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It started with a low hum from upriver. Aziraphale knew it was coming, but every spring it filled his heart with an inexplicable thrill when the quietly murmuring waters of the river by his cottage started to come to life after the long winter.
He rushed to the riverbank, partly to make sure kids stayed off the bridge, but mostly just to welcome one of nature's great performances: the breaking of the ice. The entire village held its breath as the hollow rumble of crushing ice and flooding waters got louder and louder until they could see the flood wave coming, swirling and churning downstream, destroying every remaining ice dam on its way.
The earth thrummed under Aziraphale’s feet. Huge chunks of ice and debris grated against each other as the power of the flood crashed them into the pillars of the bridge and up the riverbanks. The bridge held, as it had for many years, and soon the flood wave passed, leaving a free, roaring river in its wake.
Aziraphale looked upstream, where the river curved behind the small batch of forest, and drew a deep breath to calm his heart. This year the breaking of the ice released something in his chest—something wild and frantic he had tried his hardest to extinguish during the long, dark winter months.
Spring was here, and with spring came high waters, and with high waters came… the log drivers: the jam crews of raucous, rough, and fit young men herding the logs down the river like cattle, and sowing excitement and trouble to the riverside villages.
Aziraphale huffed and turned on his heels, walking back to the village hall with determined strides. It was time to ring the bell and call the kids back to their chalkboards and alphabet exercises. No time to lose! Most of them would abandon their education when the spring came in full force; their families needed all able hands to work on the fields and make the most out of the short summer.
***
After the ice broke, the world started taking leaps towards summer. The last dirty batches of snow melted and revealed the wet ground underneath, smelling of mud, decay, and a fresh start. Migratory birds came in flocks, joining the loudening choir of excitement and the feverish promise of passion. The song woke Aziraphale up—or maybe it was the light; the sun climbed above the horizon earlier and earlier every morning. In a few weeks it would barely set at all.
Aziraphale lit a fire in his iron stove and washed his face while waiting for the water to boil, hoping the coffee would banish the ghosts of a restless night. The first logs had floated down the river two nights ago, very likely forming clusters by now.
It had been a day just like this, a year ago.
Aziraphale had been walking by the riverbank, watching the log drivers at work. They were all young and fit, balancing effortlessly on the floating logs, and untangling the clusters with just the right kind of nudges with their pike poles. Aziraphale took his time, enjoying the lovely weather, and the view. There was nothing wrong in appreciating the skill of a professional, after all.
He wasn't the only one; a flock of young women leaned on the bridge rail, giggling and swaying their hair like prancing ponies. The men answered their flirting in kind, whistling and laughing, and singing silly and thoroughly inappropriate serenades.
Aziraphale had turned his back to the scene, his skin prickling with disapproval. If the girls kept that up, they would get into trouble, he had thought.
Then one of the men had stumbled and fallen into the stream, twisting his ankle between the logs. Aziraphale’s cottage had been the closest, so the red-haired young man had been carried to his kitchen to recover.
And suddenly it had been Aziraphale who got in trouble.
He glanced to the other side of his small kitchen, at the wooden pull-out sofa bed under the window. It was usually a seat for guests. However, Aziraphale’s mind still occasionally called it “Crowley’s bed,” which was ridiculous, because the man had spent less than a week sleeping in it.
Was he still working as a logger? Would he come back this spring? The mere thought made Aziraphale’s heart zig-zag like a rabbit outrunning a predator, and the butter knife almost slipped from his sweaty fingers. He closed his eyes to draw a deep breath, letting the scent of his simple bachelor’s breakfast ground him; coffee, eggs, and a slice of rye bread with a hefty amount of butter. Crowley was ancient history, and Aziraphale had other things to think about. It was Confirmation Sunday; he would be expected to assist at Mass, and he wasn’t about to deal with Vicar Gabriel on an empty stomach.
***
The bell tower stood on the hill, watching over the village. Behind it, the old church building awaited the congregation to arrive for Mass. The janitor was already there, opening the doors to let the warm spring air inside the thick stone walls. Aziraphale heard his carefree whistle before he saw the man. He couldn’t blame him; the morning was beautiful.
Aziraphale was already in the sacristy when Vicar Gabriel swanned in to put on his pristine alb, accompanied with the equally white but beautifully adorned stole. It was new, custom ordered from the crafters over the sea, because Gabriel preferred style over history and had retired the parish's old Mass garments. Aziraphale tried to not hold it against him.
