Main Road more than the afore mentioned sights. He brights up again when he subjects Crowley to a tarot reading by Anathema’s stand, as he sips his mulled wine while Crowley sits through a painfully long explanation on what his three cards mean. Apparently, the cards are in his favor. He didn’t grasp much more than that.

Crowley notices the big jar that serves its purpose as the Donation Jar is already looking pretty full, and smiles at the prospect of doing something good.

All in all, he has a good time. Sure, it’s not his scene and it’s a bit too wholesome for his liking, but he likes most of these people alright, he’s with Aziraphale, Muriel looks happy.

It’s a nice evening.

It becomes even nicer when he has to excuse himself to find somewhere to sit down and rest for a bit, and he and Aziraphale sit down on a bench just outside the bustling crowd. Crowley is going on about a constellation you can only spot in February, recalling the bit of research he’s done ever since rediscovering his passion for astronomy. Aziraphale tells him they should find a planetarium to go to sometime, which launches Crowley in another rant about the difference between a planetarium and an observatory.

Blonde curls tickles his nose and the lavender tea is still pleasantly warm.

It’s a very nice night.

“Won’t you give at least a little bit of a clue about what it is?” Aziraphale asks him for the umpteenth time. Being so content, Crowley relents a bit.

“It’s something I made, kind of. Nah, stop that, don’t coo, that’s it, I’m not telling you anything more.”

Aziraphale chuckles. “Fine. I’m just sorry I didn’t think of getting you something. I forgot that was the done thing on this day.”

“Nah angel, told you it’s not for Valentine’s.” Crowley tightens his hold on Aziraphale’s shoulder. “Plus, you gave me your journals. Best gift ever.”

He doesn’t say the best gift ever is actually being able to spend a night like this. He didn’t even dare to dream it, before, it was such a remote possibility that it wasn’t even wort imaging. An impossibility, this is. Crowley doesn’t know what he did to deserve it, but he’s not about to complain, nor to let it slip away.

Aziraphale sighs. “I think we ought to go back, darling, before they send for us again.”

“Mmh. Can we snog in front of that Brown knob?”

Aziraphale laughs as he pulls Crowley up. “Come on you fiend. I will not snog you in front of the whole town.”

What he does instead is intertwine their fingers to bring their joined hands to his mouth and kiss Crowley’s knuckles casually, just as the shameless knob was approaching them with two cups of something. Crowley doesn’t punch the air as he watches him retreat, but it’s a close thing. Throwing his best sh*t-eating grin in his direction is equally pleasing.

“You’re so passive aggressive sometimes, Uncle Azi. I don’t know wether it’s fun or scary.” Muriel says, eyes twinkling at the scene unfolds in front of them.

Crowley cackles, throwing his free arm around their shoulder. “Let me tell you the story of this guy named Ferdinand who used to go to Uni with us.”

He ignores Aziraphale’s half hearted protests and enjoys the way Muriel drinks in the information.

It’s a nice night.

Much later, after more mulled wine and more pictures taken and even another painful explanation of the meaning of tea leaves, Crowley kisses Aziraphale goodbye, trying not to think too much about what he’s about to find out.

It’s been a nice night. He’s pretty sure they’ll have many more of them.

Untitled Draft #1

Extract from Chapter Twenty

“I’m sorry about your garden.”

Gregory, as a rule, detested hospitals. He hated the smell, the whiteness, the fake cheerfulness of the nurses, the cold demeanor of the doctors. Gosh, the smell was the absolute worst.

He looked over at Aaron, glancing down at the hands he didn’t realize were joined.

“I don’t care about the garden.” The laughter was weak, but it was there nonetheless. For a second, Gregory didn’t smell the bleach anymore.

“Of course. I forgot about the whole not caring business.”

The fact is, Gregory forgot about it too. He forgot, roughly, the first time he laid eyes on his nice neighbour. He still hadn’t remembered. “You do know, don’t you?”

His neighbour’s eyes were soft. He never quite noticed how much they made him forget about all sort of things. The bleach smelled suspiciously like flowers.

“I do. I really do.” He felt a squeeze and a thumb across his own knuckles. “I hope you know as well.”

“Yeah.” Gregory was many things, and an optimist was not among them. He was a realist, a pragmatist. He didn’t lose time to dreams, to fantasies, to hopes, to lies. As a general rule, he told the truth, since lying required too much of a hassle.

He never lied to his neighbour. He never told him the whole truth as well.

“I do. And I care a lot.”

this love is good

this love is bad

this love is alive back from the dead, oh,

these hands had to let it go free, and

this love came back to me

Chapter 12: and I will hold on to you

Chapter Text

you and me, forevermore

don’t read the last page

but I stay when it’s hard, or it’s wrong,

or we’re making mistakes

I want your midnights

but I’ll be cleaning up bottles with you

on New Year’s Day

(London, June 2000

“Crowley, wait a second, do not get angry.” Aziraphale is still crying. He hasn’t stopped since Crowley started with his little speech. His bloody stupid speech.

Somehow, his tears are steady and silent. He’s not sobbing, which is making Crowley simultaneously angrier and sadder. He wants to hug him, to comfort him, to tell him it’s going to be fine; he wants to scream, to lash out, to storm out of the room and slam the door.

“Do not get angry? You just said no to moving with me.”

“Well, you want to move across the ocean. Can we talk this out? We’re both adults.” He has a point, Aziraphale. Crowley can see it. Still, it really bloody hurts.

“You were just saying we are so young, so dumb and so immature,” he whines, and he’s aware of just how childish and pathetic he sounds but he can’t bring himself to care. The thing he cares about most in the world is crumbling right in front of his own eyes.

“You’re being ridiculous, my worries are legitimate. It’s my life, too.” Crowley would perhaps see his point, if he weren’t so busy trying to see anything past his own tears and the sting of rejection. Because that’s what this is, rejection. Aziraphale just rejected him, has just said no to them taking the next step.

And it’s true, his plan may be a bit mad and a lot impulsive, but Aziraphale hates his life in London, he knows this. He hates the family firm, he hates the thought of being a cutthroat city lawyer, he hates the suits he has to wear every time he meets his brother. The one he’s wearing right now. Aziraphale doesn’t look bad in anything, but black is not his colour. He belongs in his light world, full of cream and pastels, full of softness, full of love. Every time he meets his family he’s forced to live inside a world that’s just black and white. Crowley hates it because he knows Aziraphale hates it too.

“What about your sister?” He blurts out, seemingly out of the blue.

“What about her?” Aziraphale tilts his head to the side, seemingly confused at the abrupt change of topic. The tears are still streaming. It goes against every instinct in Crowley’s body, but he doesn’t lean forward to catch them.

“You told me she moved overseas, too. Why can’t you?” They talk on the phone sometimes, Aziraphale and his sister. Crowley doesn’t eavesdrop, but from what he gathered Madeleine is Aziraphale’s favourite. He figures she could be an ally, in this impossible task of his: convincing Aziraphale Fell it’s time to be selfish.

“It’s not the same thing. She married someone from Boston.” Aziraphale deadpans. Which stings more than anything he said up to this point. A reminder of what they will never have.

Crowley brushes away his own tears. “Right.”

“I didn’t mean it like that,” Aziraphale says. No, no, he’s pleading. He’s pleading Crowley for something, his eyes shiny and begging for something Crowley cannot give him. He doesn’t understand.

“Of course,” he says instead. “Of course you didn’t.”

“Crowley,” Aziraphale leans forward, almost to take Crowley’s hands back into his own. He does not. Crowley wonders how many times his heart can break in one night before it gets to be too much.

One of the things Crowley loves most about Aziraphale are his eyes. Blue, grey, sometimes green, on rare occasion straight up turquoise. Most of all, expressive. Aziraphale’s eyes cannot hide anything, and Crowley knows each and every one of their expressions.

All he sees right now is pain, uncertainty. Desperation.

