Archive of Our Own

Crowley was lounging on the sofa in the backroom of the bookshop, sprawled out like he was trying to make his flesh become one with the overstuffed cushions. Aziraphale liked him there. He always had. And Crowley evidently liked being there, napping while Aziraphale pretended to be a purveyor of fine books or smirking while Aziraphale fretted over how to get his hands on a first edition that he’d been eyeing for months. Ever since Armageddon hadn’t happened, Crowley had claimed the sofa as his own, and Aziraphale found that he really didn’t mind at all. It was almost nice, in a way, to know where Crowley would be at any given hour of day. 

So it was odd when Crowley, for reasons that Aziraphale could not figure out and apropos of completely nothing, sat up and said, “D’you want to go to America?” 

“No,” said Aziraphale immediately. 

Crowley blinked. He’d decided to start taking off his sunglasses when he was in the bookshop a few weeks after the Apocalypse, and Aziraphale hadn’t complained. If anything, it was rather a triumph; it gave Aziraphale the chance to compliment his eyes, something that typically reduced Crowley to a jumble of nonsensical syllables and caused a little pink flush to touch the tops of his high cheekbones. 

Aziraphale was fond of it, to say the least. Was fond of him. 

Crowley said nothing for a few moments, yellow eyes wide, and then, “With me, angel. D’you want to come to America with me.” 

“Er,” said Aziraphale. “Why?”

“It’s October,” Crowley said in a tone that indicated that he Meant Something. 

Aziraphale did not know what that Something was. “I’m quite aware.” 

“Nearly the end of the month, too.” 

“Such is the passage of time,” Aziraphale agreed. 

Crowley sighed and arranged his body into something that loosely resembled the way a human spine typically functioned. He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, and gave Aziraphale a meaningful look. 

“You really don’t see where I’m going with this, do you?” Crowley asked.

“No,” said Aziraphale, because he didn’t. 

“Halloween, angel,” said Crowley. “Sunday, it’s Halloween.” 

“Oh,” Aziraphale said. “Yes, I suppose it is.” 

“Was thinking of popping over to the States,” said Crowley slowly, as if waiting for Aziraphale to catch on. “For the holiday.” 

Aziraphale frowned. “Can’t you celebrate here?” 

“Could,” said Crowley. “S’just that Halloween parties are one of, like, six total things that Americans do better than Brits.” 

Aziraphale considered this. “It doesn’t feel a bit… I don’t know, treasonous? To betray our countrymen by galivanting off to attend a holiday soiree across the pond when we could just as easily stay in London?”

“Aziraphale, we aren’t British.” 

This was technically true, but Aziraphale felt British, and he was mildly offended that Crowley didn’t seem to consider this important. 

“We can go where we want,” Crowley continued, “whenever we want to go there.” 

“And you want to go to America.” 

“Yep.” 

“Voluntarily.” 

“Yes, angel.” 

“And you want—” Aziraphale poked a finger into his own chest. “Me. To follow suit.” 

“I don’t bloody well want to go without you,” Crowley said. His tone was snappish, in truth, but Aziraphale was touched by the sentiment all the same. 

“Oh,” said Aziraphale. 

Crowley groaned and slumped backward again, sliding down onto the cushions. 

“Forget it,” Crowley said. “You don’t wanna go, ‘s fine. We’ll stay here, drink some tequila, maybe show our faces at a pub or something to see what the humans have come up with for fancy dress this year.” 

As a rule, Aziraphale did not go to America. He’d only been twice, and neither occasion had been particularly enjoyable — the first time, he’d been sent by Upstairs to conduct a series of blessings on a group of Spanish missionaries who wound up doing a great deal more harm than good, and the second, he’d ventured over to see what all the fuss was about only to discover that the Americans had outlawed the consumption of alcohol. Aziraphale had thought such a thing equal to a sin, and so the entire experience had left a rather bad taste in his mouth. 

But now Crowley  wanted to go to America, and he wanted to go with Aziraphale. This, unsurprisingly, made all the difference. 

So Aziraphale said, “Yes, all right then. Where did you have in mind?” 

Crowley nearly fell off the sofa in his haste to get to his feet. He was grinning, sharp-toothed and beautiful, and his normal hip-slinking walk devolved into more of a bounce as he made his way across the room to stand in front of Aziraphale.

“Really?” 

Aziraphale tried not to grimace. “Yes, really.” 

“New York, then,” Crowley said.

“The city or the state?” 

“The city’s in the state,” said Crowley. “But the city. Manhattan, specifically.” 

“Ah,” Aziraphale said. 