“Aziraphale! Good morning!” Gabriel said, slapping Aziraphale on the shoulder in his usual aggressively friendly manner. “The books are kept, I assume?”
“Of course, sir,” Aziraphale said, nodding towards the list of confirmands—the young people who were ready for their Confirmation ceremony. Aziraphale had made sure they passed the reading and the Bible knowledge requirements, and now it was time for the last rite of passage for them to become the full members of the church.
The religious ceremony of the Confirmation was all about sealing the covenant created in baptism, but in reality, many of the young adults looked forward to it for completely mundane reasons. Especially for the working class youth, it marked the date they could apply for work without their parents, but more importantly, they would be allowed to marry.
Aziraphale suspected many promises would be made during the exhilarating months of spring and summer, but he was old enough to know many of those would be broken before the autumn wind even had a chance to strip the leaves off of the trees.
“Did you hear, those uncouth loggers arrived this morning.” Gabriel asked in between his tuneless humming, while straightening his collar in front of the mirror.
Aziraphale’s heart managed to somehow sink and soar at the same time, and he coughed to get his confused chest to settle.
“Well, it’s—it’s the season,” he muttered, when he got his voice back. He tugged down his waistcoat, unsure what to do with his hands.
“Those young men enjoy causing trouble,” Gabriel continued as if Aziraphale had said nothing at all. “We should pray they find proper work to pass their time. Singing and dancing on the river is ridiculous.”
Aziraphale’s face ached from keeping up the smile and resisting the urge to argue. It wouldn’t be worth it. Gabriel was a city-born second son of a gentleman, and not educated on rural matters. The log drivers actually worked hard through the winter, lodging in remote cottages while cutting wood to be floated downriver in the spring. They were an important part of the timber industry, but also perfectly normal young men, excited after the isolation of winter.
It would have been out of character for Aziraphale to defend them. Not so long ago he had agreed with Gabriel’s prejudice, after all. Not about the importance of their work, of course, but definitely about their depraved reputation.
“There must be some hard working, dutiful fellows among them,” he said meekly. “Who aren't after just… well…”
“Fornication? Oh Aziraphale, how naive you are,” Gabriel chuckled, probably attempting to sound gentle and compassionate, but missing it by a mile, ending up on some sort of pitying amusement instead.
Aziraphale exhaled a long breath through his nose, and forced out a nod and a sound that could probably be interpreted as agreement.
***
“Abhor that which is evil,” Gabriel stated with a nod towards the river-side windows. “And cleave to that which is good. Let no one here be deceived: Temptation does not announce itself with a snarl and bared teeth!” He finished the sentence with a theatrical grimace, which caused some giggles and snorts in the group of impatiently fidgeting youth in the pews.
“No!” he continued. “It arrives with a charming smile, a friendly word. That is how sin ensnares the unsuspecting—it does not drag you under, it invites you in.”
Gabriel’s aggressively gracious aura was somewhat disconcerting, but he was still well-liked in the community. He made great speeches and delivered riveting sermons, and one must not underestimate the power of a good performance in a tiny town with very limited entertainment.
Aziraphale shifted where he sat, clasping his hands together. The sermon went on and on, and Gabriel kept throwing in Bible passages out of context to support his agenda. Aziraphale had always found it somewhat dishonest, but the audience didn't seem to care. He was well aware he could never be as exciting, which was part of why he was assisting in the mass, and not running the “performance,” as Gabriel would say.
Years ago Aziraphale had been one of the first university students from this village, studying theology with a burning desire to learn right from wrong. Unfortunately, wherever he looked, he had only found shades of grey, and faced temptations that were condemned by his church but that his own heart refused to see as sinful. When he’d been told he wasn’t to be ordained as a priest—he had no important friends to give him recommendations—he had returned to his home village in hopes of finding peace of mind again.
Instead, he had found Crowley.
“Temporary amusement,” Gabriel's voice boomed through Aziraphale’s thoughts with startling conviction, “is a tool of the devil, for fooling the short-sighted and the weak minded! I trust none of you young women truly appreciate these wet and coarse excuses of young men! They aren’t going to stay, no matter what they promise you.”
