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“I am an angel,” Aziraphale all but shouted, his fists clenched at his sides. “And you are a demon! We have nothing whatsoever in common!”
“Aziraphale,” Crowley said pleadingly, stepping forward with his palms up. “How long have we been friends? Six thousand—”
“We’re not friends,” Aziraphale snapped, his expression shuttering. “I don’t even like you!” Crowley opened his mouth to call out that lie, to insist that he knew it wasn’t true, but Aziraphale didn’t let him.
With cold, horrible fury in his eyes, the angel advanced upon him. “And why would I like you?” he continued cruelly, none of the gentle affection in his voice that he usually tried to hide from Crowley. “You’re a demon. You were thrown out of Heaven for a reason, you’re unworthy of forgiveness. You should be lucky I’ve tolerated you this long, you foul fiend!”
Crowley’s jaw dropped, and his stomach jolted sickeningly. “A-angel,” he stammered as Aziraphale spoke his painful, buried fears.
Aziraphale sneered at him, the sky dark and stormy above. “You’ve caused me enough trouble,” he said. “Always clinging, hanging around when it’s clear I don’t want you. I ought to smite you.”
Crowley’s eyes widened behind his glasses, and he hastily took a few steps back. “I don’t think that’s necessary—”
“You lured me here to get me to abandon Heaven’s plans, serpent,” Aziraphale said angrily even as he began to shine with ethereal light. “As if I would ever want to run away with you!” He raised his hand, which almost seemed to hold a flaming sword, and took another step towards Crowley.
Crowley jolted awake, his heart racing. He stared up at the ceiling above him, fuzzy in the grey light of the afternoon that leaked through his curtains, and swallowed hard. He would not cry.
Slowly, sensation trickled in— the soft silk of his sheets around him, the faint sound of traffic, his shaky, fast breathing making his throat dry. Crowley squeezed his eyes shut for just a moment, but the fiery image of Dream-Aziraphale seemed burned into the backs of his eyelids. He exhaled slowly, sitting up in bed.
“Just a dream,” he mumbled, hoping that hearing the words aloud would help. “It was just a dream.” It didn’t really help.
Crowley ran his hands over his face, and then tangled his fingers in his hair. He should really just shut off his ability to dream when he napped, it clearly wasn’t doing him any good. He knew Aziraphale would never say something like that, something so heartless— the angel was too nice. So there was no reason why his brain should be tormenting him so.
Crowley swung his legs over the side of his bed and got up, pointedly ignoring the fact that Aziraphale had, in fact, said some of that at the bandstand. It didn’t matter. What mattered was that the world hadn’t ended, and Aziraphale was his friend even if he wouldn’t admit it, and they had dinner plans in a few hours.
Crowley sighed deeply and snapped his fingers to dress himself in his normal fashionable outfit. Despite the efficiency of his miracles, he spent several minutes playing with his hair in the hallway mirror before it stuck up in just the way he wanted it to. When he was satisfied he headed out, getting in the Bentley and speeding over to the bookshop with Queen blaring.
Perhaps it was a bad idea to seek Aziraphale out after having a nightmare about him, to seek out the unrequited love of his life when his useless heart still seemed to ache in his chest, but, well… Aziraphale had always been the flame to Crowley’s moth, burning bright enough to hurt. He considered, for just a moment, that arriving to take Aziraphale to dinner more than an hour early might come off as a bit desperate, and then firmly crumpled up that notion and shoved it in the trash with the rest of his useless thoughts. The fact was, he was desperate, and 6,000 years was long enough for Aziraphale to have more than realized that.
So Crowley banged into the bookshop with a cheerful call of, “Hey, Aziraphale, you around?”
A moment later Aziraphale materialized from the back room, several books in his arms. “Hello, Crowley, you’re early,” he said with a small smile. “Just one moment.” He set the books down on his desk with a small cloud of dust, and then brushed off his hands.
Why would I like you? the Aziraphale from Crowley’s dream whispered in his ear, the words echoing around his head. As if I would ever want to run away with you, foul fiend!
Crowley mentally kicked his subconscious and pasted on a grin. “I was in the neighborhood,” he said, shoving his hands in his jacket pockets and affecting unconcern. “Thought I’d drop by.”