His own face softens. “You do not want to stay here, angel, I know you don’t,” he whispers. It does not produce the reaction he hoped for.

“It is not up to me!” Aziraphale chokes out, wiping his tears angrily. “I was always supposed to work at the firm, and you knew that from the beginning.”

The thing is, Aziraphale’s not making any sense. They had this conversation before, that part he’s right about, but it was never like this. It was always Crowley saying, you’ll find a way out, angel, they cannot force you, and Aziraphale looking scared but sure of himself, especially as the years passed, replying they’ll be angry darling, but I’ll manage, I think.

He was still scared of his family, he was still following most of their stupid rules, but he was different. He was willing to put up a fight. Tonight, he sounds like the Aziraphale he first met. “Don’t tell me you’re the same person you were four years ago, don’t you dare.”

“Of course I am not, Crowley. But I gave my word.” Those eyes are still begging him for something. Crowley doesn’t understand. Instead of giving in and just asking, he just shakes his head in frustration. “Right, the word of a Fell is legally binding.”

“What do you even want to do in New York?” Aziraphale cries then. He’s acting angry, but Crowley knows him. He’s just in pain. And Crowley doesn’t understand what’s going on.

“Get away from them! Be together, a new beginning, a fresh start!” He’s not above begging. He will get on his knees and pray, if he has to, if this is what it’ll take to make Aziraphale listen to him, to make him stop crying, to make him stop giving him this pained look.

“We could have that in London, too,” it’s a whisper, something not even Aziraphale sounds convinced of. Crowley look into the stormy sea: desperation.

“No, angel, you’re never going to be free if we stay here.” This time, he does take Aziraphale’s hands. He’s shaking like anything. For a terrible instant, Crowley is sure he’s going to flinch away from his touch, but he doesn’t. He just stays still as a statue and let Crowley takes his shaky hands into his white-knuckled grip. “Come with me, we’ll make it work.” His voice is wobbly, but sure enough.

Aziraphale looks at him, still pained, still desperate, still crying. “I’m free when I’m with you, and that’s enough for me.”

This, Crowley knows, is a lie. It’s not enough when Aziraphale comes back home in the state he did today, it’s not enough when he spent the night before graduation crying into his pillow, thinking Crowley was asleep; it’s not enough when Crowley remembers they don’t even have a single picture of their bloody graduation day together, because the family kidnapped Aziraphale for the whole day. It’s not enough for Aziraphale. He doesn’t deserve it. And Crowley doesn’t either. “I don’t think that’s enough for me.”

This time, Aziraphale does flinch away from his touch. “So you’re just going. You’re leaving me.” He stands up, already moving away from the kitchen table. The candle Crowley lit up is still burning, but their dinner has already gone cold.

“I am begging you to listen to me, Aziraphale. We will be happier, together, as far away from those wankers as possible.” Crowley is full on crying now, but he doesn’t care. He’s not a stupid man, and he can feel he’s losing this. Though, he’s not sure he can survive losing Aziraphale.

Aziraphale’s face crumbles. “Well, I’m not even ‘angel’ anymore. Already.” f*ck. He didn’t mean to.

Crowley watches him as he turns to leave the room, almost as if this is an out of body experience. Perhaps it is, as this cannot be happening to him. It’s simply unthinkable. He must be dreaming. “Please, please don’t leave this room.” Don’t leave me, it’s what he means. I cannot survive you leaving me. I take everything back, I’ll stay, we’ll stay, we’ll hide forever but please don’t leave me.

Aziraphale stops then, right by the door. When he turns around, he doesn’t look angry. He doesn’t even look annoyed. He looks utterly desperate. Before Crowley can ask him why, he’s already speaking. “What difference would it make? Your mind is already made up.” With that, he turns and leaves the room. He turns and leaves Crowley.

“I love you, you know?” Crowley says, but the only reply is the door slumming shut.)

There is a leitmotiv in Crowley’s novels that his true aficionados know perfectly well.

Déjà vu: an illusion of a memory, the strange feeling that in some way you have already experienced what’s happening now.

His characters always experience some sense of a déjà vu: sometimes it’s a physical sort of reaction, the body remembering something the mind had forgotten (the sensitive spot where Aziraphale’s neck meets his shoulder; the way he has to move his fingers just so to make him scream; the way Aziraphale’s hands moved across his body, his thighs, his sides, feather-light, unlike anyone else); sometimes it’s all mental, as the characters move through the confusion and unfamiliarity of the feeling to solve a conflict or to move the story forward (they’ve been here before, in a room in an expensive flat just after dinner with no idea how to go on and yet knowing perfectly how the night will end; they’ve been here before, sitting across each other in a cafe with identical grin on their faces and lingering awkwardness in their voices; they’ve been here before, confronted with the enormity of this feeling between the two of them, knowing perfectly what it is but too scared to say it out loud); sometimes it’s just something trivial thrown in, something that’s fairly useless to the plot, small enough to be dismissible but big enough to ignite a spark of doubt, a little treat for his most loyal readers whom he knows will grin at the randomness of it all in the end.

It’s very early in the morning after Valentine’s Day, and Crowley is sitting on the swing on the porch of Anathema’s house in Connecticut having a smoke.

He grins to himself; if this isn’t déjà vu. At least, this time around, he’s not pacing and he knows what he’s waiting for.

Aziraphale has never been a sleeper. Come back to bed, Crowley would say in a London flat, in a cottage down the English coast, in an apartment in Manhattan, in a suburban house in New Dawns. It’s fine love, I’ll just pick up a book, you know how it is, Aziraphale would reply before settling back down, back against the headboard and hands in Crowley’s hair.

Aziraphale has never been a sleeper, and Crowley knows he hasn’t slept at all tonight. He knows he stayed up all night with his newest book; he knows he probably understood what the book was three lines into the sort of prologue that is Crowley’s last letter; he knows he probably fretted over it an unhealthy amount of time; he knows he probably cried, then laughed, then cried some more, then laughed some more. It’s everything Crowley himself did during the years, after all.

(“Do you ever think we’re too different, Crowley?”

“What? Go back to sleep, angel.”

“Please, answer me. Just a simple yes or no.”

“Ugh. What brought this on? We’re the same.”

“Now, Crowley, you’re just saying things to shut me up.”

“No, no, you don’t get it. We are opposites in many ways, but we are the same at the end of the day. I’ll elaborate in the morning, go to sleep.”)

Aziraphale has never been a sleeper, always been an early riser. Crowley is waiting.

He knows his angel’s coming. He is probably (definitely) waiting for a time that’s both early and late enough to be appropriate, tormenting his fingers in that anxious way of his, a movement Crowley always longs to soothe. He wonders, though, wether his voracious reader has finished the letters or stopped reading after the first ten years, to be picked up later, or if he skipped through them, selecting specific years and specific moments.

He think he would have chosen the last option, if the roles were reversed; after all, he immediately looked for his favourite book in Aziraphale’s illustrations. Always impatient, always eager, always too fast.

Aziraphale, on the other hand, is thorough in every thing he does; Crowley bets he read the whole damn thing in one sitting, until his eyes burned and his head pounded, but damn everything if he didn’t consume the entire book in one go.

He takes another drag of his cigarette, a habit he almost lost, an indulgence he still likes (unfortunately, he’s aware) when the moment calls for it. He’s a romantic at heart, Anthony J. Crowley, though he will never admit to it, not even at gunpoint.

This specific moment, the waiting in the purplish dusk, calls for it. A cigarette adds to the drama of it all. Crowley snorts into the quiet of the porch; he should quit with the dramatics once and for all.

He finishes his cigarette and debates wether to light another one or not, kind of missing the swirl of smoke in front of him once it’s gone, when he hears the footsteps.

If this isn’t déjà vu.

“Hi.” Crowley says, taking in the image before him. Aziraphale is wearing the same clothes as the night before, his curls are a proper mess and his eyes are red rimmed and evidently tired. He grins; he knew he wouldn’t sleep.