Aziraphale’s stomach twisted, his thoughts wandering miles away, on a predictable route. Crowley had been nothing Aziraphale had expected; he seemed to perceive the world from a completely different angle. His irreverence had made Aziraphale bristle at first, but soon their late night conversations about scripture, poems, and human nature had become the exhilarating highlight of Aziraphale’s day.
“That’s why there’s all kinds of stories, angel,” Crowley had said, lying on the pull-out bed in Aziraphale’s kitchen, hands folded behind his head. “People tell ‘em to make sense of things, because the world has never been neat, has it?”
Gabriel spoke as if the world were made of neat lines, with virtue on one side and wickedness on the other, but Crowley had taught Aziraphale about the beauty in the grey areas he'd been afraid of his whole life.
Aziraphale bit the inside of his lip to force himself to concentrate on the sermon. Gabriel was getting towards the climax of his speech, eyes sweeping over the young confirmands. “You stand now at the threshold of your future. Be vigilant. Be steadfast. Do not be led astray by silver-tongued deceivers, nor by the whisper of your own desires. They will come and go, like storms! And trust me, nobody wants a storm to stay. It's best to watch from a safe distance, after all–” Gabriel took a dramatic pause. “Who cares for the smell of mud and river water anyway?”
Aziraphale barely heard the congregation’s amused reaction, because the memory of Crowley’s scent filled him with sudden, visceral pain of longing. Crowley hadn’t smelled of mud and river water. No. He’d smelled of summer and sun and—well, mostly soap, Aziraphale’s own soap. Their last night together had changed everything—or maybe it had already started the moment they had first laid their eyes on each other. On that night, instead of words, they had shared a touch, one gentle caress that broke the dam and turned into something hungry and ardent.
And the next day, Crowley had left.
Aziraphale glanced outside through the stained glass windows, and squeezed his knees. Would he come back? Would he seek Aziraphale out? “Oh Aziraphale, how naive you are,” Gabriel’s earlier words came back to him, like a firewood for the flames of his uncertainty.
He bowed his head in prayer, before straightening his clothes. The sermon had ended, and it was time for him to stand up and usher the Confirmands to the altar to receive their blessings.
***
“Fuck.”
Aziraphale rarely cursed, but the jug of water shattering on his bedroom floor was the last straw. The water splashed everywhere, seeping into the floorboards, and he stood there for far too long, staring at the mess before snapping into action. He grabbed the broom and a towel.
He had spent the entire day avoiding the river, doing his best to ignore the distant sounds of loggers at work. Out of sight, out of mind—that had been the plan. But it had proved impossible. Everywhere he went, people were talking about them.
And then, on the main road, a group of them had passed by—probably looking for a place to eat. Among them, laughing and utterly ignoring Aziraphale’s presence, was Crowley. The sight of those unmistakable red locks had nearly made Aziraphale stumble. And then they were gone.
Well. The reunion—if you could call it that—had been both the best and worst Aziraphale could have hoped for. That was that, done with. Now, he just had to get his feelings under control and move on.
He stepped outside into the chilly evening, dressed only in his nightshirt and undergarments, and inhaled the fresh spring air. Somewhere, someone was playing a fiddle, and laughter echoed in the distance. He ignored it all.
Reaching the well, he dragged off the lid, and cranked the lever, determined to fetch cold water to wash his face, and finally get some sleep. He almost reached the bucket when a noise at the gate made him freeze.
His heart thudded in his ears, as he turned around.
“Aziraphale?” Crowley’s voice was quiet and gentle. Aziraphale squeezed the lever, and stared at him.
Crowley leant on the gate and held the strap of his backpack in his long fingers. His tanned skin looked golden in the sunset, and buttons from his shirt were open from the neck, revealing the coppery hair on his chest. His thin lips curved into a small, hesitant smile, and Aziraphale couldn’t help but remember how those lips had pressed against his own in the darkness of the night, when anything had felt possible.
“You left,” he whispered, feeling raw, almost like it had only been yesterday when he had woken up alone, and unsure if he was relieved or devastated.
Crowley doesn’t miss a beat. “You asked me to.”
The response hit Aziraphale right into something soft under his sternum, and he turned around to lift the bucket up from the well. When he was done and crouched down to drag the lid back, another pair of hands joined him. Together, without a word, they closed the well.
Aziraphale cleared his throat, before daring to glance at his guest. “Why are you here now then?”
