Archive of Our Own

“Whatever should we do with ourselves now?” Crowley asked, looking up and down Picadilly, gardens one way and flashing lights the other. One wouldn’t even know the world had nearly ended. “Heaven doesn’t want you, Hell doesn’t want me.”

“You could always come back to the bookshop,” Aziraphale mused, like it hadn’t been a certainty since the moment they’d got the check, given how Crowley was technically jobless and homeless now but it seemed unsporting to point that out. “Getting copiously drunk doesn’t sound entirely unappealing, given the strain of the last few, well, years, I suppose. Couldn’t hurt to let our hair down. Wait for the next catastrophe.”

He watched as Crowley hummed to himself, hands slipping into impossibly tight pockets, shoulders hunching in, giving him cause to pause and wish he’d suggested more neutral ground. “That is, of course, only if you don’t have other plans. Which I’m sure you do. Plenty of other things to do now that you’re free to do as you please. I’m sure you’d much rather…”

“Calm down, angel,” Crowley said soothingly, resisting the urge to shush him. “I’m looking for the car. Black paint job, sunglasses and low lighting.”

“Just there, shall I drive?” Aziraphale offered casually, pointing across the street at the much coveted, entirely off limits Bentley.

“Unless you’d sooner walk,” Crowley threatened, quickly crossing over while there was a break in traffic, ripping the customary parking ticket off his windshield and burning it up in his hand. “Get in.”

“Getting in,” Aziraphale yelled, dashing across the road with a little less dignity than he’d like to make it around to the passenger side before Crowley could drive off without him.

Settling into his seat and trying his best not to fill the silence, preferring Crowley’s attention to be entirely on the road, he considered the deeper implications of Crowley’s question. What were they going to do now?

In theory, Armageddon averted, there was no reason they shouldn’t go their separate ways, no longer having temptations to illicit or avert, they shouldn’t have any reason to bump into each other. An angel and a demon, it wasn’t like they had anything in common. Well, except their long-standing fondness of, well, everything on Earth. Including, he was fairly certain, each other.

And it also followed, there was no reason they should go their separate ways. After all, what could heaven and Hell do to them now? They’d already tried to kill them. What harm could a little fraternising do compared to thwarting Armageddon?

He was jarred out of his thoughts by the sharp pull of the handbrake, the lights of his bookshop still on, just visible through the misted up window.

“You’re exceptionally quiet, angel,” Crowley said, grinning when Aziraphale opened his mouth. “No, don’t spoil it.”

Aziraphale rolled his eyes, reaching for the door handle before swallowing down his pride and sharing what had been playing on his mind for the past few minutes and in all honesty, intermittently, a long while before that. “We will still… see each other, won’t we?”

“Yeah, you left the lights on, my eyesight’s not that bad,” Crowley deflected, but didn’t move from his seat either.

“That’s not what I meant and you know it,” Aziraphale said, still to the shop lights, wondering if perhaps he shouldn’t have said anything. But he had to know, just in case there wasn’t another time to ask. There nearly wasn’t.

“Course we will, I’m not going anywhere,” Crowley said, as if it wasn’t one of the biggest elephants in the room they’d had to dance around since Hannibal crossed the Alps. “We’re friends, ish.”

“Ish?” Aziraphale repeated, a quick glance sideways, a sharp tug on his cuffs. “Ish isn’t a word. It’s barely a sound.”

“It’s a word. Means ish. Sort of. I think. You tell me.” Crowley shrugged, fingers tapping away at the steering wheel, a study in nonchalance to anyone other than Aziraphale.

“I think ish sums it up perfectly actually,” Aziraphale said, still trying to make his lips like the word.

“Right, there you go then,” Crowley said, ready to jump out the car, disappointment twitching somewhere in the back of his mind, even though he’d had plenty of practice at never quite making it all the way to honesty. They’d been friends for millennia, more friends than a lot of friends. Why did he have to give him a way out?

“After all…” Aziraphale turned his head slightly, enough to watch for the slightest sign that this was going to go spectacularly wrong. “I don’t think I actually feel anything quite like this for any of my other friends.”

Crowley bit back the desire to point out that Aziraphale technically didn’t have any other friends, neither of them did, being so far from their created ideals as they were but instead, he swallowed, nodding along like he understood where this little train of thought of his was likely to alight.