“Shut up.”

Crowley snorts. “It’s-” he glances at his watch. “Six in the morning and you’re already harassing me.”

“Hi, he says.” Aziraphale ignores him. “It’s just a gift, he says. A little thing I made, he says.” He has his lips pursed his hands on his hips, looking like an angry kindergarten teacher. The only thing he’s missing is an apron and a tapping foot.

“All factual, technically.” Crowley pats the space beside him on the swing. If they are to recreate their second first meeting, might as well do it right. “Wanna share your findings with the class?”

Aziraphale huffs and drops his hands, but a smile is starting to bloom on his pretty, exhausted face. Crowley feels a little bit bad as he spots the bags under Aziraphale’s eyes; he really did put his angel through an emotional rollercoaster.

He puts that thought on hold as soon as Aziraphale sits down beside him, wasting no time as he cups Crowley’s face and kisses him, slow and deep.

Crowley thinks back to the last time they sat on this swing, back when he didn’t even want to look into Aziraphale’s eyes directly. He thinks about the distance between them then, mere inches that felt like oceans, as his hands find their purpose grabbing handful of Aziraphale’s waist, melting into him, pressing closer, closer, closer.

Aziraphale’s thumbs traces his cheekbones as they part, ever so tender. “In case that wasn’t clear,” he whispers against Crowley’s mouth, “I love you too. Quite dreadfully.”

“Dreadfully, really?” Crowley smiles, because what else is he supposed to do? Drop down one knee? Not that he didn’t think about it, mind you, but with his hip he would never get back up. “Of all the adjectives-”

“You gifted me your whole life.” One of Aziraphale’s hands leaves his face to card through his hair. Crowley makes a mental note to grow it out. “Have you got any idea of the things you’ve written?”

“Mmh. A vague recollection, yes.”

“Your entire life, all your milestones, all your feelings, all the love, Crowley. So much more than I ever deserve-”

Crowley cuts him off for two particular reasons: first, he cannot stand that melty thing Aziraphale’s face does. He simply cannot sit and stare at it without doing something; second, they’ve already been through this whole deserving bullsh*t, though Aziraphale can be a bit (read: a lot) dense, it takes a bit of practice to learn how to get things through his thick skull.

Kissing works wonders. Snogging is close to a miracle. This is how Crowley ends up with both arms wrapped around Aziraphale’s middle, hands pressing into his lower back, an inch from having the man in his lap.

The way Aziraphale kisses is everything. Crowley can feel how his hands follow the shivers up down his body, can feel how every slide of tongue against his own, every small bite, every little breath is thoughtful, focused, loving. It’s so, so loving.

“Did you smoke?” Aziraphale asks after a while, breaking their kiss much to Crowley’s dismay. His lips are spit-slicked and so very red, Crowley just wants to lean back in. “I don’t like it when you smoke.”

“Sure, you seem to hate it right now.” Crowley squeezes Aziraphale’s back, pulling him even closer. “Besides, the moment called for it. You know, waiting for my long lost love to appear at my doorstep and all that.”

“You were just born to be a dashing romantic heroine, weren’t you?”

Crowley shakes his head and pulls Aziraphale back into his orbit, pressing their lips together again.

“Wait! Wait,” Aziraphale laughs as he pushes Crowley away with a strong hand on his chest. Crowley raises a quizzical eyebrow, but backs off nonetheless, if a bit annoyed. He really likes the non-talking bits. “I had a whole speech and you keep distracting me.”

“Sure, you really seem to mind the distraction-”

“Crowley!”

“Fine! Fine, jeez. I’m listening.”

Aziraphale takes a deep breath and Crowley’s hand, and smiles. “What you did is without a doubt the best thing someone ever did, and will ever do, for me. You know me, love, and somehow you’re still the only person in the world who knows me so deeply, so well, so thoroughly. I know you hate this word but it really is ineffable-”

“Gesundheit.” Crowley says, hating how is voice has gone all wobbly. He smiles tightly as Aziraphale smacks him lightly on the chest.

“The reason your gift is so special, you-” Aziraphale masks his voice breaking with a cough, but Crowley knows. He will always know. “After all these years, you’re still the only person who makes me feel like I’m not alone.”

Crowley swallows, looking down at their joined hands. Not for the first time, he thinks about what would have happened if he didn’t accept Anathema’s invitation at long last, if he would have kept hiding in his opulent apartment, alone and stubborn. He wonders if he and Aziraphale would have met again regardless, if all the ineffability his angel’s blabbering about is actually part of this.

Today, he likes to think it is; he wants to think they still would have met again, because there is no way the universe or whoever is in charge does not recognize this is a once in a lifetime kind of thing, too precious to be lost forever.

“Why the hell are you so good with big speeches?” He grumbles instead of waxing poetically about the magic of their relationship. “I’m supposed to be the author.”

“You made me a book. That’s plenty for me.”

“Mmmnyeah.” Crowley leans forward and rests his forehead against Aziraphale. “Can we go back to the non talking bit? I’m processing too many feelings.”

“In a minute.” Aziraphale sighs. “I just - drat. I never thought we’d-”

“Me neither.” Crowley says, then immediately backtracks. “Well. Not really. I thought, you know, I hoped - you’re the one who’s always going on about ineffability and whatnot-”

“Crowley?”

“Yeah?”

“You’re right. Too many feelings. Could we perhaps skip to the-”

“God, yes.”

They relocate, after that. Déjà vu is nice and all that, but it’s still February in Connecticut and only one of them has a coat that could be defined as such. Plus, Crowley’s room may have ugly walls but the bed is a top tier bed.

It’s even a better bed if Aziraphale’s in it, mapping and touching and kissing every inch of skin he uncovers, whispering sweet nothings, caring, staying, loving.

They’re both too exhausted to do everything they’d like, but Crowley needs the touch, needs to feel Aziraphale’s skin under his fingers, his lips against his neck, not even kissing, just merely breathing. He’s pleading, he’s distantly aware of it, for something he can’t quite name. Aziraphale knows though. He will always know.

So when Aziraphale reaches down to put a hand between their bodies and raises his brows in question, Crowley nods a bit frantically. And it’s a messy affair, uncoordinated and sleepy, but the lack of finesse is what makes it so good, because it’s them, together, chaos and all. So good, just like Aziraphale whispers in the crook of Crowley’s neck; just, just like that, just like Crowley pants back, tightening his grip on white blond curls; love, yes, and it doesn’t matter who says it, because it’s true.

A little later, when they somehow manage to clean up with something better than a shirt (Aziraphale had to insist) and get under the duvet still wrapped around each other (but at least not sticky, as Aziraphale had to point out), Crowley chooses to ignore the pillows to nuzzle into Aziraphale’s soft chest. It’s then, as his hair are being played with and his eyes are fighting to stay open, that he has the epiphany: “How did you - where - Muriel?”

“Sleepover at Sidney’s house.” Aziraphale holds him closer, then snorts. “Who do you take me for?”

Crowley nuzzles closer into his chest, grateful his blush is at least partially hidden. “Right, makes sense. ‘M still getting used to think about a whole kid.”

“They’re eighteen, darling. Technically-”

“Muriel’s a child, you shut up. ‘M too sleepy for this.”

Aziraphale hums. “They love you too, don’t worry. Sleep now.”

Crowley lets out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding and relaxes impossibly further.

He came to New Dawns to see the stars and to get some peace and quiet and got a whole family out of it. Possibly. Hopefully. If he plays his cards right and doesn’t f*ck this up monumentally. He’s definitely too sleepy for this, but still sends a quick thanks to whoever is in charge of how the universe moves.

“What are you writing?”

Crowley slaps his laptop shut hard enough to break it. “Are you trying to give me a heart attack, Mimi? Christ on a bicycle you move like a ghost.”