“The East Village gays do a whole thing,” Crowley explained, still bouncing. “Think they might own the holiday, really.” 

Aziraphale had long since stopped arguing that he and Crowley were not, as a point of fact, actually queer. They couldn’t be, not in the way the humans were. But Crowley had been right in saying that they certainly weren’t heterosexual, either, and that besides, they both were rather queer in presentation (Crowley had actually used the word “fruit-forward” as a method of describing queerness, which had made Aziraphale think they were talking about wine. He still didn’t entirely get the joke). And furthermore, Aziraphale felt comfortable around members of the LGBTQ+ community. He liked them, and they seemed to like him. They saw him as one of their own, and as Crowley had pointed out, there wasn’t exactly a good way to correct them without outing himself as an Angel of the Lord. 

This is why Aziraphale visibly brightened at Crowley’s reference to ‘the gays.’ He had to admit that the whole idea sounded much more appealing once he knew that Crowley would be taking him to a place he would likely enjoy (and a part of America where he and Crowley would be less likely to be discorporated those who tended to take a hands-on approach to their homophobia). 

“Oh,” Aziraphale said brightly. “Halloween in the East Village, is it much like the parades here in June?” 

Crowley laughed, and it was warm. “Not exactly the same, but sort of? Dunno. Pumpkins and ghosts instead of rainbows, I’d say.” 

“I do believe you’ve completed the sale on an American Halloween, my dear,” Aziraphale said, chuffed that he had remembered that particular turn of phrase. 

“I’ve sold you on it, angel,” Crowley corrected with a roll of his eyes. 

Aziraphale didn’t even mind. 

*********

Aziraphale tugged at the lapels of his coat. It was made of soft white leather, and if Aziraphale had ever had any inclination to dress with the times, he might have even liked it. As it happened, however, Crowley had practically thrown the jacket (and the graphic t-shirt that was underneath it, and the pair of sensible light-wash denim trousers, and the white boots) at him and said, “Kit off, angel, we’ve got places to be.” Aziraphale had only changed into the absurd outfit because Crowley had looked at him in a way that made his heart do funny things. 

Now, though, he felt absurd. 

“Crowley,” Aziraphale called.

“Yeah?” Crowley’s voice was muffled by the door that separated the en suite from the rest of their hotel room (of which Crowley had only reserved one, because ‘We practically live together in London, angel. And besides, ‘s not like I’m angling to sully your virtue, you don’t even sleep’). Aziraphale had been listening with increasing apprehension to the rustling sounds coming from within for the better part of an hour, during which time Crowley hadn’t so much as opened the door a crack. 

“What exactly am I supposed to be dressed as?” 

“Vampire hunter,” Crowley half-shouted. 

Aziraphale made a hmph-ing sound and sat down heavily on the edge of the bed. 

“Why?” asked Aziraphale. 

“Because I’m going as a vampire,” Crowley called back, “so it makes sense.” 

Aziraphale fussed with his coat again. 

“Am I supposed to look like the vampire hunters in those films you like?” Aziraphale searched for the right term. “The, ah. The smasher horror films?”

“Slasher,” Crowley said loudly. “Why’re you shouting?”

“Because you holed up in the toilet like you’re frightened of being seen,” Aziraphale muttered. 

“What?” yelled Crowley.

“This is absurd,” Aziraphale called, getting to his feet again and crossing to the door behind which Crowley was hiding. “I can’t hear myself think. I’m opening the door.” 

He did so. 

Crowley yelped. 

“Oi,” Crowley managed after a moment. His breath was coming quickly. He looked startled, which Aziraphale supposed was fair. He also looked lovely.

“Apologies,” murmured Aziraphale. 

There was dark makeup smeared around Crowley’s eyes, making his face look thinner and paler than usual. A tube of red lipstick was uncapped in his left hand, evidently having not made it to his lips before Aziraphale invaded his privacy. A pair of too-tight black leather trousers looked like they’d been pasted onto his legs, and small silver chains hung from the pockets and belt loops.

The most important thing was, though, that Crowley was wearing nothing from the waist up. Aziraphale hadn’t seen Crowley sans-shirt for a few millennia, and the last time he’d had the pleasure, he hadn’t given it much thought. 

But he hadn’t loved Crowley back then (or at least hadn’t known that he had), which was a possible explanation for why Aziraphale felt as though the room had gotten ten degrees warmer. 

“And uh,” Crowley started. He swallowed thickly. “Not, uh. Not supposed to look the same as the blokes in the films, exactly.” 