“I do think I should like it to continue though, I would rather miss it,” Aziraphale admitted, oddly encouraged by Crowley’s ability to hold his tongue. “Miss you, I mean.”

“I do think I should like that too,” Crowley said, somehow managing to mangle the words Aziraphale used to buy himself time to backtrack, something Crowley had never quite managed.

“Well, splendid,” Aziraphale said, suddenly beaming, as if they’d nothing else to worry about now, surprising him further when he took Crowley’s hand.

“Oh…” Crowley swallowed, finally catching up to why the last few minutes had suddenly felt so intense. “Right. Yes. That would certainly fall under the grey area of… ish.”

“Would you like me to give it back?” Aziraphale offered but didn’t make any move to. “It’s just… I rather like it.”

“No, you can, uh, have it,” Crowley said, not sure when the last time he’d ever seen any mortals hold hands, let alone mortal enemies. Or not mortal, not enemies. “I don’t mind. Not like I was using it.”

“Are you sure? Because I would completely understand if this is out of the blue…”

“I really don’t mind,” Crowley said quickly. It couldn’t be more out of the blue if it was a blue whale, dressed as a peacock, jumping out of the big blue sea on Neptune. He still held on tight and drew closer. “Really.”

“Ah, good, because I was rather worried I was being too forward,” Aziraphale just managed to get out before heat engulfed him. For a moment, he was worried the car had caught fire again before he realised it was Crowley’s lips on his, his spare hand on his thigh the only thing stopping him from ending up rather awkwardly in his lap.

He wasn’t sure if it was the fact he’d stopped breathing or the weight of a demon on his chest but a rather alarming pressure in him threatened to burst. Perhaps this was what humans were always writing poetry about. Songs. Large scale stage productions with a chorus line and full orchestra. It was almost too much to bear until it was, too much. His breath came in a massive rush and a strangled squeak as Crowley’s hand slid higher, seemingly without its owner noticing.

“Sorry, too much?” Crowley asked, breath ragged and voice rough, usually something reserved for when things had gone very badly wrong but his tone was soft, almost at odds with the kiss.

“Bit much, you haven’t even accepted my proposal yet. Not that I was proposing in that sense, in more of an offer sense, a suggestion, a consideration. Which I suppose in hindsight, you have answered, unless you thought I was in need of medical assistance, vis a vis, the kiss of life which now I’m not entirely sure I’m not,” Aziraphale blurted out, starting to panic under what he had hoped was his usual perfectly unflappable exterior, the heat he’d felt inside a moment before rising to the surface, flushed skin proving otherwise. “I mean, I am definitely on board with the theory, sign me up for the, um, um, friends and the ish and the maybe, perhaps, more than just friends but yes, a bit…”

“Much?” Crowley tapped Aziraphale’s knee as innocently as he could to try and snap him out of his babbling, knowing this could last all night and cause them both an existential crisis if he didn’t say something. “I could buy you a drink? That’s how these things normally get started.”

“I thought we were…” Aziraphale gestured vaguely out of the now entirely fogged up window. “Having a drink.”

“I could… pour you a glass of your own wine, pretend I bought it, it’s the thought that counts,” Crowley suggested, rather feeling like he needed the whole bottle to himself. “Come on, Angel, we’ve muddled through worse, humans do this all the time, can’t be that bad.”

“One would think,” Aziraphale muttered to himself, trying to recalibrate every vital system that had seemed to have gone haywire on him. “Oh, no, I didn’t mean… Not that it was bad, it was very nice, I’m sure, just…”

“Yes, bit much, let’s not go round that one again or we’ll never get that bottle open,” Crowley said with another reassuring pat to his knee, just to let him know he was pulling back but not pulling away, not all the way. “Or we could do this another time? Sleep on it, see what makes sense in the morning?”

Aziraphale nodded slowly, breathing easier at the idea of being able to run inside, close the curtains and pour over his Austens and his Brontes, try to figure out exactly where he’d gone awry. “That would be for the best, I think. Not that I don’t want you to…”

“I know,” Crowley smiled, bringing up the hand that he was still holding, pressing a gentle kiss to the back of it before returning it to its owner, retreating to his seat with a profound sense of relief that he could be alone for the polar opposite reason. “I’ll call. Promise.”

“Do.” Aziraphale nodded to himself, dragging all his thoughts back to more familiar ground as he stepped out into the refreshing night air. “Perhaps we could catch a show, there’s a new production of-”

“Don’t love you that much, angel,” Crowley said with a grin, leaning across to pull the door closed and starting the car before he agreed to anything he’d regret.