“I was just—” Crowley looked away, and then back again, straightening his back. “I’m here to enquire after a shelter for a respectable traveling worker for a couple of nights,” he managed, before the mask of uncharacteristic formality broke. “For me,” he continued. “I mean. I’m the—hnnyeah.”
Aziraphale stood up and promptly remembered how inappropriately he was dressed, as a sharp wisp of chilly wind brushed against his bare knees.
He tried to ignore the burn on his cheeks. “Where are the rest of your… um… coworkers?”
Crowley shrugged one shoulder and pushed hands deep into his pockets. “Here and there,” he said. “Most of them will bunk at Shadwell's hayloft.”
The handle of the bucket pressed awkwardly in the crook of Aziraphale’s fingers and a blackbird filled the silence between them with its melancholic song. He was distantly aware that a response to a question was expected, but the right words refused to form on his tongue.
“Why are you here?” he repeated his earlier question instead.
Crowley twitched, and his smile died. “Well—I mean, I didn’t… I can go, if you want.”
“No!” Aziraphale’s yelp startled them both; even the poor bird stopped its song and flew away, leaving a trembling birch branch behind.
Someone was still playing the fiddle, and the light-hearted polka was in complete dissonance with the trembling tension that had grown between them. Aziraphale nodded towards his cottage without a word, and turned on his heels. The sound of Crowley’s footsteps following him made his chest tighten with terrified wonder.
***
“You’re still assisting the vicar?” Crowley asked as they sat at the small kitchen table. The question was probably not meant to poke a tender spot, but it still rankled.
“Yes. That's my job,” Aziraphale replied, pushing the bread over the table. He didn’t know what else to do, so he had offered Crowley some supper. “What else would I be doing?”
The bread stopped half way towards Crowley’s mouth. “You might’ve found a parish of your own,” he said, as if it was that easy.
Aziraphale bristled. Crowley knew he had never gotten ordained because he had no one to recommend him, and probably wouldn't have anyone in the future either, if he stayed in the village. Gabriel had always thought his ambitions silly.
“No vacancies for priests in the area, “ Aziraphale said, sounding snider than he meant to. “It hasn't changed.”
“Nnh,” Crowley articulated, mouth full of bread. He didn’t say the question out loud, but he didn’t have to. Aziraphale could have left, after all.
“And I’m… not sure if the clergy is my path,” he had to add, staring at Crowley’s hand that rested on the table. The words tasted bitter on his tongue. “Not… anymore…”
The slender fingers twitched, and Aziraphale wished he didn’t know how it felt when they ran down his spine.
“Not anymore?” Crowley asked, one eyebrow climbing up. “You mean… because we…?”
“Because you tempted me to sin.”
The words fell between them like a wet rag. His chest felt tight, and it was hard to breathe. It was the truth but also completely false. Crowley had only awoken something that had already been there, lurking in the corners of Aziraphale’s mind.
He didn’t know what kind of reaction he’d expected, but Crowley’s chuckle wasn’t it.
“You wouldn’t be the first priest with that kind of… y’know.”
Aziraphale’s whole body jolted, as if he’d missed a stair. “You–” he sobbed a shaky breath. “Is this what you do then? Cruise downstream, collecting them—us—like—like—”
“No!” Crowley interrupted, all signs of amusement lost from his features, and he lifted his hands in a placating gesture. “Jesus… I didn’t mean—No! No, I don’t… that’s how you saw it? A sin?”
Aziraphale stood up, the need to pace overwhelming and making him twitchy. He picked a loose string at the hem of his sleeve, and walked to the window, staring into the darkening evening.
Oh how naive you are, Aziraphale echoed in his mind, taunting him, and he drew a deep breath. Gabriel was wrong. Gabriel had to be wrong.
“That’s what they say about your lot,” he said, speaking to the window, since he couldn’t bear to look at Crowley. “That you seduce the young girls, get them into trouble, and then disappear down the river.”
He heard the chair scratch the floor, as Crowley stood up, but the gentle touch on his arm surprised him, since part of him had expected Crowley to leave.
“Is that what you think?” Crowley asked, pushing himself between Aziraphale and the window. Crowley looked just like Aziraphale remembered; rough, slender, and stubborn. Aziraphale wanted to snap something angry at him, but he found himself at a loss of words. He had spent months thinking that's what Crowley had done—used Aziraphale’s temporary lack of judgement for a momentary amusement. Anger had been easier to bear than regret.