Aziraphale stared at Crowley’s chest. He couldn’t help it, really. It was right there, and Aziraphale thought that it was nice. A good thing to look at, all things considered. 

“Oh?” asked Aziraphale. 

“They wear black,” Crowley said. “You don’t.” 

“I could,” Aziraphale said defiantly.

“You don’t, though.” Crowley took a deep breath, and Aziraphale watched him. 

He really needed to stop staring at his chest. 

“Thought we could accomplish the same goal in light colors,” Crowley said. It sounded soft. “Still be on theme, y’know.” 

“All right.” 

Crowley ran a hand through his dark hair, scratched at the back of his neck. Nervous. 

“D’you hate it?” Crowley asked. 

Aziraphale shifted his weight. “No.” 

“You lying?” 

“No,” Aziraphale said, and was surprised to find that he was telling the truth. 

“Ngh,” Crowley grunted, eyes narrowing. “Angel.” 

“I don’t hate it, Crowley.” Aziraphale fought the urge to reach for Crowley’s shoulder, to press a hand to Crowley’s skin. “It’s only for one night, isn’t it?”

“Yeah.”

“I shall survive it, then.” 

Crowley’s lips quirked upward. “Valiant of you.” 

“Hush.” 

“Oughtta give you a medal,” Crowley teased. He turned back to the mirror and ran the lipstick across his parted lips, then pressed them together. 

“That’s quite enough out of you,” Aziraphale said heatlessly. 

“Seriously, though,” Crowley said. He was looking at Aziraphale again, and he was smiling. “Looks, you know. Good. On you. You look… yeah. Yeah.” 

Aziraphale said “Thank you,” because what else was there to say? 

Crowley had never asked to kiss Aziraphale. He hadn’t ever so much as held Aziraphale’s hand, not even after the world kept spinning past its designated expiration date. Crowley had never, not once, intentionally touched Aziraphale for longer than a fraction of a second. So Crowley couldn’t mean that Aziraphale looked good in the same way that Aziraphale thought that Crowley, face made up with powder and sparkles and cherry-red lipstick, looked good. Crowley didn’t think about Aziraphale like that. It was a fact of life. 

“Give me fifteen in here, and then we’ll hit the streets,” said Crowley. He waggled his eyebrows at Aziraphale. 

Aziraphale knew when he was being asked to leave, so he nodded and did so. 

When Crowley stepped out of the en suite a quarter of an hour later, Aziraphale nearly choked on air. 

“You’re missing half of your shirt, Crowley.”

Crowley cocked a hip, hands in his pockets. The shirt that he was wearing really almost didn’t count as one; it was made of mesh and ended several inches above his navel. Aziraphale couldn’t tell if the infernal thing had sleeves — Crowley was wearing a shiny leather jacket that matched his trousers down to the little silver chains hanging from the buttons — but if Azirphale had to make a guess, he would have leaned toward ‘no.’ 

“What, don’t like it?” Crowley asked. He was grinning.

“I didn’t say that.” 

In Aziraphale’s opinion, there wasn’t ever much to dislike about Crowley. But Crowley normally kept his midriff covered, and he didn’t make a habit of having fangs, and he usually had golden, slit-pupiled eyes instead of red, human-looking ones. The only part of these modifications that Aziraphale would have dared complain about was the eyes, so he did. 

“What happened to your eyes?” Aziraphale asked. 

“Colored contacts,” said Crowley. “Clever humans, eh?” 

“I don’t know. I rather like your eyes as they are.” 

Crowley’s cheeks and ears turned pink. “I’m going as a vampire, Aziraphale, not a bloody snake.” 

“Do vampires have red eyes, then?” 

“Vampires don’t exist.” 

Aziraphale sighed at him. “Crowley.” 

“Fine, fine. Dunno if they do, but this one does.” 

And then Crowley snapped his fingers, and something settled around Aziraphale’s neck.

“Final touch,” said Crowley. “Or nearly. Here, let me just…” 

Another snap, and Crowley was holding a foot-long sharpened piece of wood. He waggled it in Aziraphale’s direction. 

“What’s this for?” 

“Props,” said Crowley. “Stake to the heart’s meant to kill vampires. Thought you should have one.”

Aziraphale took the stick. He looked down at the thing around his neck, reached for it, and stopped.

“Garlic?” asked Aziraphale. 

“Yep.” Crowley rocked forward onto the balls of his feet, which were clad in red leather boots. “Made it so it doesn’t smell, though. People’ll think it’s fake.”

“Why?” 

Crowley shrugged. “Superstition says that stuff’s supposed to ward off vampires. Got no clue where the humans got that one.” 