Crowley had been adamant in finding a a nickname for Muriel, because “I can’t have a nickname for anyone but Muriel, angel, that’s just ridiculous.” Muri was awful, Ellie felt dumb, hellspawn was just totally out of character. So, Mimi it is. And according to Muriel, it is completely original.

Though he’s now reconsidering hellspawn. “Why don’t you let me see it? Just a little snippet.”

“I cannot give anyone any snippet legally.” Muriel opens their mouth to reply, but Crowley stops her with a raised hand. “No, not even your uncle.”

“He doesn’t need snippets, he’s basically the main character.”

Crowley turns his head fast enough to give him whiplash, glaring at the silent Aziraphale stirring their dinner on the stove. “Angel? What happened to not a word to anyone else?”
Aziraphale turns as well, entirely unimpressed. “I did not say a word.”

“Oh, really? Then wh- oh. The witch.” Muriel’s giggle is all the answers he needs. He really, really wants to fire Anathema. Then he thinks about the yellow book on Aziraphale’s nightstand and realizes he’s stuck with her as long as she damn wants to.

“Still, no snippets.”

“You’re just going to wait and see, peach.”

Muriel groans, and Crowley has to bite back a remark on how annoying that is. It would be against the point he’s trying to make, but he really hates the sentence.
“You’re both no fun.”

“How unfortunate. Laptop and books out of the way please, dinner is almost ready.”

Muriel glares, but otherwise gathers her own things, smiling at Crowley before picking his laptop as well. “I got it, don’t worry.”

It’s been a bad day, pain wise. The few steps from the living room to the kitchen have felt like a whole journey, not to mention the stairs from the bedroom. If accepting help from Aziraphale is still hard, accepting it from Muriel still feels almost impossible.

It’s just love, he thinks fiercely, trying to make the voice inside his head sound like Dr. Eve’s. Love is not conditional. He swallows around the lump in his throat and nods once, hoping his grimace can pass as a tight smile, as he watches Muriel hurrying to deposit their things someplace else.

Immediately, there’s a hand squeezing his shoulder. “Hi,” he says, tilting his head back to meet Aziraphale’s gaze.

“Hi. You know, I got some kind of balm from Madame Tracy that’s supposed to help with your pain. We could try it tonight, if you’d like?”

How he appreciates his Aziraphale, facing old annoying ladies just for him. And also for always changing the topic towards something less uncomfortable, too. Crowley puts his own hand over the one Aziraphale’s still has on his shoulder. “My, my. Mr. Fell. Are you propositioning me?”

Aziraphale huffs. “As if. I just need to bat my eyelashes at you for that.”

Obviously, that’s the moment Muriel comes back to the kitchen, catching Crowley in the act of being thoroughly flustered and Aziraphale innocently finishing up the stir fry.

“I won’t even ask,” they say, and it’s honestly for the better.

As they eat and idly chat about their respective days, Crowley thinks he should snap a picture and send it to his therapist. Look at him being all domestic and stable. Most of all, he feels content.

Sure, he still gets nightmares that smells like burnt tires and gasoline and he still needs cold showers and breathing exercises to get back to himself. But now afterwards, more often than not, there are arms waiting for him to come back, hands patting his back, a hushed voice whispering about five things he can see. It’s not enough to make the bad thoughts disappear, but it makes them way less scary.

“So, did you tell him yet?” Of course, Muriel has to burst the bubble of Crowley’s contentment. He’s really reconsidering hellspawn.

Ever so proper, Aziraphale dabs his mouth before replying. “Not yet, Muriel. Thank you for easing into the topic,” he deadpans, glaring lightly.

See, even if he is getting better Crowley’s still anxiety on legs. The way his insides are twisted is not at all pleasant. “What’s going on?”

“Nothing bad, love, I promise.” Aziraphale pats his hand, which helps a bit with untwisting his intestines. “Me and Muriel had a talk.”

Crowley swallows. “Good talk or bad talk?”

Aziraphale eyes his niece and smiles, getting a matching one in return. “Important talk.”

“I can start!” Muriel says, as Crowley forces himself to focus on them and let go of Aziraphale’s hand. “See, I’m going away after summer, and while I still don’t know where, I know I’m moving out of this house and out of New Dawns. And, well, Uncle Azi didn’t choose New Dawns because he liked it, but because I was in it.”

“Not that I didn’t grow to love it, mind.” Aziraphale interjects. “I did and I do love this place, everything it’s given me. But now that things are changing I, or better, we have something else to consider.”

Crowley’s throat is so dry it clicks when he tries to clear it. “Which is?”

“Do you want to go back to New York?” Muriel asks him, with just a hint of curiosity. “Or, well, would you be open to discuss options with-”

“What Muriel means, darling,” Aziraphale interjects again, this time a bit more impatient, “is that I don’t necessarily have to stay here, after they move out, and I don’t necessarily want to. I would like to know your opinion on the matter.”

“My… what?” Crowley replies intelligently. Aziraphale just smiles at him like whatever he’s saying makes any sense. “Do you see yourself still living in New York City, in the future? Or did your stay here change things? There isn’t a right answer, mind. I’ll be happy either way.”

Crowley stares. Then stares some more. He stares so long that he’s afraid he’s beginning to drill a hole into Aziraphale’s head. What he’s saying sounds suspiciously like a sort of invitation to live together, at least in the same place, which is exactly what Crowley wanted, but at the same time - Aziraphale leaving New Dawns? Leaving his - “Your bookshop!” He finally croaks out. “You - your dream. You can’t leave the bookshop.”

“Oh, Crowley.” Aziraphale says, and his face melts. “It was my dream, you’re right, and it’s been a dream come true for the past few years but, as you know, nothing lasts forever.” He leans forward and takes Crowley’s hand over the table, and he thinks back to a sh*tty cafe in a service stop the middle of nowhere. “I can think about new dreams now. Besides, I’m not cut out for customer service.”

If he had any mental capacity left whatsoever Crowley would laugh, but as it stands he can barely manage to make a sound that vaguely resembles a bunch of consonants. Muriel looks at him puzzled, but Aziraphale, fluent as he is in this particular non verbal communication, just waits for Crowley’s brain to rewire itself and come back online.

“Just to be clear,” he manages after a moment, voice high pitched and definitely shaky, “you’re saying this because you want to, uhm, whatever, with me. Right?”

Aziraphale is not surprised by his usual eloquence. “Yes, you nutter. Why ever else?”

“And you,” he points a finger at Muriel, “are alright with him leaving this town? Your-your home?”

Muriel nods. “Yes. It’s going to be a bit weird, maybe, but I think it’s gonna be good too, and it’s not like I will never visit. It’ll be a fresh start.”

“Fresh start, right.” Crowley thinks about a shared home, in a house chosen together and not randomly found or provided by others, decorated together, in which they’d come back together, with a library and perhaps a garden and guest rooms for the three friends he actually cares about now and maybe a cat because why the hell not and - and he remembers Aziraphale and Muriel’s question. “I love New York, I do, I - it’s given me everything and all that, but-” he looks at Aziraphale for this, lifting his sunglasses up into his hair. Damn his headaches and everything. “It got a bit much for me lately, a bit too much in, well, many ways. I don’t want to stay there necessarily, but if you do angel -”

Because Aziraphale would thrive in New York City, with his endless gastronomical curiosity and his walks in the parks and his bold fashion choices. If he likes, they could find a place in another neighbourhood, something like FiDi or the Upper West Side; they could spend the rest of their days being mean, retired New Yorkers, if he likes, they could even -

“Crowley, I want to find a place for us together, something we both choose, with Muriel’s input of course, but I want to do it together. And you don’t have to say it, but I know that spending more than a few weeks in a town this small will drive you completely mad.” His smile is reassuring and a bit teasing, and Crowley finds himself grinning back. He’s right: for how much he’s grateful to this town and enjoyed his stay and the domestic, familiar vibe, he misses some…action, so to speak. Nina’s gossip is fun and all, but he can live without the whole town not knowing the details of his love life. “We’ll find something in the middle.”