He only got halfway down the street before the demonic Bluetooth started chirping incessantly.

“Did you say you loved me?” Aziraphale asked, forgoing Hello, sounding like he’d run all the way from the door to the phone.

“That’s the ish, in case you were wondering,” Crowley said before hanging up, more than a little pleased with himself.

“I’ll have a room, please,” Crowley declared at the front desk of The Ritz after a not too pleased with him bartender had helped him off the floor, righting the very tall barstool he’d kept warm through three and a quarter bottles of eyewateringly expensive champagne. “In fact, I’ll have all the rooms. Wait, how many hotels do you have? Can I have a hotel, please? I could use somewhere more room-y.

He laughed at his own joke, quite sure this was what humans referred to as cloud nine. Not that he would be able to say for sure which one was made ninth, too many now and they kept moving. The man on the desk didn’t laugh. “Just the one room then.”

After signing his name rather illegibly on the bottom of some paperwork and letting them swipe his credit card, Crowley took the singular key card to just the one basic room. Or as basic as it got here. Using it to salute his submission, he didn’t push his luck any further, taking himself off to the elevators, glad to see his smile had stayed with him from the moment he’d realised that Aziraphale finally got it. Got it and reciprocated it. Sort of. Ish. He’d work that one out in the morning. Right now, he didn’t want to think of anything other than the way Aziraphale had clutched onto his hand, kissing him back.

The door to his room opened on the third attempt to swipe the card, the floor shifting sideways as he bent down to pick it up after it had continued its journey down without him. “Come back here, you.”

Somehow, he managed to end up on the other side of the door, safely leaning against it as he kicked off his boots and jeans, the room spinning slightly as he stumbled to the bed, falling back onto it. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d drunk this much for the pure pleasure of it, to celebrate.

“Oh, dear, sweet, silly Angel,” Crowley said as though Aziraphale was actually there with him, as though he was the one blissfully sprawled out on the bed, sumptuous covers under naked thighs, a hand lazily pushing his shirt up, eyes fluttering closed as he tossed his shades on the pillow somewhere above his head. “Oh, the things I would do with you.”

He walked his fingers back south again, leaving his own shirt hiked up, unable to wait the few more seconds it would have taken him to take it off. Foreplay could quite literally go fuck itself, he had waited longer than the building around him had been standing, than the Earth below it had turned. Alright, maybe not that long but it had been a monumentally long time.

It wasn’t hard to imagine it wasn’t his own fingers teasing over his cock, little finger hooking on the waistband of his underwear, pulling it down just enough. There would be a blush, deep rose pink, when Aziraphale finally looked down. Even as those innocent eyes would betray how much he wanted it. Even as blush turned to flush. Innocence to hunger. Nobody could be an angel all the time. Not even an angel. Certainly not his angel.

“Fuck,” Crowley moaned to himself, flexing his fingers, knowing his last shred of self control was too busy keeping him on this bed instead of somewhere in Soho, less than a mile away but it couldn’t stop him from curling his hand around his cock, so hard it hurt, tip wet under his thumb like he’d already had that soft, full mouth on him, angry red like they were after he’d kissed him, hand strong and palm hot as he’d held on to him for dear life, fingers entwined in his mind as he stroked harder, faster, the kiss not stopping this time, every breath shared, stuttering in his chest, caught in his throat as tried to wrap his lips around Aziraphale’s name, half the syllables swallowed up, breath hissed through clenched teeth as he came.

Celestial choirs rang in his ears, breaking through the sweet oblivion that he’d craved, bringing him back to reality far sooner than he’d have liked. No, not celestial choirs, just his phone, somewhere in his jacket, tangled underneath him. He didn’t even need to look at the Caller ID.

“Alright, I’ll go to your stupid show thing,” Crowley said, this time not giving Aziraphale chance to say Hello.

“Wouldn’t you like to know what it is first?” Aziraphale’s voice finally came down the line, further away than it had been a handful of minutes ago, echoing around his head.

“Nah. Turns out, I probably do love you that much,” Crowley said, pressing the phone between his shoulder and his ear, making himself barely decent before closing his eyes, smiling at clatter of a dropped landline. He waited until he heard distant breathing again before he spoke like he hadn’t said anything. “Tell me about this show.”