“Really,” said Aziraphale. 

“Again, no idea. Thought it’d be good, though. You know. Dedication to the fancy dress.” 

“Where are your props?” Aziraphale asked. 

Crowley licked his fangs. Aziraphale ignored the way his heart wobbled at the sight of it. 

“Got ‘em right here. Let’s go, yeah?” 

“Yes,” Aziraphale said. “Let’s.” 

When they stepped onto the streets of Manhattan, Crowley slipped one of his hands around Aziraphale’s arm and held tight, giving Aziraphale’s elbow a squeeze. 

“Halloween in America, angel,” said Crowley. “Ready for it?” 

Aziraphale hadn’t meant to be so soft, he really hadn’t. It just happened. Crowley was touching him, so it happened. 

“As long as I’m with you, my dear, I should think that I’m ready for anything.” 

*********

The club was loud. 

This wasn’t a surprise — Aziraphale had been into clubs before, mostly to see what the excitement was all about — but there was something distinctly American about this kind of loud. Pounding bass and shouting voices, flashing lights and sticky bar tops, the smell of sweat and cheap beer and too-sweet cocktails. 

Crowley was at the bar, ostensibly grabbing another round of drinks, but somehow also managing to hold a lengthy conversation with the bartender. As Aziraphale watched, the bartender patted Crowley’s hand, and Crowley threw his head back and laughed.

Aziraphale couldn’t hear Crowley’s laugh over the din, but he could see it, and he wasn’t the only one. He counted no less than a dozen pairs of eyes trained in a Crowley-ward direction. People of all genders were watching Crowley like their lives depended on it, and Aziraphale did not care for that at all.

You haven’t any grounds for jealousy, Aziraphale reminded himself. He isn’t yours. 

It didn’t help. 

Crowley grabbed the drinks from the bartender, waving at them in a clear sign to keep his tab open. As he sauntered back toward Aziraphale, those around him turned their heads to stare.

“Made a friend, I see,” Aziraphale said, leaning in close enough that he was practically speaking against Crowley’s ear. 

Crowley laughed. “Charlie? Yeah, know them from before, actually. They say I’m their favorite Brit, but I told ‘em that’s because they haven’t met you.” 

“You didn’t,” said Aziraphale. He didn’t bother to suppress his delight. 

“Did too,” shouted Crowley. He braced one hand on the table, tilted his head back, and knocked most of his drink back in one gulp. “They say you should go up t’ get the next round.” 

“We aren’t British,” Aziraphale said, a weak protest. 

Crowley shrugged. His limbs were looser than usual from the booze, his joints practically made of water. “Y’say you almost are, yeah? So you’re. You are, tonight.” 

“If you insist.”

Crowley slouched forward, his hips jutting out at a sharp angle. Aziraphale watched people watch Crowley, saw their gazes land on the lines of his waist.

“You’re garnering quite a bit of attention, you know,” said Aziraphale. 

Crowley smiled lazily at him. “Yeah. S’nice, sometimes.”

“What is?” 

“Being looked at.”

I’d look at you, if you wanted me to, Aziraphale didn’t say. I’d never stop. 

Instead, he said, “I suppose it must be.”

“Mm.” Crowley swallowed the other half of his drink and shoved the empty glass toward Aziraphale. “Catch up, angel, or I’m gonna leave you b’hind.” 

On a typical night, Aziraphale preferred to sip his alcohol, to savor it. Not tonight.

He drank the contents of his glass without stopping to breathe.

“Refill?” asked Aziraphale, and Crowley nodded.

Charlie was tall, with a booming, American-south-accented voice and brilliant smile. They were already leaning across the bar when Aziraphale approached, ignoring a half-dozen other clients in the process. 

“You must be ‘angel,’ then,” Charlie said, and Aziraphale nearly dropped the glasses in his hand. 

“Sorry?” 

“AJ’s been coming here for years,” said Charlie. They took the glasses from Aziraphale and began to pour, making sure to be heavy-handed on the liquor. “Talks about you a lot, doll. Calls you angel.” 

“Does he?” Something that felt suspiciously like hope was fluttering behind Aziraphale’s ribs. 

“Says you’re his best friend,” Charlie said, laughing. “Glad he finally brought you along on a business trip —  I’ve been naggin’ him for years.”

The hope in Aziraphale’s chest lost its feathers. 

“He is my best friend, yes.” Aziraphale forced a smile onto his face. “It’s good to know that I’m his.” 

Charlie shoved fresh drinks across the bartop. “Keepin’ it open, I know. Nice to meet you, Crowley’s angel.” 

“And you.” 