And now Crowley was back, asking all those questions, making him doubt—making him aware—and Aziraphale had nowhere to hide. Crowley pinned him down with his eyes alone, their colour the most beautiful shade of amber Aziraphale had ever seen, and against all odds and expectations there was no anger there, no judgement. Aziraphale couldn’t take it. He deserved—no, needed—to be judged for his sins so he could find the strength to squash this ridiculous, horrible yearning that burned through his chest.
The air around them crackled with possibilities and unsaid words. His hand moved on his own, grabbing the front of Crowley’s shirt.
“Forgive me,” he whispered, before closing the distance between them and crushing their lips together. Then he yanked himself away.
“You can sleep on the sofa,” he gasped, and fled to his bedroom, closing the door behind him and collapsing against it, blood pumping in his veins and telling him he was a coward and a fool.
***
Predictably, sleep didn’t come. Aziraphale listened to the ticking of the bedroom clock and lay on his bed, staring at the ceiling. It was too dark to determine the time. Maybe it had been minutes, maybe hours, but it wasn't yet dawn, and the world was dark and quiet. Except for the ticking.
Aziraphale sat up on his bed. There were no sounds coming from the kitchen, so he padded to the door, opened it as quietly as he could, and tiptoed to get himself the glass of water he had forgotten to prepare before fleeing.
On his way back to his bedroom, he glanced at the sofa bed where his night-accustomed eyes could just about make out the shape of someone sleeping. He stopped in his tracks. It was only two steps, but it felt like a leap of faith, as he moved close enough to hear Crowley’s breathing.
Aziraphale’s hands tingled with the need to reach out and touch, to make sure the man was real.
It took a moment for him to realise Crowley had stirred.
“...Aziraphale?”
“Oh—I’m—I'm sorry I didn't mean to wake you, I just—” Aziraphale took a step back, but Crowley grabbed his wrist.
“Angel,” he said, “please.”
It was the pet name that did it, and Aziraphale let himself be pulled to the sofa. Crowley made room for him, sitting up and swinging his legs down over the edge, and just like that, almost as if no time had passed, they sat side by side again, in the darkness of the small kitchen.
They were quiet for a long moment, the darkness thankfully making it less awkward than before, and maybe it was what finally gave Aziraphale the courage to speak.
“I missed you,” he admitted, sounding defeated, which—well, in a way he was, because he had tried his hardest to forget that feeling.
Crowley exhaled, and softened beside him. “Me too.”
Hearing it had no right to make Aziraphale’s heart jump like that.
“Is that why you’re back?”
“Mmhmm. D’you really think I have a girl in every port?”
Aziraphale could sense the nervous grin, even though the darkness prevented him from seeing it. This was the Crowley he’d learned to know—deflecting questions with questions, and masking his tension with a wide smile and his ridiculous saunter.
“Do you?” He had to ask. “Girls, or…”
“Nooo!” Crowley replied immediately and brushed both hands through his hair. “As if I’d be interesting enough for anyone to—even if I wanted to. Which I don’t.”
“But you were!” Aziraphale blurted before he could stop himself. “To me…”
“Past tense, eh?”
“You left without so much as a goodbye!”
“I left you a fuckin’ letter!”
“You what?!”
Aziraphale wished he could see Crowley’s face. He had no idea what the man was talking about. There had been no sign of Crowley after he'd left! Nothing! He'd even washed his dishes before leaving, so it was like he had never been there at all.
“There was no letter.”
“I left it between the pages of your book!”
“What book?”
“The one we read together! The poems. I put it between—with your bookmark. So you'd find it when you'd continue with—you never found it?”
Aziraphale’s head spun. He remembered the book, full of poems about love and desperate longing. They had read it together, and discussed the verses, until—until Crowley had left, and Aziraphale had stuffed the book into his shelf, unable to finish it.
“Oh fuck.”
Aziraphale stood up on shaking legs, and went to the kitchen table to light a candle before wobbling to his bookshelf. His eyes followed the shelves, one by one, in the flickering candlelight, before he found what he was looking for: a thin booklet with a grey cardboard cover, hidden between two thick tomes.
He pulled it out and almost dropped the candle when a piece of paper fell from between its pages, wafting downwards until it descended to the floor. It was unevenly folded, and clearly ripped from Aziraphale’s own stationary pad he kept on his desk at all times.