“A compromise!” Muriel chimes in, clapping happily. “I love finding compromises. Head of debate club and all that.”

“Nerd.” Crowley tells them, and gets a napkin thrown at his head.

Dinner goes on without a hitch, as if Crowley’s world hasn’t just shifted.

Sure, he knew Aziraphale was in for the long run, they did talk about it in their own messed up way (them and their damn bubbles), but a place together, a place they both will choose together is…different. It feels definitive, mature, final; it feels simultaneously like the end and like a new beginning. It feels bloody fantastic.

It also feels, unfortunately, a little scary, especially for an anxious brain, always prone to think about the worst case scenarios. That’s why later, in Aziraphale’s room that now smells like the flowery balm he used to massage Crowley’s leg, Crowley’s own mouth betrays him.

“D’you think we’re in the honeymoon phase?” He slurs his words a bit, because with his back pressed against Aziraphale’s chest and strong hands still kneading his sore muscles it’s hard not to doze.

Aziraphale’s hands still. “Elaborate?”

“Ngk, just. Well, uhm.” The silence stretches on a moment more, but it’s not uncomfortable. A bit tense, a lot charged, but not uncomfortable. “A place together is a lot. It’s been a month and it-it’s a bid mad, isn’t it?”

He feels Aziraphale’s whole body tense up before he even spots his hand retreating. “If you don’t want to you can just tell me.”

“What? f*ck no!” Crowley yelps. “Don’t want to? Are you mad? I wanted to ask you to move in with me that first night in New York, then I was afraid it would scare you away so I just shut up which is exactly what I should do now. Shutting up.”

“Oh.” Aziraphale speaks into his hair, hands now back onto Crowley’s stomach. He breathes out. “Well, I suppose you’re right. It is mad, hasty, definitely too fast. It’s also you, though. You always had the power to make me forget about the rules.”

Crowley relaxes back into Aziraphale’s hold, tracing random patterns with his fingers onto the soft hands keeping him warm. “I suppose the fact that we have months in front of us helps. We’re not doing the move tomorrow, we still have some time.” Aziraphale continues, never really lifting his head from Crowley’s hair, sighing softly. “I’m scared too, darling, even though it’s all I want. I cannot lose you again.”

And this is what it all comes down to, at the end, isn’t it? These same old fears.

Crowley squeezes Aziraphale’s hands. “You won’t,” he says, and it feels like a vow. “We won’t. I promise.”

Crowley’s first chapter and full outline have been approved, and so have the few other chapters he sent out. This is when the real madness begins.

And by madness he means a lot of meetings. Meetings with his publisher, his editor, the marketing director, the graphic designers, and many other people with other jobs he doesn’t care about.

It also means it’s easier moving back to New York, since everyone else is based there. It’s still a two hour drive, he can get back to New Dawns every weekend, or every time he has some free days, and Aziraphale can do the same. Also, February ended, and it was always supposed to be the end of his little holiday, and they spent the last two weeks spending every minute together, looking all over the Internet for their new place, the place they will choose together to live in together, planning their future together.

Still, he’s leaving now. His things are packed into Anathema’s car and they’re saying their goodbyes as she’s waiting in the driver’s seat. He won't have time to miss New Dawns, not really. He'll mis his routine: coffee at Nina's, idle chats with Maggie behind the counter, weird and inappropriate talks with Madame Tracy and glares from her sister. He won't have time to miss New Dawns, but he will, just as he will be forever grateful.

“Will you stop with the dramatics, Crowley? You’ll literally see him next weekend.”

“Will you shut the f*ck up, Nath?” Crowley says, voice muffled from when his face is buried into Aziraphale’s neck. He hears and feels the way his angel’s body vibrates with laughter. “She spent all morning saying goodbye to her lizard and I didn’t complain.”

“Be nice, now.” Aziraphale says. Then, quieter, “You’re right, though. She’ll get you when I decide I’m done.” Crowley snorts, squeezing him even tighter.

“Gonna miss you,” Crowley mumbles, finally drawing back. “I know this is dramatic.”

“It is, isn’t it? Two old queens being old queens.” Aziraphale grins as Crowley barks out a laugh. “I never thought I would ever hear those words coming out of your mouth.”

“Glad I can still surprise you.” They smile at each other for a few beats, probably looking every bit as ridiculous as Crowley feels.

Muriel breaks the moment (for the sake of everyone else) by crashing into Crowley’s chest. “Sorry to interrupt the flirting, but I wanted my goodbye hug before graduation.”

Crowley laughs and wraps his arms around them, resting his cheek on her dark hair. “How will I cope without you annoying me every waking moment?” He tears up at the thought of not having this wonderful kid he’s grown to love to pieces around anymore, coughing to cover up how choked he sounds. “Love you, kid.”

Drawing back, Muriel smiles and pecks him on the cheek. “Love you too,” a wink. “Uncle Crowley.”

Right. Right. This is absolutely not a thing. He’s pretty sure he’s emitting some sort of sound. Or perhaps his mouth is just open.

“Good Lord, Muriel, now we have to wait for his brain to rewire itself.” Aziraphale puts a careful hand on his shoulder. “Alright, darling?” He asks, and though he’s smiling, Crowley can see the hint of worry underneath the facade.

This shakes him out of his reverie. There is not a single universe in which Crowley’s not alright with the whole thing. “Just peachy, angel.”

Anathema honks, and the smile drops off of Crowley’s face, who takes his place in the passenger’s seat, however begrudgingly.

Aziraphale gives him one last kiss through the window. “Call me as soon as you get home.”

“I will.” Crowley kisses him again. “Love you.”

“I love you too.”

Anathema starts to roll the window back up. Aziraphale giggles and blows her a kiss, which she accepts with a small grin despite everything. “Have a safe drive!”

“We will, Azi. Bye!” As she puts the car in reverse, Crowley gives him one last little wave. He refuses to look in the rearview mirror just to see the two silhouettes becoming smaller and smaller.

He sighs as they begin the drive, his head hitting the window with a dull thud. None of them speaks for the first few minutes, both lost in their own melancholic thoughts.

“When are you gonna admit I was right about New Dawns?” Anathema says after a while, giving him a sly sidelong glance.

“Never.” He sighs, crossing his arms stubbornly. “Thanks though, I guess.”

Anathema’s pearly laugh fills the vehicle. “You’re very welcome ginger.”

(Wednesday, March 6th, 2024)

miss you angel

had a sh*t day

i’m drinking wine alone on my couch

you were right it’s uncomfortable as sh*t

miss youuu

where are you

Hello darling, I was in the shower.

I miss you too.

Sorry to hear about your day, what happened?

Also, don’t get too drunk without me on your hideous couch.

and what were you doing in the shower Mr. Fell?

No telematic intercourse if you’re drunk.

Tell me about your bad day.

ANGEL

WHO THE HELL SAYS TELEMATIC INTERCOURSE

never having a boner again

congratulations

you broke me

Fine. I’ll just turn off my phone for the night then.

i was kidding

and i’m not drunk

Care to tell me about your bad day?

i hate bee

bee’s my editor

they’re so annoying

always going on about my typos

and the lack of a title

says they need a title in order to do their job

Are they right?

well

not the point

they’re so MEAN

So, they are right.

who’s side are you on?

Didn’t you tell me you had a title in mind the other day?

Darling, I can see you typing. Muriel finally taught me what the three dots mean.

ugh

i mean maybe

it’s a bit ridiculous

All your titles are.

Tell me.

March 7th, 2024 - 10:25 a.m.

to: Belinda Prince < [emailprotected] >

Subject: Title

Hi Bee,

Chapter four to eight attached with the title I selected.

Let me know if you have any questions.

Best,

A.J. Crowley

March 7th, 2024 - 5.43 p.m.