He was asleep before the end of a very detailed description of scene one, not that Aziraphale noticed, he couldn’t hear anything over the sound of his own heart.

Eventually, Aziraphale left the phone on his desk as he fetched himself a cup of tea, the low rumble of a demon snoring oddly comforting as he settled back down next to his precarious stack of well-thumbed romances, having found nothing useful whatsoever. For all their many pages, they all seemed to run out just as soon as the hero had declared his true feelings, petering away into suitably happy endings.

That’s how he’d ended up on the phone to Crowley, surely he was worldly in a way that heaven no doubt frowned upon and Hell positively encouraged. He used actions where Aziraphale was far more fond of words. But then, he’d not had a chance to get his question out. That was the problem with words he supposed, much like demons, they didn’t always follow the script. What was one supposed to do after the pages ran out? When the music faded and the curtain fell. The vague signing off with a life lived happily ever after. Unless you were unfortunate enough to exist in the mind of Thomas Hardy or William Shakespeare, that was.

Of course, there was one shelf he hadn’t tried. One dusty collection hidden away at the back of the shop, volumes bought more for a sense of posterity than personal use. Not least because he didn’t like to think where they’d been.

Casting his eyes to the door, he set down his tea cup, triple checked it was locked and slipped between two bookcases in the cartography section, finding a small dark corner. After blowing copious amounts of cobwebs off the spine, Aziraphale brought out a beautifully bound folio of homoerotic mannerist sketches that would have otherwise been lost to the fires of rectitude, not risking opening it until he was safely back at his desk.

Studying the first page, he tried to focus on the softly drawn lines, the sweeping curves and sharp angles that corresponded to his vessel laid out before him, although not too helpful an instruction guide on what exactly to do with it. The basic anatomy, the complex logistics, well, that wouldn’t be all that difficult to wrap his head around but the how, the why and the wherefore were infuriatingly eluding him. It all rather looked like a good way to strain something that ought not be strained. He’d much rather hold his hand or perhaps, if Crowley would let him, run his fingers through his hair, cuddled up on the sofa he rarely had cause to sit on alone, discussing the finer points of form and intention; whether a bow tie was still a bow tie before one tied it into a bow.

Turning the page, Aziraphale’s eyebrows shot up, wondering aloud, “How on earth would humans achieve that?”

“Wha’that, angel?” Crowley muttered sleepily from somewhere beyond Aziraphale’s left elbow. He’d quite forgotten he was still on the phone.

Aziraphale snapped the folio shut, grabbed the phone like it might bite him and tried to sound normal. “Nothing, got to go!”

“Azira-”

“See you tomorrow, can’t wait. Toodlepip.”

Aziraphale hung up the phone and glanced guiltily around the bookshop like Crowley might appear out of nowhere, the proverbial devil on his shoulder. Maybe facing Armageddon would have been easier after all. It certainly looked a lot less uncomfortable.

“Well, that was… an eventful second half,” Aziraphale said carefully, trying to keep track of Crowley as the whole audience of the theatre seemed to pass between them on their way out.

“I honestly was reaching for the popcorn,” Crowley replied, lowering his voice. “Last time I saw it, that’s exactly where it was. Next time I’ll warn you.”

“Well, I don’t think popcorn is strictly permitted, it’s not the cinema,” Aziraphale explained, ignoring the fact Crowley had offered to bin it before they went in and how possessively Aziraphale had kept hold of it since.

Leaning closer, Crowley’s hand finding the small of his back, he lowered his voice to barely a whisper. “That wasn’t what I was referring to, angel.”

“Ah, yes, well, I don’t think that’s strictly permitted either,” Aziraphale said quickly, trying to forget the way he’d jumped up, nearly getting them thrown out. If Crowley hadn't yanked his sleeve, he’d have had to fake a medical emergency. If Crowley’s hand had been a half inch higher, he wouldn’t have had to fake it. He still wasn’t entirely convinced his heart hadn’t stopped for a couple of beats.

“Perhaps we should shelve the theatre etiquette for a later date, we might just catch dinner,” Crowley suggested, nodding over to a little bistro tucked between the busier chains that Crowley was sure tourists could have eaten at where they came from.

“Will the food be safe this time?” Aziraphale asked, aware his tone was strained, very aware Crowley’s hand was drifting haphazardly lower on his back, steering him across the street.