Aziraphale flashed him another smile, but for whatever reason he looked a little concerned. “I’m sorry, my dear, but I’m not quite ready to go for dinner yet,” he said, and then looked around the bookshop with a vaguely displeased expression. “I still have reordering to do like you wouldn’t believe. Adam restored everything, bless his heart, but he didn’t exactly put everything back in the right place.”
Crowley cleared his throat. “Right,” he said, his mouth dry. “Right, I’ll, ah, leave you alone then.”
Aziraphale turned back to face him, his eyes wide and earnest. “You don’t need to leave if you don’t like,” he said. “I’ll only be an hour, or so? Although—“ His face fell. “I suppose there’s not exactly much to occupy you here, you don’t read.”
Crowley shrugged loosely, picked up a book at random. “I can entertain myself for an hour,” he said. I want to be around you, he didn’t add. As long as we’re still friends, I want to be around you.
Aziraphale practically lit up as soon as Crowley picked up the book, his smile ridiculously bright. “Oh, wonderful,” he said happily, and then reached over to pull another book off his shelf. “You might like this one better, though, dearest, if you’re going to read. I think it would be more to your taste.”
“Right,” Crowley said slowly, taking the book.
Aziraphale beamed. “I’ll be ready in two shakes of a lamb’s tail,” he promised cheerfully. “Thank you, Crowley.”
“Huh,” Crowley said, taking the book to the back room, his mind whirling. Aziraphale was humming cheerfully and tunelessly when he went back to sorting his collection, and Crowley sat down in the back room and stared at the book in his hands. He hadn’t seen Aziraphale smile like that since, since… since before the Apocalypse, definitely. And all because Crowley had insinuated that he might want to read something, despite his professed disinterest in books.
I don’t even like you, Aziraphale had said at the bandstand. We have nothing whatsoever in common! And then he had smiled like Crowley had hung the stars in the sky when it appeared like they did have something in common.
In 1967, Aziraphale had said Crowley went too fast. Crowley had tried his best to slow down— he knew what Heaven was like, he knew what Hell was like, he knew what Aziraphale was like. He had resigned himself to going as slow as Aziraphale needed for the rest of his life. Even if it felt like going backwards. Even if Aziraphale never felt the same way he did.
But now, now… what if the key to Aziraphale’s heart was to be a little more like him? To show him that Crowley was willing to change, if it meant there was a chance that Aziraphale might like him better (or even love him)? Because godbless, Crowley was willing to change. He would, if that’s what it took to finally go Aziraphale’s speed.
Crowley sighed, rubbed at his eyes under his sunglasses. And then he opened his book and began to read.
Aziraphale was ever so pleased to have Crowley around, in any form. After the Apocalypse, after everything that had happened, he had been worried that Crowley might decide to leave. After all, as they were off Heaven and Hell’s payroll, they had no need for any Arrangement to keep them seeing each other.
But Crowley had stuck around. Despite their difficulties, their arguments, and all the unspeakably cruel things Aziraphale had shouted at him in the street and in the park, Crowley hadn’t left. He kept sauntering into the bookshop, taking Aziraphale out to dinners and plays and all but sweeping him off his feet.
Aziraphale sighed softly and glanced over his shoulder to where Crowley was in the back. His friend was slumped on the couch, his feet up on the table and his nose buried in the James Bond novel he had been lent. Aziraphale smiled slightly. He knew Crowley liked the films, it was nice that he seemed to be enjoying the book version as well.
His happy little smile grew even as he refocused on shelving his stack of books. It was so nice to have Crowley in his shop, even if they weren’t immediately in each other’s spaces. He had been worried, for just a moment, when it had seemed like Crowley wanted to leave after all, as though he thought that Aziraphale didn’t desperately want him there— but that was no matter, because the sweet demon was willing to wait.
Aziraphale’s smile slipped just a little, just for a moment. He knew Crowley had been waiting a long time for him, centuries. And it was dreadfully unfair, he knew, to expect him to keep waiting. He didn’t even want Crowley to wait any longer, if he was being honest— they were free from Heaven and Hell, free to do what they wanted without having to be afraid.