Aziraphale picked it up, and paused, unsure. The candlelight made everything outside of its sphere seem pitch black, so he couldn’t see Crowley at all, and it was completely quiet. Aziraphale had to walk back to him to make sure he was still there.
Crowley sat where Aziraphale had left him, back straighter than he’d ever seen him sit, and said nothing. Only a tiny nudge of his head towards the letter showed he hadn’t turned into a pillar of salt, and he took the candle when Aziraphale offered it to him to get his trembling hands free to unfold the letter.
It had clearly been written in haste, with several words and aborted sentences crossed over and illegible. Regardless, the first word grabbed Aziraphale’s heart, and his eyes flew over the lines.
Dear A,
Didn’t want to wake you but the crew’s moving out, and I’ve got to go.
If you meant what you said last night about wishing we had never happened, then do me a kindness and burn this letter. Don’t even finish reading it. Just strike a match.
A small whine escaped from Aziraphale’s throat. He had said that, hadn’t he? Panicking over the roar of feelings they had released and could no longer contain. He’d fallen asleep in Crowley’s arms afterwards in the small hours of the morning, with a fragile hope it would be all right after all. And then he had woken up alone, and—
Movement stopped his thoughts from spiralling further. Crowley shifted beside him, eyes at the floor like waiting for a punishment, but offering the candle closer to Aziraphale, towards the letter.
Aziraphale yanked the paper away before it got too close to the flames, and continued reading.
But in case you won’t…
I spend my summers at Southcove, bunking at the logger housing on Birchbrook Lane, No. 6. It’s a miserable place, but it’s cheap, and I’ve managed to put some money away. We could go off together—could be anything, if you like.
It’s a big country. We’ll find a place.
I’ll wait for you.
C
The letter shook in Aziraphale’s hands when he finally reached the end of it.
“You waited for me,” he whispered, looking at Crowley’s side profile. The candlelight made his angles even more apparent, but the mess of his mussed hair softened the image. Crowley’s Adam's apple bobbed.
“Nnnyeah,” he said to the floorboards. Then he seemed to shake himself, and shrugged, lips tugging into a lopsided smile. “Knew you couldn’t come straight away—I mean—but when there was no sign—and then—” Crowley cleared his throat. “You asked me why I’m back,” he said, glancing at Aziraphale from the corner of his eye. “Well, I guess I just—” his mirthless chuckle tore Aziraphale’s heart. “I just needed to hear the ‘no’ in person.”
“No,” Aziraphale whispered, and immediately realised his slip when Crowley pulled away, but repeated his error anyway: “No!”
The letter fell somewhere between them, as Aziraphale cupped Crowley’s cheeks with his palms and pressed their foreheads together, because his words kept failing him. “I was—I am a fool, I—”
“Shit!”
Crowley yelped. Then the light went out, and it took a moment for Aziraphale to realise his sudden movement had jolted the candle holder in Crowley’s hands, and the candle had slipped off, falling on the bed covers. The jolt of shock turned into a flurry of action, as they threw the candle on the floor before the smoldering wick could do damage on the fabrics or skin.
The droplets of melted wax singed Aziraphale’s fingers but he could barely feel it. His breath came shallow and quick, following his racing heart. He could feel Crowley beside him, just as breathless. Somewhere between the flurry of hands and the rush to smother the small ember of fire, Aziraphale’s fingers had found Crowley’s wrist, and Crowley hadn’t pulled away.
Aziraphale swallowed. His candle-accustomed eyes could see only the deep, unrelenting black of the unlit room, but he could feel Crowley, warm and real and so terribly close.
“I missed you so much,” he whispered, trailing his fingers upward, grazing the sharp edge of Crowley’s jaw. Crowley didn’t move. His body tensed under Aziraphale’s touch, frozen for a second—then he exhaled, and something fragile flickered between them.
Their lips met with the gentlest pressure, testing, uncertain, half-expecting to be pushed away. Crowley’s hand found the front of Aziraphale’s shirt, twisting into the fabric and their kiss deepened, slow but desperate—like a question that neither of them dared to put into words.
Aziraphale opened his eyes, unsure when he had closed them. The darkness had been abated by the pale light of the slowly breaking dawn that filtered through the eastern window. It was early still; the birds were barely stirring, but Aziraphale’s heart was wide awake.
Crowley didn’t let go of his shirt, but he looked down at his fingers, as if debating if he should.