To: A.J Crowley < [emailprotected] >

Subject: Re: title

Hello Crowley,

I always have questions about your titles and I always keep my big mouth shut. Though let me say, are you sure about this one? Just try saying “A beginner’s guide to gardening with detective interruptions” without cringing.

Book looks good though, nice job with that.

Best,

Belinda Prince

March 8th, 2024 - 10.17 a.m.

to: Belinda Prince < [emailprotected] >

Subject: Re: Re: Title

Hi Bee

Yes I’m sure. Cringe is dead only long ridiculous titles are left.

Thanks for the feedback.

Best,

A.J. Crowley

(March 12th, 2024)

angel

did I leave my socks with the red snakes at your house last weekend?

I have no idea, I’m not home right now.

I can check in the laundry when I get back.

Why?

lucky socks

the meeting with Lucy is tomorrow

It’s going to be fine, darling.

You’ll be brilliant, socks or no socks.

thank you sweetheart

Oh, you fiend.

You know what that does to me.

I’m closing the bookshop now.

(March 13th, 2024)

survived the meeting

lucy was less scary than usual

she seemed almost happy

said the romantic bit was refreshing

that was scary as f*ck

i’m in the uber back to the flat now

can i call you when i get there?

angel?

everything’s okay?

Hello darling!

Look at my view!

WHAT ARE YOU DOING IN MY HOUSE

YOU BASTARD

(March 27th, 2024)

“Hello darling. Can you see me? Are we still on for tomorrow?”

“Angel, there you are. Pull the phone away from your face a little bit, there, perfect. Yeah, had to move a few things around but I’ll be there at eleven-ish in the morning. Anathema’ll come too.”

“Oh, that’s great. I have no idea when the decisions are going to be released, but I’m guessing in the afternoon.”

“This whole Ivy Day nonsense is so American.”

“Indeed it is.”

“How’s Muriel holding up?”

“I think they don’t want to worry me, but I can tell they’re nervous. God knows I am.”

“I can see that. Stop tormenting your poor nails. It’s going to be fine either way.”

“Oh, I know. It’s just that they worked so hard and they wanted this for so long… Gosh, I could not bear to see their disappointment. Also, it’s starting to feel even more real; they really are all grown up.”

“Hey, hey, don’t start crying the night before, it’s going to be even worse tomorrow. Plus, if you cry I will want to cry and then everything goes to sh*t.”

“I’m so glad you’re going to be here.”

“Me too, love. Muriel still doesn’t know?”

“Not a clue. And you know how bad I am at lying.”

“Yeah, yeah, you did great sweetheart. You’re a pretty crier, it’s unfair.”

“You always think I’m pretty. You look dashing though, is that my shirt?”

(March 28th, 2024)

HOLY sh*t CROWLEY

JUST SAW MURIEL’S POST

THEY GOT INTO YALE?????

CONGRATS

can newt and I drop by? he baked a cake

f*ck nath i’m still in shock

they were a bit bummed about harvard

we were already doing the whole it’s okay speech

but then YALE

sh*t

aziraphale didn’t cry but i did

also yes you can come

is there a video of you crying

i think it’s already going viral on tiktok right now

saving it for your wedding

WILL YOU STOP SAYING THINGS LIKE THAT

(April 9th, 2024)

“Hello, Bee. This Crowley. Anthony J.”

“Why are you acting like James Bond? How many Crowleys do you think I know?”

“Right, uh, sorry. Anathema told me you knew I’d call?”

“Yeah, yeah, she said you wanted my husband.”

“I-uh- I don’t”

“f*ck, are you always this neurotic?”

“Hello, Mx. Prince, is that right? I’m Aziraphale Fell, Crowley’s partner.”

“Ah, you’re the angel. The one Aaron Ferguson is based on, I suppose.”

“Oh darling, Ferguson, really?”

“Anyway Bee, Anathema said your husband is a real estate agent.”

“Yeah, bastard’s top of his game or whatever. He’s a proper asshole, but he’s great.”

“Right. Uh.-”

“Well that sounds delightful Mx. Prince! Just what we need, actually.”

“Call me Bee, you’re not my boss. Anyway, where do you want to move? Gabe will want to know before meeting with you both, the control freak.”

“We don’t know.”

“Ah well, that is to say, we have a few ideas in mind but nothing is decided as of now.”

“We’re trying to find a compromise.”

“We’d like something in between a small town and a city, something not overbearing but still stimulating and not too far from New York -”

“I don’t give a f*ck guys. You can move to Saturn for all I care, spare me the deets. I’ll tell this to Gabe and text you his number.”

“Thanks Bee.”

“Yes, thank you Bee dear.”

“Whatever. Good luck putting up with my asshole.”

(April 11th, 2024)

Hi love.

Me and Muriel will arrive Friday night around six.

can’t wait angel

what do you think of the things that asshole sent

I think Mr. Archer was nice to send us so many options.

And references for real estate agents in the areas too!

He is a bit unpleasant, I will admit. Bit loud.

bit loud???

i hear his voice in my nightmares

sooo

did you take a look?

muriel too

We did, actually.

Boston is nice, Muriel loved it when they toured Harvard.

It has that small town charm but it’s still a metropolis.

yeah agreed

perhaps a bit too much of a metropolis?

Not many opportunities for your garden.

some of the listings had a garden

Anything you liked?

mmm dunno

i need to take another look

can we discuss it more when we’re together?

Perhaps that would be better.

Tell me about your day.

(April 23rd, 2024)

“I mean, f*ck angel, I love this place.”

“Well, me too, but it’s so different than what we agreed on! It’s on the other side of the country!”

“Stop moving your phone along with your hands, please. And yes, I know. I would have never even thought about the Napa Valley, but think about it. It’s close enough to San Francisco, what was it? A hour and a half drive?”

“Yes. And the property is absolutely beautiful, oh, look at the view! And the wines are surely spectacular.”

“We can hire people who know what to do and have our own vines.”

“How much is our budget again?”

“Angel, I’m literally selling a penthouse in Manhattan. And you’re selling the bookshop.”

“Right. And I still have a bit from when I sold my shares at the firm. God Crowley, people must surely hate us.”

“That’s actually highly likely.”

“Oh, the villa is so lovely. It almost looks like a cottage, doesn’t it? And it says we’d have a few neighbours so it’s not completely isolated.”

“f*ck, have you seen all the pictures? All those spare rooms? Your library would be epic.”

“Crowley, dearest. We have to talk about the fact that it’s in literal California.”

“Yeah.”

“You wanted something close to New York City!”

“Yeah, well. That was before seeing this place. f*cking Gabe ruined my life.”

“I think maybe Muriel would prefer something closer to Connecticut anyway. Perhaps they’d want to visit during breaks.”

“Yeah, you’re right.”

“Don’t look so sad. We’ll find something.”

“You’re looking just as sad as I feel.”

“We could, oh I don’t know. A little weekend trip? Just to see it once?”

“Angel. I’m afraid we’ll like it a bit too much.”

“It is a risk. But think about it…”

“Aziraphale.”

“… a romantic getaway, just you and me, wine and gourmet restaurants…”

“Don’t give me those eyes. You know I can’t say no to those eyes.”

“…we could have a picnic, stay in a nice resort…”

“f*ck. What would we do in this nice resort of yours?”

“Would you like to know?”