The thing was, old habits were hard to break. It was terrifying, to reach out after so many decades of sitting on his hands. It took a courage Aziraphale knew he had, deep down, but would need to gather. And he would, he would reach out. Crowley deserved his courage, after waiting so patiently for him and staying so slow. It would just… it would take a little time.
Aziraphale was frowning slightly by the time he finished shelving his books, and he took a moment to compose himself before heading to the back room. He found Crowley still on the couch, the book open and face down on his chest as he scrolled through his phone. He glanced up guiltily when Aziraphale came in, and started, “I was reading, I promise, I just—”
Aziraphale smiled slightly. “It’s alright, dearest,” he said gently, coming to sit beside Crowley on the sofa. His eyes widened as a thought occurred to him. He knew Crowley’s senses were a little different from the average human’s, his eyes much more snakelike than average, so perhaps it was difficult for him to read small print in old books. “I might have some larger print editions, if you’d like,” he offered tentatively. He would be a blight on the title of bibliophile, after all, if he didn’t encourage his friend’s newfound interest in reading in any way he could.
Crowley made an odd sound in the back of his throat and then stuffed his phone in his pants pocket. “Uh, maybe,” he said, and then sat up and set the book on the table after making sure to close it properly. “Ready to go?”
“Yes, let me just get my coat,” Aziraphale said. He screwed up his courage and squeezed Crowley’s hand before standing, fetching his coat from off the rack by the door. When he turned Crowley was still sitting on the couch, his cheeks flushed. “Ready, dearest?” Aziraphale called, clasping his hands in front of himself.
“Uh, right,” Crowley said, getting up so quick he almost stumbled.
Aziraphale reached out and just managed to catch him, preventing him from face planting. “There we are,” he said reassuringly, patting Crowley’s shoulder.
“Ngk,” Crowley said, and then pushed past him, heading for the door. “Best get going, angel, traffic might be rough.”
“It's not as though we could miraculously ensure it’s not,” Aziraphale muttered, but followed after his friend and locked the bookshop door behind him.
Crowley had parked the Bentley outside, and Aziraphale sighed softly as he got in. “I do wish you wouldn’t park so illegally, my dear, you’re poking out into the road,” he said. He didn’t much mean it— that was just how Crowley was, and he was endearing in his consistency. Anyway, they had had this debate before, it was well-worn and familiar.
Crowley just hummed, not arguing as he normally did, and Aziraphale frowned. “Crowley, are you alright?” he asked, some of his concern from earlier resurfacing. When Crowley had come into the bookshop he had looked upset, on edge, but he had seemed alright after reading quietly for a while. Now that tension was back in his shoulders, in his tight jaw and fingers tapping on the steering wheel as he pulled out of his spot and drove them through Soho.
Crowley didn’t answer his question, just made a vague sound that kind of passed for a yes. As they drove, something itched at Aziraphale as being wrong, but it didn’t occur to him what exactly it was until he glanced at the speedometer. “Crowley,” he said slowly, “Why are you driving the speed limit?”
Crowley refused to look at him. “Lotsa pedestrians around,” he mumbled, flicking his turn signal on. “Don’t feel like doing miracles today.”
Aziraphale pursed his lips. Driving fast was one of Crowley’s great joys in life, and he had certainly never had much consideration for pedestrians before. He thought it was quite funny, actually, the way they jumped out of his path.
“Alright,” Aziraphale said a little doubtfully, but let Crowley keep his secrets for the time being. If he was in a mood, there was nothing to be gained by needling him. Crowley grunted and sped up just a little bit, but didn’t even hit five kilometers an hour over the limit.
They had made a human reservation at a little Italian restaurant Aziraphale had grown fond of, and when they arrived Crowley parked legally and surprising neatly and then opened Aziraphale’s door for him when he got out of the car. “Oh, thank you,” Aziraphale said with a smile, letting his hand brush against his friend’s shoulder for just a moment. Crowley jolted in surprise, but didn’t comment.
They walked together into the restaurant and were seated at their usual table for two. After a few minutes a waiter approached them and said with a smile, “What can I start you gentlemen off with?”