Aziraphale grabbed the drinks, took a deep breath, and began to make his way through the crowd toward Crowley. He was halfway to the table when he saw Someone standing in his place, almost nose-to-nose with Crowley. This particular Someone was broad-shouldered and dark-haired, with perfect teeth and a body like an action movie star (which Aziraphale could see because Someone was wearing a white leather harness, white denim trousers, a pair of angel wings — insulting in and of itself, honestly — and not much else).There were two drinks on the table, and Crowley’s hand was wrapped around one of them. Crowley was smiling at Someone, smiling his crinkle-eyed, happy smile, and Aziraphale stopped walking. 

He downed both drinks — rum and Cokes, strong and made with good rum because Crowley knew the bartender, of course he did — and set the empty glasses on the end of the bar. He got to the table in a matter of seconds, still feeling the warmth of rum in his throat. 

“I’m off to dance, Crowley,” Aziraphale said cooly. He ignored the other man at the table.

Crowley blinked up at him, finally looking away from Someone. “Eh?” 

Aziraphale pointed to the dance floor. “I said, I’m going to dance.” 

“You don’t dance,” said Crowley. This wasn’t strictly true, of course — the gavotte had been a thing back in Aziraphale’s preferred day — but the sentiment was accurate nonetheless.

“I do tonight,” Aziraphale said.

He had planned to leave at that point, to spin on his heel and make his way toward the source of the music, but Crowley grabbed him by the arm and yanked him back. 

“This is, erm.” Crowley gestured to Someone with his drink, sloshing some of it over his knuckles. “Nick. Yer from Brooklyn, right, Nick?” 

“Right,” said Nick. He beamed at Aziraphale. “You’re, uh. Ezra, yeah?” 

“If you like,” said Aziraphale. Nick didn’t notice, just bobbed his head and kept smiling. 

“Go dance, then,” Crowley said, releasing his hold on Aziraphale’s wrist. “If you wanna.” 

Aziraphale didn’t want to. “I do.” 

He stepped away without so much as another glance in Crowley’s direction. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Nick walk around to the other side of the table. Getting nearer to Crowley. Crowding into Crowley’s space, breathing on Crowley’s neck.

Crowley didn’t seem to mind. 

So Aziraphale danced. He didn’t really understand how to, but years of confused observation had lent themselves to the conclusion that there wasn’t actually a whole lot of intention behind most of it. Modern dancing, especially in a venue like this, seemed to involve a lot of hand-clapping and jumping and general hip movement.

Probably why Crowley liked it, that last bit. 

Aziraphale did his best. He waved his arms when everyone else did, stuck his hands in the air when those around him felt that the moment called for it, and tried to get lost in the motion of it all. It seemed to go all right, all things considered. There was even a pretty young thing who was looking at Aziraphale in a way that Aziraphale hadn’t been looked at in a long while. 

He also tried not to think about Nick (about Crowley and Nick) and was markedly less successful in that venture. It wasn’t right for Aziraphale to be jealous. There was nothing to be jealous about. This was all just Crowley being Crowley. The demon dressed like sin and temptation on a daily basis. People were always staring. And on the nights in London when Crowley went out to pubs or clubs or any other venue like this one — something that he still did, albeit on occasion and not with Aziraphale, who preferred to remain at home — Aziraphale could be reasonably certain that things like Nick happened there, too. 

So it was fine. Aziraphale was fine with it. 

As if on cue, the young man who had been eyeing Aziraphale from across the dancefloor materialized at his elbow. He was dressed in a poor imitation of a Greek toga (likely made from a bedsheet, by the looks of things), and a crown of fake golden laurels sat crooked in his curly hair. He was smiling up at Aziraphale, a warm, happy thing, and Aziraphale allowed himself to smile back. 

“Haven’t seen you ‘round before,” the young man shouted over the music. 

“No, I don’t suppose you would have,” Aziraphale said. “It’s my first time here.” 

The man’s eyes got impossibly brighter. “British.” 

“Yes,” answered Aziraphale.  

That pretty smile widened into a grin, and then dissolved into a short laugh. 

“Hot,” said the man. “Buy you a drink, England?” 

For a moment, Aziraphale nearly said yes. But then he looked over the heads of the people on the dancefloor, just to see if Crowley was still occupied with Nick, and ended up catching Crowley’s eye.

Crowley was alone at the table, now, and empty-handed. He was just watching Aziraphale, and the sight of it made the hairs on Aziraphale’s arms stand on end. 

So Aziraphale looked down at the young man again, brushed a thumb along that razorblade of a jaw, and said, “No.” 