“That’s up to you,” Crowley said, pulling open the door, a quaint bell announcing them to an empty room, a waiter appearing from the back, looking equal parts thrilled and terrified to have customers.

It wasn’t until dessert was served that Crowley dipped his toe in the water again, his own espresso long gone and the bill paid while he watched Aziraphale slowly work his way through a semifreddo that was testing the bounds of decency. “So, as I’m persona non grata in Hell, I’ve got a twee little room booked at the Ritz. If you wanted to take that to go…”

“Surely it would melt, it’s already a little on its way,” Aziraphale said, licking the back of his spoon before it dripped.

“Uh, yep, I can see that,” Crowley said, fists clenched in his lap, wondering if perhaps he should sit on them instead, for the safety of all involved. “I don’t think it would make much difference to what I’d do with it.”

“I thought you didn’t eat?” Aziraphale pointed out, wondering if it was belatedly worth offering to split it with him. That would be the polite thing to do. Especially now they were, in a manner of speaking, courting. This being their first date and all.

“I don’t.” Crowley raised his eyebrows over his sunglasses, one foot nudging against the back of Aziraphale’s calf, glad to see the spoon hastily returned to the plate.

Aziraphale swallowed, dragging the moment out, the napkin against his lips buying him a few more seconds to order the thoughts Crowley had scattered to the wind. “While I’m not saying I’m totally against the idea, after all I do rather want to finish the semifreddo but perhaps we should, I don’t know, go a little slower… perhaps. Ice cream is rather time sensitive and I would hate it to go to waste because I… well, I’m not really sure what to do, I’d likely ending up making a mess of it. The rest of it, I mean, not the semifreddo. That’s already a mess.”

“Take a breath, forget the semifreddo,” Crowley said, stilling his foot but leaving it where it was, moving the plate before Aziraphale could finish him off. “I’m happy to watch you eat all night but… the offer is there, on the table. Not literally, obviously. Table’s too small for one thing. What I’m trying to say is... Nothing has to be perfect or rushed, if you want to go slower. I just wanted you to know, I would have you any way you want. That’s all. Semifreddo optional. Fuck, I’ll be the semifreddo if you like.”

Aziraphale swallowed hard, glancing at the now very melted dessert, sure it couldn’t hold up to the heat of Crowley’s gaze. He was quite sure it was supposed to have the same effect on him. A part of him knew it would be much easier if it did. “That’s my dilemma. I’m not sure what I’d like. Well, that’s not quite true. I know I like you, rather quite a lot. And I know I like it when you say nice things to me, even when you pretend you’re being sarky. And I like spending time with you. I don’t want to give that up. But I hadn’t really thought so far as to anything else. I’m sure it will come in time.”

“I’m not sarky. I’m… You realise by your reckoning, we’ve been dating pretty much since time began?” Crowley asked, getting up from the table and coming round to pull Aziraphale’s chair out.

“Well, yes, but now you know about it too,” Aziraphale said, hand slipping easily into Crowley’s, like it belonged there, staying even as they walked out into the street. “I like this too.”

“Alright then, I can do that,” Crowley said, leaning closer, shoulders brushing together as they walked. “What about this?”

“I mean, it makes it harder to walk in a straight line but as long as you don’t fall off the pavement and drag me with you,” Aziraphale said, pulling him closer, away from the edge. “Then it seems to be acceptable.”

Crowley stopped walking, pulling Aziraphale back, much to the annoyance of the flow of human traffic, giving him a light but lingering chaste kiss. “That?”

“Perfectly… acceptable,” Aziraphale admitted, unable to keep the smile that blossomed over his lips from heating his cheeks. “Although we’re causing a scene.”

“We’re really not,” Crowley said, knowing that it took more than a little peck to make anyone look up from their phone these days. “But we are causing an obstruction.”

“Talking of getting a room,” Aziraphale started, pulling Crowley back next to him so they could keep walking, not really wanting to cause a fracas of some sort. “Why are you staying in the Ritz? You could always stay at the bookshop… with me.”

Despite his agreement not to, Crowley nearly fell off the pavement, covering it with a little jump and something he’d vehemently deny was a skip. “Are you asking me to move in with you? That’s a bit… quick, isn’t it?”

“You asked me to move in with you last week,” Aziraphale reminded him.

“And you said no,” Crowley reminded him back.

“Would it really be that bad?” Aziraphale asked, trying not to close his eyes and picture them curled up together, the warm lamplight aglow, the distant strings of a cello perhaps.