Aziraphale glanced at Crowley— usually he handled ordering their alcohol, since he was pickier about it— and found Crowley gazing expectantly back at him. “Ah,” Aziraphale said uncertainly, and quickly looked over the wine list before picking one that sounded good. “Is that alright, dearest?” he asked, and Crowley nodded.
“Whatever you like,” he said accommodatingly.
Aziraphale shrugged. “Alright.” He smiled at their waiter, handing the alcohol menu back. “We’ll need a few minutes on the food.” That wasn’t entirely true— Aziraphale would need a few minutes to figure out what he wanted. Crowley always ordered the same thing, some small, fancy appetizer he claimed reminded him of a dish he had been fond of in fifteenth century Venice.
“Of course,” the waiter replied, and disappeared to get their drinks.
Crowley settled back in his chair a little and rested his chin on his hand. “So,” he said, his tone surprised pleasant considering how sullen he had been in the car. “What’s new with you?”
Aziraphale blinked, a little taken aback. “Not much,” he said slowly. “You’ve seen me almost every day since the Apocalypse.”
Crowley looked like he was fighting a frown. Aziraphale could just barely see him blink slowly behind his glasses.
“Ah,” Aziraphale said. “Well, I saw that the British Museum is doing a special exhibit of Regency snuffboxes? I thought I might go, it’s later this month.”
“I’ll come with you,” Crowley said, and Aziraphale’s eyebrows shot up.
“Really?” he said skeptically. That had never been an area of interest he and Crowley had exactly shared, which was entirely fine— if they liked all the same things, their friendship wouldn’t be nearly as interesting. But Crowley’s sudden interest in snuffboxes, after centuries of professed and vehement disinterest, was... odd. Someone less charitable might even say suspicious.
Crowley made a face at him. “Yeah, why not?”
“I wouldn’t automatically think of that as something you were interested in,” Aziraphale said diplomatically. “You’re welcome to come, of course, I just wouldn’t want you to be bored.”
Crowley huffed. “It’s something you like, how could it be boring,” he mumbled.
Aziraphale barely resisted the urge to roll his eyes. That sentiment was patently untrue, they both liked (different) boring things, but he also didn’t particularly feel like arguing over dinner.
Their waiter returned with their wine and to take their dinner orders, and Aziraphale was flustered enough to place his order without looking very carefully at the menu. The waiter turned to Crowley. “Would you like your usual, sir?” he asked, but to Aziraphale’s surprise Crowley shook his head.
“I’ll have what he’s having,” he said with a nod in Aziraphale’s direction.
“Are you sure, dearest?” Aziraphale said in a low voice, and Crowley nodded. The waiter wrote down their orders and then headed off again.
“I’m a bit surprised,” Aziraphale said casually, taking a sip of his wine. “You’re usually rather a creature of habit.”
Crowley took a sip of his own wine, although it was really more like a gulp. “Maybe I’m making new habits,” he shot back.
Aziraphale gave him a cautious smile. “Then I’m glad to hear it, dear,” he said. He reached out and patted Crowley’s hand, hoping the gesture conveyed what he wanted it to— that he would support Crowley in whatever new things he wanted to try. Crowley went a little red and gulped at his wine, and Aziraphale gracefully changed the subject until their meal came.
It was a bit odd, watching Crowley eat a full, proper meal. Aziraphale struggled to remember the last time he had seen it happen— perhaps some time back in the 1600s? Crowley usually ate like a bird, small portions supplemented by bites stolen off Aziraphale’s plate. He claimed his tastebuds had burned up in the Fall and that the Almighty has cursed him to a life bereft of pleasure that he valiantly fought against every day, but Aziraphale suspected it had more to do with the fact that sometimes he smelled with his tongue and didn’t have much of a taste for most strong spices.
That aside, Crowley could eat— and eat he did, getting more than halfway through his meal before slowing down, agreeing with Aziraphale’s every pleased exclamation and happy, satisfied sigh.
It was a bit strange, how agreeable Crowley was being in general. Aziraphale would have asked, but he had decided that Crowley was just in one of his odd moods for the evening. If his strange behavior persisted much past tonight, he would inquire.