“Wh—” 

Aziraphale said, “Hush, now,” and pressed his thumb to the man’s temple. It was only for a moment, but it was enough. 

You will have the luck you are looking for, Aziraphale said without speaking, the words of a small miracle. But it won’t be with me, darling.

He pulled his hand away. The young man blinked up at him. 

“You do look lovely, you know,” Aziraphale said. “But I’m afraid I came with a friend, and I ought to go and spend time with him.” 

“Right,” said the man dazedly. “Right.” 

Aziraphale grabbed the young man’s hand and spun him out into the middle of the mass of dancing bodies, and then he let go. 

He made it back to the table in record time and was slightly breathless when he got there. Crowley hadn’t blinked at all since Aziraphale had caught him watching, and Aziraphale wondered how long it had been since he had. 

“Having fun?”

“A bit, actually.” 

“Handsome,” Crowley said with the boldness of intoxication, and Aziraphale felt dizzy. 

“Sorry, my dear boy, what?” 

“Apollo,” said Crowley. He made a too-loose motion with his wrist, something vague and indecipherable. “Not bad, angel. ‘S handsome.” 

“He’s not my type.” 

“Mm.” Crowley was still staring, unblinking. 

Looking back, Azirapahle didn’t know why he said it. Perhaps it was because a fight would feel like something, something other than misguided jealousy. 

“I suppose that Nicholas is your type, though?” 

Crowley stiffened. 

“What?”

“You seemed to be fond of looking at him,” Aziraphale bit out, far too venomous. 

Crowley groaned and stuck a hand in his hair. When he pulled it away, some of his black locks were standing on end, making him look like a ruffled crow or a very lackluster porcupine. 

“S’time to go, angel.” 

“You’ve had your fun, then?” 

“Fuckit, sure, but…” Crowley trailed off, flapped his hand in a circle again. “Can’t hear shit in here, ‘s too loud, and you’re not makin’ any sense anyway.” 

“I,” said Aziraphale crisply, “am making perfect sense.” 

Crowley sighed and said, “Aziraphale, come on,” with such an assertive tone that Aziraphale didn’t have any choice but to do as he was bid. 

The night air was cool on Aziraphale’s skin. It bordered on cold, but Aziraphale didn’t mind. Crowley set off down the sidewalk in long, shaky strides, and Aziraphale followed him.

They made it four blocks before either of them said a word.

“What about your tab?” Aziraphale asked suddenly.

“Closed, angel.” 

“Oh.” Aziraphale swallowed. “That’s good.” 

“Took care of Charlie, too.” Crowley kicked a pebble into the street. “Always do. Like ‘em, they’re good. Good person.” 

Aziraphale figured that he was fairly safe in assuming that Crowley’s version of ‘taking care’ of Charlie probably included a tip the size of the entire tab, and an affectionate warmth bloomed in his chest. 

“That was kind of you,” said Aziraphale. 

“Shuddup.” 

They lapsed back into silence again. It wasn’t their normal silence; Aziraphale could spend an entire day with Crowley at the bookshop with neither of them saying a thing, and that was good. That was comfortable. 

This silence wasn’t that. It was tense, something stringy and frayed at the edges. 

It stayed that way until, somewhere between 6th and 7th street, Crowley broke it. 

“Nick’s not. He’s not my type.” 

Aziraphale nodded. “All right.” 

“He wasn’t even, y’know. Talkin’ to me about that.” 

“About what?” 

Crowley rolled his eyes. It was still strange to see them like this, round-pupiled and red. 

“About that, angel,” Crowley said, and this time Aziraphale caught his meaning. 

“Ah.” 

“Yeah, ‘ah,’” said Crowley. “Wasn’t interested in me, not in that way.” 

It was Aziraphale’s turn to roll his eyes. “He was awfully fond of being close to you, if that was the case.” 

“Was too loud t’hear without being, y’know. Close.” 

There was something of a hiss at the end of the last word, and Aziraphale couldn’t be sure if it was a drunk-Crowley noise or a snake-Crowley noise. It was possibly both. They did tend to overlap. 

“I suppose that’s true.” 

“Apollo was, nygh. ‘Bout four seconds away from climbin’ you like a tree just t’ get a word in.” Crowley’s voice was tight. “Case y’didn’t notice.”

“Mm.” 

“Anyway. Nick, he’s been tryin’ to get Charlie’s attention f’r months, now. Saw me talking to them, wanted t’know about ‘em.” 

Aziraphale said, “Oh,” and was overcome by the desire to sink into the concrete.

“Yep.” 