“I paid for a week in advance, it’s non-refundable,” Crowley said, grasping at straws so he wouldn’t have to answer the question. Would it be that bad? Probably not. Would he likely go a little round the twist? That was a different question entirely. “Why not The Ritz? You love the Ritz.”

“Well, that’s hardly a long term solution, is it?” Aziraphale sidestepped Crowley’s point just as expertly, sure that if he ended up in just a room with him, with just a bed, things could get out of hand pretty quickly. “Where will you go then? You know Hell won’t foot your bills for much longer.”

“I could stay in my car,” Crowley suggested, unlinking their hands for a passing cyclist before finding him again, this time sliding his arm through the crook of Aziraphale’s. “That could be cozy.”

“We can’t live in our car,” Aziraphale protested, Crowley instinctively pressing closer as they waited at a crossing. “For a start, you won’t let me eat in it.”

“You can eat in your bookshop.” Crowley glanced sideways before the lights changed, finding the same look on Aziraphale’s face as he’d once seen on Hellhound puppy that had lost its ball and chain. “Alright, alright, you can live with me in my car.”

“Crowley, now you’re just being silly,” Aziraphale said pointedly before sighing. “It doesn’t have to mean you live with me, you could just live with me.”

“How is that different?” Crowley asked, praying for a deity to help him out. Swallow him up. Maybe turn him back into a snake. Then he could live in a nice vivarium somewhere.

“Well, you see by putting emphasis on a certain word, changing the stress, it shows which word is-”

“Yes, yes, fine,” Crowley relented, grateful when the crossing beeped. “I’ll pack up my car. Happy?”

“Our car,” Aziraphale whispered under its not so dulcet tones.

“Our bookshop,” Crowley mimicked, starting to calculate how many more weeks in a five star hotel he could afford before he had to sell off his record collection.

“Glad you agree!” Aziraphale beamed, safely back on the pavement, heart fit to burst with all the plans he could make. He could teach Crowley the inventory system. They could bake a tarte tatin. “You may kiss me again.”

“May I? I am blessed.” Crowley bowed with a flourish but the sparkle was back in his eyes, just visible as he looked up at Aziraphale from under his glasses. He took Aziraphale’s hand, pressing his lips to the back of it without blinking.

“Oh, I definitely like that,” he decided, the fluttering in his heart turning to butterflies in his stomach. He knew it wasn’t anything akin to the drawings he’d studied at literal length the night before but when Crowley winked, treating him to the true million-watt smile, he knew he had something he could work with.

“Nnthng?” Crowley asked, shifting on his knees, jaw starting to ache, the determination that there must be something he could do starting to flicker self-consciously.

The conversation had started in earnest three weeks after he’d moved in and they’d converted the mezzanine rooms of the bookshop into a shared bedroom, a sun room for the plants, as Aziraphale kept insisting on being nice to them and what Aziraphale lovingly called Crowley’s Crawl Space, a place where he could go when he had reached his tolerance for show tunes and card tricks.

It had apparently necessitated a full reorganisation of every book in the shop. Leaving little time for Aziraphale to think of anything else.

It was the longest three weeks of Crowley’s very, very long life.

He was on his fifth hot chocolate of the evening, the only concession to Aziraphale’s many attempts to acclimatise him to sweet treats. He found that if he didn’t have at least six, he woke in the middle of the night to find himself curled rather contortionist-like around a fully dressed, fully conscious angel, having his bare skin stroked like he was a Bond villain’s pet cat.

Which would be fine.

Totally fine.

Except he hadn’t come once in 23 days and he was in extreme danger of embarrassing himself every time Aziraphale brushed past him, fleetingly touched him or even looked at him too long.

Which was why he quite loudly choked on expertly frothy milk when Aziraphale bit off a piece of shortbread and casually declared; “I think we should consummate our new friendship.”

After he’d gotten the hot chocolate out of his lungs, he brushed an imaginary speck of dust off his knee like he hadn’t just nearly drowned. “As in, right this second?

“Well no, you can finish your drink first,” Aziraphale offered, setting aside the tin of biscuits. “And I was thinking of doing the crossword.”

Crowley set his half full mug down on Aziraphale’s empty plate with a clatter. “Nope, I’m good, let’s go.”