When Crowley began slowing down, pushing his pasta in little circles around his plate, Aziraphale offered gently, “Would you like some help, dear? Or you could ask for a doggy bag.”
Crowley looked insulted. “No, I’m fine,” he said firmly. “I’m savoring my food, like you always do.”
“Hm,” Aziraphale said with eyebrows raised, and turned back to his own dinner. When the waiter brought their check, he also brought a little leftover container for Crowley’s food (and a few bites of Aziraphale’s, which he had left untouched to bring home so Crowley wouldn’t feel too bad).
They were quiet as they drove home at the proper speed limit, Aziraphale with the leftovers balanced in his lap and Crowley tapping his fingers along to whatever song his car had turned into Queen. When they reached the bookshop, Crowley parked legally.
“Thank you for dinner, dearest,” Aziraphale said quietly, mustering the courage he had been gathering since the averted Apocalypse. Crowley had waited long enough, he needed to be brave—
Aziraphale dared to lean over and give Crowley a peck on the cheek before pulling back again, adding, “I had a wonderful time.”
“Ngh,” Crowley said, going red. “Uh, right.”
Aziraphale gave him a bright, welcoming smile. “I’ll see you tomorrow?” he said hopefully. He thought about inviting Crowley in for a nightcap, but guessed by the expression on Crowley’s face that it might be better to let the demon go home to process.
“Right,” Crowley said again, clearing his throat.
Aziraphale flashed him one last smile before getting out of the car. “Drive safely,” he blessed.
“Hng,” Crowley replied, and then before Aziraphale could say anything else he started the car again and pulled away.
Aziraphale watched him drive off, leftovers clutched in one hand. Worries and anxieties itched at him, but he did his best to put them to rest. Sometimes Crowley was a little difficult or acted a little strange, that was kind of just part of who he was. He would surely be back to normal by the next day.
Things came to a head when Crowley dropped by the bookshop the next day very clearly not back to normal, and also wearing a tartan scarf.
Aziraphale stopped dead as soon as his friend walked in the door, and his eyes narrowed. “Crowley, my dear,” he said slowly. “What are you wearing?”
Crowley gave him a nonchalant look, absently fiddling with the end of his scarf. “What does it look like,” he replied. “A scarf. It’s getting chilly out, angel, I’m cold-blooded.”
“I know for a fact that’s not true,” Aziraphale said, slowly approaching. “But, my dear, you don’t like wearing tartan. You always say it doesn’t match your aesthetic.”
Crowley’s lips twisted. “You don’t like it?” he said a little uncertainly.
Aziraphale frowned. “Of course I do, in theory,” he said. “But Crowley, when I gave you a tartan scarf back in 1982, you miracled it into black silk. What’s changed?”
Crowley scuffed his feet, avoiding Aziraphale’s eyes. “I don’t see what the issue is, angel,” he said evasively. “You like tartan, so I’m wearing tartan. What’s the big deal?”
Aziraphale’s stomach dropped as he suddenly, clearly, saw what was going on. Puzzle pieces clicked into place— Crowley’s newfound interest in reading and eating, his seemingly out of the blue tolerance for Aziraphale’s niche interests and fashions, even his legal driving speed when they were together. “Oh, my dear,” he breathed. “Crowley, darling, have you been doing things I like just because you think I’ll like you better?”
Crowley’s jaw clenched and he pulled off the scarf, tossing it without looking at the coat rack. “I think I should get going, actually,” he said, turning away and stepping towards the door.
Aziraphale darted forward and caught his hand. “Crowley, please don’t go,” he said quickly. “I really think we ought to talk.”
“What’s there to talk about?” Crowley snapped, jerking his hand out of Aziraphale’s grasp. “We already both know I’m fucking pathetic, what more is there to say?”
“Crowley,” Aziraphale said helplessly. He reached out, and this time Crowley let him. Crowley’s face was red, his brow furrowed. He looked a little like he was trying not to cry.
“My darling,” Aziraphale sighed, taking both of Crowley’s hands, and then he bit his lip. “Or, I suppose just. Darling.”