“Would you have come?” he finally asked, talking to Aziraphale’s chest. “If you'd read it?”
Aziraphale took a deep, shaky breath and searched for Crowley’s other hand, interlacing their fingers. During his time at the university Aziraphale had begrudgingly accepted his divergence and abandoned the idea of ever desiring a woman like his friends did. For the longest time he had convinced himself the only other option would be solitude, but Crowley had broken through that certainty with his touch alone, awakening a frightening need that had refused to settle. Aziraphale’s life had somersaulted and he had lost the sense of which way was up.
However, he’d had twelve months to find his feet again, and to dwell in regret. Crowley deserved his honesty.
“I—I don’t know,” he had to admit, heart thrumming in his ears. He had never been a brave man, but it was time he faced the truth. “But… Now I know how it feels to lose you,” he rushed out. “And it broke my heart.”
Crowley’s eyes widened, and the next moment he slumped against Aziraphale like a puppet with strings cut.
“You really thought I'd just leave?” He asked, voice muffled against Aziraphale’s nightshirt.
Aziraphale’s answering chuckle sounded like a sob. He held Crowley close, and pressed his nose into the red hair.
“Well… I did tell you to, didn't I?”
“You’re an idiot,” Crowley said, gentle, like an endearment, and Aziraphale had to squeeze his eyes shut against the sting of tears. He kissed Crowley’s hair and ignored how it tickled his nose.
“How—how long can you stay?”
“A couple of days, I—well, I don’t have the excuse of a twisted ankle this time, so…”
Aziraphale swallowed and nodded, hoping Crowley felt it, since he couldn’t quite manage words. With his presence alone, Crowley had pulled him back to the crossroads they had parted on a year ago, when Aziraphale had been too terrified of the uncharted route his heart wanted to choose.
He was still terrified—rationally speaking, he barely knew Crowley—but there was no realm where “a couple of days” would be enough to satisfy the bone-deep yearning that threatened to consume him.
The birdsong got louder beyond the window.
“How long until—” Aziraphale cleared his throat, and Crowley lifted his head to meet his eyes. “Until you reach Southcove? If you still—if you'd like—”
Crowley made a low sound—something between a sigh and a groan—and kissed the last words from Aziraphale’s lips. It was nothing like the previous tentative, searching caresses they had shared; it tasted of joy, and sparked a fire. Aziraphale’s entire consciousness focused on the touch of those lips, as they fell onto the pillows together. Crowley’s body pressed against his own, the solid weight of him reassuring and intoxicating.
They kissed like the months of uncertainty had been nothing but a bad dream, exploring each other in the slowly brightening morning light. It broke the monochrome of the room and brought back the colours, making Crowley’s hair look like dark wine between Aziraphale’s fingers.
He was not quite sure how to do this. His experiences were limited to rushed illicit encounters and that one time a year ago, when he had Crowley in his own bed. It crossed his mind he should probably feel self conscious, or worry about how Crowley obviously knew what he was doing, but as Crowley’s lips traveled down his throat, whispering “Angel” between every kiss, he could barely think at all.
“Oh—please,” he gasped, and slid his hands on Crowley’s shoulders and down his spine, unable to stay still. Every whispered endearment sent a flaming thrill through him, adding to the irresistible pull of being desired. Crowley’s fingers traced the curve of his thigh and pressed into the meat of it, teasing.
“You like this,” Crowley said, just enough on the side of rhetorical to come out without a question mark, but still unsure enough for Aziraphale to swallow the comeback about stating the obvious. Instead, he pulled Crowley into another kiss and reached his hand between them to find the tangible proof that he wasn’t the only one affected.
“Oh ff—” Crowley’s gasp was a breathless, raw thing that pooled something hot and heavy in Aziraphale’s gut. He moved his hand, experimenting until he finally found a rhythm that made Crowley whine and squirm against him.
“You’re gorgeous,” Aziraphale whispered, drunk on the needy whimpers Crowley tried—and failed—to muffle on his shoulder.
“Shut uuup…”
Aziraphale’s answer was somewhere between a giddy chuckle and a guttural groan as Crowley found another tender spot of pleasure on his body, dissolving any potential for further words.
The sofa bed creaked as they moved together in an uncoordinated, stuttering rhythm. Crowley’s thigh slotted between Aziraphale’s legs, and their hands joined between them. Neither of them had the patience to slow down.