Before he’d even registered that Crowley had moved, Aziraphale found himself being dragged up the stairs, items of black clothing falling like leaves over the bannister, leaving Aziraphale marvelling to himself when they reached the top how neither of them had fallen right back down again.

“You will be picking those back up, I assume,” Aziraphale said, leaning precariously over the railing to see where they landed, impressed how not a single item would be easily retrievable.

“You know what they say about assumptions, angel,” Crowley said, pressing into his back, breath tickling the nape of his neck.

“I do, actu-”

“Fuck me.”

“I’m sure that’s not how the saying goes.”

“Unless you’d rather…” Crowley near whispered into his hair, one hand running up his thigh, splaying over his arse, squeezing just hard enough to make his position clear. He was flexible in every way.

“I was actually going to suggest…” Aziraphale started, trying his best not to breathe in too sharply, his heart racing in a way that made feel like it was climbing up his throat.

“Yesss?” Crowley hissed, sibilance stronger than he intended, all his blood rushing somewhere it was needed much more than his head, jaw clenched to try and keep his tongue in check.

“I thought I might add you to the deeds of the shop, now that you live here and all, what’s mine is yours,” Aziraphale finished, faux cheerfully, glancing back over his shoulder as Crowley unpeeled himself from his back with an array of noises that sounded like an upended game of Scrabble.

“Lord, fuck me and I thought my lot did temptation,” Crowley groaned, trying to walk off his hard on in the same three paces back and forth before waving his hand. “Yep, sign me up. I’ve always wanted to get into real estate. I’ll be in here for a bit. Probably not long. Thirty seconds, tops”

He pointed towards their bedroom door before letting out one more unintelligible sound and heading towards it.

“Crowley? I didn’t mean…” Aziraphale called after him, realising a little belatedly that he might have handled that better or in fact, handled it at all. “Wait!”

Crowley waited, trying to force some coherency back into his brain and some feeling back into his legs. His next renovation project would definitely be a cold shower. Eventually his breathing slowed. “Sorry, I should have thought. I know you wanted to go slow, I just got… lizard brain. Snake brain. Snakes don’t have legs. Except most of the time I do these days. So yeah, lizard brain. Sorry.”

“It’s quite alright, perhaps I should have chosen my words more carefully,” Aziraphale said, bending the truth more than a little. He’d just given away half his home to avoid admitting that he’d lost his nerve between the ground and the bedroom. “I’m not even sure I used it correctly, now I think about it.”

Crowley stared at him for a long moment then stepped sideways, opening the sun room door and inclining his head, “In.”

Aziraphale took a step then hesitated again, hands clasped tight in front of him. “I thought you wanted to be alone.”

“I’m not going to maul you in front of my plants. But you never misuse a word unless you’re trying to describe music, so tell me what this was actually about and l’ll try and fix it, or I’ll, I don’t know, let you talk to them. They’re good listeners. Shit with advice but your choice.” He ushered him in, miracling himself fully dressed again as he passed close enough Crowley had to close his eyes, taking his hand on the way.

“I don’t think the plants need to hear this,” Aziraphale said nervously as Crowley closed the door.

“They promise not to tell anyone,” Crowley reassured him, gesturing to a steamer chair he only ever used in the dark, so he could stare up at the stars, the roofing here replaced with old fashioned diamond framed glass.

Aziraphale perched on the edge and then reluctantly shuffled back, putting his legs up then crossing them over, hands still clasped together like he was in a therapist’s office. He had been dreading this moment. The one where Crowley realised that for all he loved him, he couldn’t… seem to do anything about it. And he was pretty sure that wasn’t how his romance novels usually went. Certainly not how those fine line drawings portrayed it.

Crowley fussed about a few of the smaller plants laid out on a potting bench, ready to be added to his collection, muttering to them as he waited for Aziraphale to start. He tried to clear his mind, he had to deal with this maturely and calmly, he told himself, fingers brushing over a tender leaf, far too aware that his every move was being studied. He probably shouldn’t even say anything, just let Aziraphale-

“It’s not that I don’t find you attractive…” Aziraphale said, half to himself as he tried to make objective sense of something humans seemed to have no problem objectifying.

“You can’t open with that!” Crowley said, maturity and calmness going out the vast array of windows before he could stop himself, eyes turning up to the heavens, nearly dropping the pot he’d been tending, feeling far more exposed now than he had been half naked. “That’s only marginally better than it’s not you, it’s me and at least you have a great personality and angel, my personality, not that great.”