Crowley swallowed hard. “Would you… would you just tell me to fuck off, already,” he said quietly.
“Please come to the back room,” Aziraphale said instead.
Crowley made a displeased sound, but let Aziraphale lead him to the back. They sat down on the couch together, and Aziraphale said quietly, “Crowley, I think perhaps we’re not on the same page.”
Crowley laughed bitterly. “Have we ever been?”
Aziraphale frowned. “Please don’t say that,” he said, and then looked down at their hands. Crowley’s hands were a little bigger than his, and not quite as soft, but they clung to him just as tightly.
“My dear,” he said. “Crowley, you must know you’re the most important person— being— in my life. I care for you so much, no matter whether or not I’m supposed to.” He bit his lip. “Would you mind taking your glasses off?”
Crowley hesitated, and then slowly pulled off his sunglasses and put them on the table with a clatter. “Crowley,” Aziraphale said in a trembling voice. “Oh, my darling, we’ve gone so long without saying what needs to be said. I do so love you, dearest.”
Crowley stared at him, eyes wide, and he didn’t say the words back. That was alright. Aziraphale had been hearing them for decades anyway, in Crowley’s smile and his gaze and his touch. He had been able to sense his friend’s affection, fondness, love, for centuries.
Aziraphale took a deep breath, finished his speech. “I’m so sorry I couldn’t say so before,” he murmured. “I’m sorry I didn’t have the courage to.”
Crowley looked stricken. “Angel, no,” he said quickly, his eyes wide. “Don’t apologize, for Somebody’s sake, I know what Heaven is like. Fuck, at your trial—” He took a shuddery breath. “Don’t say sorry,” he whispered. “It’s… it’s—“
“Please don’t say it’s your fault, either,” Aziraphale said firmly. He gave Crowley a serious, searching look. “Perhaps it’s a little bit of both of our faults, and a little bit of Heaven and Hell’s, but there’s no need to assign blame. We don’t need to divvy up points and responsibilities, Crowley, not anymore.”
Crowley tried to say something, but it came out sounding more like a choked off laugh. “I’ve been trying, angel,” he said, his words blurring together. His eyes were entirely yellow, his slitted pupils dark with wretchedness. “I’ve been trying to go slow, do things your way. I know you want me to, I thought it would make— make liking me, lov- being around me, easier for you. If I liked the things that you like. You know, food, and books, and bloody tartan.” His nose wrinkled in frustration.
“Crowley, my dear,” Aziraphale said. “Please don’t misunderstand, of course I enjoy sharing the things I like with you, but I— I love you, Crowley. I’m in love with a demon who drives too fast, and dresses like a goth, and likes gardening and disco and bebop, and prefers alcohol to hor d'oeuvres. And I know that that demon doesn’t like everything I like, and that’s fine. Because I love him anyway. Even if I couldn’t say so sooner.” He looked down, suddenly nervous.
“Aziraphale,” Crowley whispered. He inched a little closer, and their knees knocked together. When Aziraphale looked up, Crowley was giving him a watery smile. “I love an angel,” he said. “A fussy, prissy, bastard who hoards books, and is a tea snob, and thinks that the Velvet Underground qualifies as bebop because he knows nothing about modern music, and goes about as fast as the M25 at rush hour. But that’s OK.”
“Oh, my dear,” Aziraphale murmured, and opened his arms. Crowley fell into them, holding him close.
“For the record,” Aziraphale said into Crowley’s shoulder, muffled, “I do think you look rather fetching in tartan. But I don’t want you to wear it unless you want to.”
Crowley gave a wet laugh, fingers scrunched up in the fabric of Aziraphale’s waistcoat. “I’ll wear tartan the day you wear a leather jacket,” he replied.
Aziraphale reached up and cupped the back of his head, pulling him even closer. “I love you, my dear,” he murmured. “Very much.”
“Love you too, angel,” Crowley replied, and Aziraphale felt the tension all but drain out of him with the admission. He smiled, gathered his demon closer, and held him tight.
They would need to talk more, to hash out in specifics exactly how they were going to handle the change in their relationship caused by the love confessions that had come as no surprise to either of them, but now... now, this was all they needed.