Aziraphale got there first, trembling and panting against Crowley’s neck. “Don’t—don’t stop—oh—oh!”
It took only one stroke for Crowley to follow. His shaky groan of bliss hummed through Aziraphale's body that still floated in the echoes of his own release. It took a while for the waves to settle, and they held each other through the dawn that soon turned into a proper morning.
“You awake, Angel?”
“Mmm…yes, my dear,” he replied, opening one eye to peek at Crowley. He tried to stretch his legs a bit, but the cramped sofa bed isn’t really made to fit two grown men. There was probably going to be some pins and needles in the future, but he was too content to care. Aziraphale looked into Crowley’s eyes, not quite believing he got a second chance. He felt a bit hysterical—or maybe just giddy—about the whole situation.
Crowley squirmed on his side to lean on one elbow, resting his chin on his palm.
“Everything okay?”
“Peachy,” Aziraphale replied, knowing he probably smiled like a lunatic.
“Y’know, from anyone else I’d say that was sarcasm.”
“It’s not, I promise.”
Crowley hummed in acknowledgement, but didn’t stop looking at Aziraphale like he was some sort of miracle. Like he wanted nothing more than just to be here, squished into the cramped sofa bed with Aziraphale, of all people.
“Did you—did you mean what you said?” Crowley asked. “That you’d come?”
Aziraphale knew he was being ridiculous, but couldn’t help it. He lifted one eyebrow, and gave a meaningful glance towards his groin. “I believe I just—”
Crowley spluttered something incoherent, threw a pillow at Aziraphale, and rolled on him to shut him up with a kiss.
“You’re such a bastard,” he stated. “I fucking missed that, y’know? You being a prissy bastard like that. But c’mon, I’m on tenterhooks here, the last time we—”
It was Aziraphale’s turn to kiss away his nervous babbling. “I’m sorry about the last time,” he said, when they separated again. “The last time it all caught me by a surprise…I was terrified of how much I…well, how much I wanted. I barely knew you—still don’t, mind you, and I—I’m not a creature of quick changes. I lost my nerve.”
The sun had risen and Crowley soon would be expected to show up at the river, but the anxiety Aziraphale had expected to suffer over it didn’t come.
Crowley tilted his head, his smile turning into something more subtle and vulnerable. “What about now?”
“I’ve spent a year wishing I’d have done things differently, and…well, I still barely know you, but… ” Aziraphale licked his lips, and met Crowley’s curious, nervous eyes. “I’d like to. Very much.”
Crowley melted into a soft smile that lit up the room.
***
People called May the spring work month. Everyone worked on their fields and gardens, hoping to make the most of the short growing season while fearing the bite of the night frosts that lurked in the shadows, ready to destroy the crops with their whims. For now it was sunny and warm though, and Aziraphale rolled up his shirt sleeves before swinging his backpack on the simple carriage that was already filled with a chest of his books and clothes, and various trinkets with mostly sentimental value—all his earthly possessions.
Sparrows flew high in the sky as he closed the doors of his small cottage, wondering idly if Gabriel’s next assistant would live there after him. Aziraphale would miss the river view from its little windows.
The lazy gelding in front of the carriage rested one leg and idly swatted flies with his tail. Aziraphale scratched him behind his ear and fed him a piece of stale rye bread before climbing on the seat and taking the reins.
It would take a couple of days to reach Southcove, where he had agreed to spend a summer tutoring a young man called Adam in hopes he would improve his grades enough to be admitted to the university next year. Aziraphale didn’t know his parents personally but they had advertised the position in the newspaper and Gabriel seemed to think they were a reputable family. They offered Aziraphale a room and board on top of his generous pay, although—they had sounded apologetic in the acceptance letter—his rooms would not be in the main house due renovation. Aziraphale didn’t mind. The family didn’t know Aziraphale was already familiar with their new garden worker, and wouldn’t mind sharing one of the servant’s cottages with him.
The river flowed peacefully and low as Aziraphale encouraged the gelding to cross the bridge to start their journey. The fierce swirls and floods of early spring had calmed down, and the waters looked almost innocent, hiding the strong current under the silky surface.
Aziraphale drew a deep breath, and smiled and nodded at the group of ladies he passed by the bakery. Then the small village was behind him, and the road spread ahead, taking him away—no. Not away, but to something.
To Crowley.