“I’m sorry,” said Aziraphale. “I’m afraid I… well. I rather grossly misjudged the situation.”

“Mhm.” 

“I’m sorry, Crowley.” 

“S’fine, angel.” 

“It isn’t,” Aziraphale said quickly. “I was jealous, Crowley. That isn’t right.” 

Crowley stopped walking. Aziraphale did, too. 

“Jealous?” 

Fuck.

Aziraphale nodded. 

“B’cause Nick was getting to talk to me, right? I was s’posed to bring you to a party ‘n I sorta ditched you for a stranger.” Crowley’s eyes were wide. “That’s… that’s what, y’know. The jealousy, it was that, yeah?” 

If Aziraphale had been smarter, or if he had been unable to see Crowley’s ribcage heaving underneath that little cropped bit of mesh, or if he had felt any less like an absolute idiot, he would have said yes. He would have accepted Crowley’s explanation and stopped digging himself deeper into a hole that would be very difficult to get out of. 

But Aziraphale picked up the metaphorical shovel and said, “Not entirely.” 

“Not.” Crowley swallowed thickly. Aziraphale heard his throat click. “Not entirely?” 

“I didn’t like the way he was looking at you.” 

Crowley sobered up. Aziraphale watched him shudder, saw sharpness and clarity return to his eyes. 

“The way he was looking at me,” Crowley echoed. 

“That’s why I was jealous, yes.” 

“You were jealous because of the way Nick was looking at me.” 

Aziraphale let out an exasperated sigh. “Are you going to repeat everything I say, my dear?” 

“Yes,” said Crowley. He flung his hands out wide. “Yes, because you aren’t making any sense.” 

“Well,” Aziraphale said coolly, “then I suppose we ought to forget it.” 

“I don’t want to forget it, I want to understand.” 

“You’re clever, Crowley,” snapped Aziraphale. “Figure it out.”

Crowley was shaking his head. “No, no, because I can’t be wrong about this. You can’t let me be wrong about this.” 

Aziraphale figured that he might as well complete his humiliation. He could miracle himself back to the bookshop, let Crowley take some time apart to process. They’d be friends again, someday. He knew they would. 

So Aziraphale sucked in a breath and said, “If you think that I am implying that my jealousy extends in a direction that exceeds the bounds of friendship, Crowley, then you are entirely correct.” 

Crowley stared.

“There,” Aziraphale said. He straightened the lapels of his jacket, fidgeted with the strand of garlic bulbs. “Do me a favor, my dear, and please don’t ever mention this again.” 

A strange collection of vowels forced its way out of Crowley’s throat.

“Why the fuck would I never mention this again?” Crowley sounded like someone had taken sandpaper to his vocal cords. “This is. I mean. This is. Yeah.” 

Aziraphale said nothing. 

“I’m dreaming, I’m dreaming,” Crowley continued, muttering to himself and still staring at Aziraphale like he couldn’t bring himself to stop. “I passed out, and I’m dreaming.” 

“I’m afraid not,” said Aziraphale. In the space between his heart and his ribs, the thing with feathers began to move again. 

Because the thing of it was, Crowley sounded happy. 

“I’m not?” 

“You’re not.” 

“You.” Crowley pointed at Aziraphale, then back to himself. “You, uh. You have feelings in a more-than-friends way. For me.” 

“Yes.” 

Crowley looked like he’d been punched. Somehow it looked like a good thing.

“In a, uh. Kissing-me way, maybe?” 

Aziraphale’s stomach squirmed. 

“Yes.”

“Fuck,” said Crowley, and then Aziraphale was being kissed. 

It was clumsy. Crowley’s mouth landed slightly too high up, catching some nose in addition to the intended lips, but Aziraphale had never cared less about anything. The world could have caught fire during that kiss, burned to ash and left nothing behind, and Aziraphale didn’t think he would have noticed. 

“Angel,” Crowley whispered against Aziraphale’s mouth after a moment.

“Yes?” 

“These feelings you have, are they, uh. Are they feelings in a loving-me way, d’you think?” 

Aziraphale shivered.

“As it happens,” Aziraphale said, “I’m quite certain that they are feelings of that sort, yes.”

“Yes?” echoed Crowley.

“Yes.”

“Yes, you love me.” 

“Yes.” 

“Okay,” said Crowley. “Good. Because I think I might have loved you since Eden, and I don’t know what to do with that, I really don’t.” 

Aziraphale kissed him. Crowley made a whimpering noise about it, and it felt like flying. 

“Do this,” Aziraphale said when they broke apart, and then he kissed him again. 