(May 3rd, 2024)

hi mimi, just checked in

your uncle’s phone’s dead and he can’t find his charger

send pics!!!

oh my GOD IT’S SO PRETTY

isn’t it just

azi says hello

you both look so happy

are u going to take a look at that villa you fell in love with?

best not

why?

it’s just not possible

well, why?

you can work remotely and fly if you need to go to ny

or find a new publishing house

you always say you hate everyone there

it’s not that easy mimi

if i want to visit new dawns i can do it on my own, you know?

is this the problem?

i just want you both to be happy

and the place looks PHENOMENAL

DON’T GHOST ME UNCLE C

we’re calling you now

(May 7th, 2024)

To: Anthony J. Crowley < [emailprotected] > ; A. Z. Fell <[emailprotected] >

From: Sarah Dagon < [emailprotected] >

Cc: Gabriel Archer < [emailprotected] >

Subject: villa viewing

Hello Mr. Crowley and Mr. Fell,

your viewing is confirmed for this Saturday, May 11th. The owners are an old couple who want to sell to someone who will love the place as much as they did, and look forward to meet you and your kid. I dare say your chances are pretty high should you like the place enough to make an offer! The pictures I sent Mr. Archer don’t do the place justice, you’re in for a treat.

Will you please confirm your estimated arrival time?

Looking forward to seeing you soon,

Best,

Sarah Dagon

(May 18th, 2024)

Crowley just sold his penthouse in Manhattan. Gabriel Archer handled everything, from the listing to the showings; he is an absolutely insufferable ass, but boy is he good at what he does. Crowley just accepted an offer that’s just a ridiculous amount of money, way more than he spent for the place years ago.

His things are already all packed and moved temporarily into Aziraphale’s place. Though it won’t be Aziraphale’s place for much longer: as soon as this mess of a summer is done, he’s changing the name on the documents to Muriel’s one. It was their parents’ home, it was always supposed to be theirs. The bookshop will be sold to some hipster Californian looking for a change of scenery; the books will be packed up, the bean bags will stay.

Today is Graduation Day. Muriel is (predictably) valedictorian, which means Crowley is sitting on an uncomfortable plastic chair in a football field, sweating in his best suit under the late May sun. Beside him, Aziraphale is wearing the bow tie Crowley got him in New York and tapping his fingers on his thigh, a nervous motion he knows all too well.

He soothes it by intertwining their fingers, squeezing lightly. Aziraphale gives him a blinding smile.

The bastard spent the night before crying into Crowley’s neck so that his eyes will stay dry today. Crowley will simply never take his sunglasses off.

Muriel speech is scheduled right before they begin handing off the diplomas. In a cruel and twisted sort of revenge, no one has been allowed to take a peek. Not even when Crowley used the accomplished writer card or when Aziraphale tried to guilt trip her with childhood pictures.

They look absolutely beautiful in their white cap and gown. They took pictures that morning, alone and with just Aziraphale and with Crowley as well. “I want more pictures with my diploma later.” They’d said. “The family pictures I’ll be taking with me to Yale!”

Crowley had to lock himself in the bathroom for a good ten minutes.

The rest of the families applaud when Muriel finally comes on stage, with the same beaming smile that gave Crowley a panic attack months ago. Aziraphale ‘wahoos’ lightly beside him, and Crowley puts two fingers in his mouth and whistles.

Today, they have the right to be embarrassing.

“Good afternoon ladies, gentlemen and non binary folks.” Some light cheering. “My name is Muriel Sepulveda Fell, I am eighteen years old and I’ve been, technically, an orphan for the past eight. You could say mine has been a journey,” some light chuckles. Crowley already wants to cry. “But this story I’m about to tell you is far from tragic. This is a story about love.”

Aziraphale beside him takes in a sharp breath. Crowley puts his sunglasses further up his nose.

“It’s a story about the love my uncle had for his sister, my mom, and the love he had for despite never meeting me. A love so unconditional it brought him here, to the other side of the Atlantic Ocean, to a town that’s not on any map, just for me. A love so special it taught me that being a parent is a choice, and being a family is teamwork. I will be forever grateful for my team.”

Crowley risks a glance in Aziraphale’s direction. He’s got his handkerchief out and ready but he’s somehow not crying. He must have dried his tear ducts last night.

“It’s a story about the love my bonus uncle shares for his partner, unrelenting and never shaken.” Oh God, Crowley is going to die. He’s literally going to die on this plastic chair in this goddamn field in the middle of Connecticut. Sensing it, Aziraphale squeezes his hand tighter. Crowley chokes.

“And the love he gave me too, freely, so lightly, so bright, from the very first time. A love so unique it taught me time doesn’t matter when the feelings are real, and families will always evolve, but nothing will ever really change if the love remains the same.” Aziraphale hands him his handkerchief, which Crowley uses to blow his nose. He won’t hear about it later because he’s going to die.

“It’s a story about the love this town has shown me from day one. The love every single person has poured into homemade dishes and handmade cards and cheesy festivals. The love that binds me and my classmates and friends, that got us through senior year and college decisions and will forever bind us to this place, wherever life may take us. This year has been a journey, with wonderful highs and terrible lows, and we’re here right now because we reached out to one another. This love taught me that no matter what happens, this will always be home for every one of us. And that is the biggest gift of all.”

At least, Crowley’s not the only one who’s crying. He can hear sniffles all around him.

“Let me finish by telling you this: love can be many things. It can be a healed femur found in the depths of the Earth; it can be initials carved into trees and secrets whispered in the dark; it can be an encyclopedia of letters and a box full of watercolors paintings.”

Finally, Aziraphale’s started crying. f*cking finally. “I could borrow many more words from many more authors, but what I want to say is this: every story can be a love story, if we believe in it enough. Thank you.”

The applause is roaring. Crowley whistles again, Aziraphale’s ‘wahoo’ is way louder.

Crowley’s brain is very much offline, high on too many mushy feelings, but he somehow survives the rest of the ceremony and the family pictures (!) afterwards.

He comes back to himself fully once they get to Anathema’s house, its garden in full bloom having been chosen as the location for Muriel’s Grad Party. They didn’t want a balloon arch (“It’s so bad for the environment, Uncle C!”) but they were ecstatic about flower crowns.

Crowley’s crown is made of daisies, because the white makes a nice contrast with the red of his hair. He’s finishing Aziraphale’s crown (primroses) when his phone pings.

Moments later, he’s dragging Aziraphale away from a conversation with Newt, an arm wrapped around his waist and a Cheshire cat grin plastered on his face.

“My- Crowley, what’s gotten into you?” He says, but melts into Crowley’s hold regardless.

“Congratulations Mr. Fell, you’re now the proud co-owner of the villa of your dreams.”

Aziraphale’s eyes are big as saucers. “Did they accept the offer? Oh!”

When Aziraphale kisses him, it tastes like a promise, like a vow, like lost years, like the future.

It tastes like everything, because this man is - always has been, forever will be - his everything.

“So, angel, what do you say? Will you run away with me?” He says, because Anthony J. Crowley is a romantic at heart. Thankfully, Aziraphale Fell is just every bit as ridiculous as he is.

“I say, my love, that it’s everything I’ve ever wanted.”

hold on to the memories

they will hold on to you

hold on to the memories

they will hold on to you

hold on to the memories

they will hold on to you

and I will hold on to you

Chapter 13: the rest is still unwritten

Chapter Text

let the sun illuminate the words

that you could not find

reaching for something in the distance

so close you can almost taste it

Four years later

Crowley’s garden is in bloom.

Their villa did not come with acres of land, but it did come with a pretty nice garden. Before Crowley discovered landscaping, it was a wild thing. Now, he’s pretty sure he could end up in Home&Garden TV if he just wanted to. There are flowers, of course, because Aziraphale is ever so fond of them. There’s also a nice variety of vegetables and herbs: they both discovered the joy of cooking together and tasting something grown out of the soil of their very own home.

“It really is beautiful out here this time of the year.” Aziraphale steps out to the porch like he does every morning, with two steaming mugs and a kiss pressed onto Crowley’s cheek.

“Thanks, angel.” Crowley accepts both the mug and the kiss, settling further into Aziraphale’s side on their swing. Because, of course they have a swing.

Every morning, Aziraphale wakes up first, but waits downstairs in the kitchen for Crowley to be ready to start the day; they have breakfast outside when the weather is nice enough, enjoying the view of their garden and the memories they built in it.