“This?” Crowley was still kissing him. The word was pressed into Aziraphale’s skin. 

Aziraphale stuck one hand in Crowley’s hair, rested the other against Crowley’s chest.

“This,” Aziraphale said. He brushed his mouth over Crowley’s again because he couldn’t not do it, not now that he could. They were in the middle of the street in bleeding America, and Crowley wasn’t even really wearing a shirt, and Aziraphale had garlic around his neck, and it was so good. “Do this.” 

**********

“I can’t believe you told me you love me.” 

Crowley was on the sofa again, stretched out like he belonged there, because he did. 

“Well, I rather do, darling,” Aziraphale said, and Crowley’s whole face flushed red. 

“In America,” said Crowley. “You told me you loved me in America.” 

Aziraphale sniffed. “I would have done it here, you absolute nuisance, if I’d thought you were the least bit interested in hearing it.” 

“Course I’d’ve been interested in hearing it.” 

“How was I to know?” Aziraphale was thumbing through the pages of The Portrait of Dorian Gray and not reading a word. “You never said.” 

Crowley’s head lolled to the side so he could look Aziraphale in the eye. 

“Aziraphale, I’ve been fucking screaming my love for you in every way but the verbal one for the better part of six thousand years.” 

Aziraphale stopped flipping pages. 

“Have you, now?” 

“Thought you’d have picked up on it, to be honest.” Crowley scrunched his nose. “Bit offended that you didn’t.”

“I always thought that your behavior around me was just, you know. You being yourself.” 

“It was,” said Crowley. “It is. Half of who I am is loving you.” 

“Oh,” breathed Aziraphale. “My darling.” 

Crowley wrinkled his nose again. “Don’t do that. Don’t go all— don’t. ‘S fine, it’s nothing, don’t… don’t make it a Thing, yeah?” 

“I very much shall make it a ‘Thing,’ thank you.” 

“Eugh.” 

Aziraphale closed his book, walked over to the sofa.

“Hi,” said Crowley.

“Hello.” 

Aziraphale took Crowley by the hands and hauled him to his feet. 

“I love you,” said Aziraphale. 

“Ngh.” 

“I’m going to kiss you.” 

Crowley’s ears went pink. “Nrgh, yeah. Yeah. All right, then.” 

Aziraphale kissed him. Soft, gentle, warm. 

When they moved apart after several long moments, Crowley looked (delightfully, in Aziraphale’s opinion) like he’d been hit over the head with something heavy. 

“Not used to that, yet,” Crowley said.

“That’s fine, my love.” 

“Ghn,” choked Crowley. “Or that. Not used to that yet, either.”

Aziraphale kissed the tip of his nose. 

“Angel.” Crowley sounded strangled. 

Aziraphale kissed him on the cheek. 

“Hmng.”

On the other cheek. 

“Let a man breathe, will you?” 

“Not a man,” said Aziraphale, and kissed Crowley on the chin. 

“Stoppit.” 

Aziraphale kissed the taste of the word off of Crowley’s mouth. 

“Bastard.” 

“I love you,” said Aziraphale. 

Crowley made a noise like dying, and it was beautiful. 

“I love you too, angel,” Crowley said quietly, almost a whisper. Like it was a secret, maybe. Or like it was something just for Aziraphale, something that meant Crowley was his. 

Aziraphale liked that.

A few minutes later, Crowley stretched out across the sofa again. This time, his head was in Aziraphale’s lap, and Aziraphale was running his fingers through Crowley’s dark hair. Crowley was making soft sounds, little happy noises, and Aziraphale drank them in. 

“You have freckles,” Aziraphale said at one point. 

“I don’t.”

“You do,” said Aziraphale. “I’m looking at you — I’m always looking at you —  and you do.” 

“Mm.”

They stayed on the sofa for hours. The sun set and rose again before either of them dared to move. Aziraphale traced the lines of Crowley’s face with his fingertips. Ran the pad of his thumb over the bridge of Crowley’s nose, trailed his fingers over Crowley’s lips. Learned the shape of him, the warmth of him. Made a study of something he thought he would never have. 

When it was morning, golden light filtering through the holes in Aziraphale’s moth-eaten curtains, Aziraphale said, “I love you.” 

He said it because he could and because he liked the way the words felt on his tongue, the way they landed and changed the color of Crowley’s ears. 

And in spite of everything, in spite of every miscommunication and bickering match and each day of the six thousand years that Aziraphale had spent not knowing that Crowley loved him, in spite of the fact that Aziraphale had never dreamed that Crowley would want to be held, to be kissed, to be loved by him: Crowley said it back.