Then, they will go on with their days. Aziraphale will work on some old books of his, as he still takes commissions for that, or pop down to the town a few minutes over to give art lessons to the local kids. Crowley will write, or work in the garden, or host one of his online creative writing workshops. Some nights, they wait for each other to be done with their respective things so they can take a drive through the more scenic routes this part of California has to offer, or to San Francisco for a fancy dinner and a show.

Lately, Crowley drives more often than not. Sometimes the smell of burnt tires is a bit too strong, but most of the time the smell of sea breeze overpowers it.

“What time do we have to leave tomorrow?”

Muriel is graduating in two days. These four years have gone by in the blink of an eye, yet so much has happened that sometimes it feels like four decades have passed.

“Since you insist on being at the airport a day before we take off, I’ll say we leave around seven.”

“Two hours of spare time is perfectly reasonable, Crowley.” Aziraphale huffs. “And, you should start packing. I’m not spending tonight looking for your socks.”

Crowley grins. He absolutely will. “Got anything better to do? Like crying?”

“Exactly.” Aziraphale bumps their shoulder together. “You’ll be right there with me.”

Muriel is leaving fairly soon after graduation. They’ll embark in a research program for their doctorate that will have them all around the world in the following months. Who knew being an anthropologist meant so much traveling? Certainly not Crowley, nor Aziraphale.

“Time to leave the garden,” he says, somewhat wistfully.

“Not for us, darling.” Aziraphale replies, shifting to look at Crowley properly. There are some grey streaks in his neatly trimmed beard (after a few months Crowley got mostly used to it; which means, he doesn’t feel the need to pin him up against the nearest wall as much as he did back when the beard first made an appearance) and his pale blond curls are still the usual mess, especially in the mornings. His eyes are still Crowley’s favourite shade of blue. He smiles softly, carding a hand through Crowley’s hair, still red as anything but now flowing down to his collarbones. “Our garden still has a lot to give.”

Crowley gives him a quick peck on the lips. “Those damn tomatoes better start acting right.”

Aziraphale’s laughter and the birds chirping are the only sounds surrounding him. It will be a nice day.

“You sure you don’t want to go anywhere for our anniversary, angel?”

It’s coming up next month. June 5th. Aziraphale proposed two years after their second first kiss, and Crowley couldn’t even think about being annoyed about the ring he purchased twenty five years prior, which was still safe in his drawer and now graces Aziraphale’s ring finger. His own ring was commissioned and handmade based on Aziraphale’s sketch, and Crowley didn’t really expect anything different.

They got married a few months later in this very garden, under a flower arch and the Californian sunset, surrounded by their closest friends and the family they created over the years. It was small and intimate, a short ceremony followed by dinner under the stars and fairy lights. Muriel made a speech which was another near death experience for Crowley, who later discovered Anathema wasn’t joking when she said she saved a lot of things for his wedding.

They thought about going back to New Dawns for it, but ultimately decided against it. After all, they go back every year for Valentine's Day without fail: the town still needs his head of the festival committee and mysterious writer who managed to whisk him away. Though they both love the little town that brought them back together, they couldn't imagine getting married anywhere else than their garden.

“Positive, love. We already splurged last year.” Aziraphale says as he sips his cup of tea. Lavender blend, Crowley's favourite.

He’s right. Crowley insisted they would only get one first wedding anniversary and they just had to go on a nice holiday. They’ve been to France and Italy before spending a week in a very familiar cottage in West Sussex, just for old times' sake.

“What is the point of being successful if I can’t spoil you a little?”

Aziraphale puts his head on Crowley’s shoulder. “Crowley, look around. We’re both thoroughly spoiled.”

A beginner’s guide to gardening with detective interruptions and its sequel, The gardener’s intermediate guide to peaceful retirement, had both been commercial successes. A success multiplied by the public brought in by the multi-season award winning show HBO decided to produce.

It had been a hectic few months, with trips back and forth from New York to London, and Crowley wanted to drop everything and come back home to his angel on more than one occasion. In the end, though, it had been worth it. Aziraphale had been the picture of happiness as he witnessed his very own Aaron Ferguson come to life.

Those were the last two books he published under Morningstar’s watchful eye; everything he chooses to put out now it’s self published and all the profits donated, written and edited at his own pace, beta-read by his husband on their couch, while he sips a glass of a local red or sketches absentmindedly on his ever present journal.

He turns to press a kiss into said husband’s hair. “So, no holiday?”

“Oh, don’t sound so disappointed.” Aziraphale tuts. “How about a couple of days in that nice resort we stayed in years ago?”

Crowley grins victoriously, fondly recalling that first romantic getaway. “Works for me.”

“Then it’s settled. We’ll look into booking it.” Aziraphale puts a hand on Crowley’s knee, squeezing lightly. “After you’re done with your packing.”

Crowley groans, putting on a bit of a show. After all, Aziraphale is fond of his dramatic ways. “Is that hand getting higher? That would be a hell of a motivation.”

Aziraphale withdraws his hand completely, laughing as a light blush graces his round cheeks. After all these time, Crowley still wants to bite him.

He smiles as he holds out his hand out to Crowley, who needs a bit more help getting up lately.

That’s alright as well. Aziraphale will always offer his hand and Crowley will always, always take it.

“Come, you terror,” he says, as his eyes dance. “Time to start our day.”

Crowley takes the offered hand and lets himself be pulled upright, leaning down to steal one last, lingering kiss before following Aziraphale inside. “Lead the way, angel,” he whispers. “I’m right behind you.”

January 30th, 2026 - our home in California

Hello darling,

you’re much better at this than I am, so don’t expect the kind of art you usually spoil me with. I merely thought you’d appreciate this silly little letter, the big romantic that you are.

I know you will glare at me for this, but you are. Dare I say, you’re the most romantic soul I will ever have the privilege of knowing.

Gosh, this is harder than I thought. How do you do this for a living? There are so many things I want to say to you I don’t even know where to start.

I guess I should start by telling you how much I love you, though you already know this. You’re everything I’ve ever wished for, do you know? Sure, I wanted a loving family, a nice house, a quiet life for myself and my books and my art. But at the end of the day, I didn’t want any of those things if I didn’t get to have you.

For the longest time I thought I had to settle with having everything I wanted minus you; it seemed like the universe pulled the cruelest of jokes on me. Then two years ago you came back into my life out of the blue, much like you did the first time around.

You weren’t the cool boy at the pub anymore, but you were still the most beautiful creature I’d ever seen. I took one look at you on that porch in Connecticut and felt twenty years old again.

I knew then I would have never been the same. When you kissed me for the first time again, I knew I would never be able to let you go again. The first time almost killed me, but this time it was - and it still is - simply unthinkable.

I love the way your hair catches the early morning light when we forgot to draw our curtains close and wake up with the sunlight; I love when you burn our dinner then try to blame me for distracting you; I love how your honey eyes tell me everything I need to know even when you’re being stubbornly silent; I love the way you smile at me when you think I’m not watching (my love, you should know by now, I always pay attention to you); I love the love you poured into your garden, how happy you are with your hands in the dirt, how your eyes sparkle every time one of your plants bloom.

I love the way you love so brightly, so fully, so wholly. I’m in awe of the way you love and I still cannot believe I’m the object of it. What a privilege that is.

I’m aware I should count my blessings, so to speak, and I’m already as lucky as one can get. As I’m writing this, I look at the place of honor on our mantle and see my favourite yellow book, your favourite old journal, a picture of our family at Muriel’s graduation, a picture of the two of us taken the day we moved here. These little memorabilia of the life we’re building together remind me that the universe already gave me more than I could ever ask for.

But, if you’ll indulge me, I have one more thing to ask you.

Come outside, I’ll be waiting for you in our garden. (Do hurry up dear please, it is a bit chilly even in California this time of the year.)

I can’t wait to see your beautiful face.

With all my love,

Aziraphale - or should I say, as you always do - your angel

today is where your book begins

the rest is still unwritten