“But it’s not you, that’s the problem, it’s very me,” Aziraphale desperately tried to explain, wondering how much worse this would inevitably get. Then a thought struck him, remembering a passing conversation they’d had over breakfast, when Aziraphale had announced his plan to take on a croquembouche and Crowley’s had announced his plan to spend the day in the dark in his crawl space. A happy compromise was met by meeting back up in the evening for cocoa and biscuits. “Food!”

“No, I’m fine, thanks,” Crowley said, leaning against the bench, more than used to the way Aziraphale panicked and tried to change the subject by now, usually by trying to feed him. It worked better the other way around.

“Exactly!” Aziraphale beamed, proud of himself for finding a way to make this make some sort of sense. “As you well know, I love food. I don’t need to eat, but I do so enjoy it. The taste, the smells, the textures, just thinking about it now…”

“I had noticed,” Crowley agreed, crossing one ankle over the other and folding his arms, trying to follow along without getting distracted by the hungry look that had passed over his face.

“On the other hand, you aren’t… as hungry as I am. You’re not against the idea in principle, the odd bit here and there, you understand why I like it but you don’t need it yourself. Whereas I, I can’t get enough.”

Crowley nodded along, he enjoyed a strong coffee, a full bodied red and now, it would seem, a silky hot chocolate, all of which he considered his main food groups.

“Now that for me but for you,” he gestured up and down the length of his body like he was a flow chart. “Physical congress. Whereas I…”

Crowley stopped mid-head bob as Aziraphale shrugged apologetically, the penny dropping with a clunk. It wasn’t just slowly-slowly-catchy-angel. It wasn’t just waiting for the right moment. It might not be at all.

He knew it shouldn’t come as a surprise, really. Aziraphale, for all his human window dressing, was still an angel. Did he, himself, ever get those desires, those oh so inconvenient urges before the fall? Did it even occur to him to want anything? He tried to remember when they had started, was it becoming a demon, catching it from the mortals he’d been charged to tempt or was it more a habit, a slippery slope, an indulgence he’d fallen into like the lunches and the trade in miracles? One thing he knew for sure, it had definitely started with Aziraphale.

And upon consideration, it had definitely started longer ago than he could put his finger on. He’d never expected it to be shared, it was always something he’d taken care of himself. He’d survived this long, Would it really be that hard? Well… not like that, anyway.

“Please say something,” Aziraphale said, the wait for the fall out killing him, trying to follow the flicker of Crowley’s eyes as he hopped from thought to thought, wishing he was doing it out loud.

Crowley cleared his throat, trying to kick his tongue into gear so he would say all of that in a way that didn’t scandalise the angel. “So, putting aside for a moment that you think I’m the Succubus of Soho… your point is taken. I’d happily work my way through a carnal Jacobean banquet, you’re not hungry.”

“But that’s not to say I wouldn’t attend, I just might be more inclined to… watch the jugglers. Or oh, is there dancing? I do so miss proper dancing,” Aziraphale trailed off, picturing it.

“We’re actually not going to a banquet, dear, I’m just extending your tortured metaphor,” Crowley reminded him. “Which doesn’t seem to be helping. Right. Yes, I would really like to have sex with you, but it’s fine if we don’t. There’s more to this…” he waved his hand between them. “Than that…” he waved his hand somewhere in the vague direction of their bedroom. “I could go on a diet.”

“There’s no need for that, I wouldn’t want to deprive you of anything,” Aziraphale said before holding up a finger consideringly. “We could always talk to Mrs Sandwich.”

“We are not talking to Mrs Sandwich… or any of her girls. Or any of her boys. Or anyone,” Crowley said firmly before stepping closer and softening his tone, gently brushing his fingers over Aziraphale’s cheek. “It’s just you, angel.”

“Really?” Aziraphale asked, placing his hand over Crowley’s, leaning into his touch. “Not even-”

“Really. So I’m happy to just hold hands or braid each other's hair or whatever you are trying to do with it while I’m asleep,” Crowley said, tapping Aziraphale’s legs until they opened, climbing onto the chair in front of him and leaning gently back into his chest. “I’m gaining far more than you think I’m losing.”

“Shall we sleep in here tonight?” Aziraphale pulled him closer, wrapping him up in his arms, resting his chin on the top of Crowley’s head.

“Depends, are you actually going to sleep?” Crowley asked absently, trying not to curl into himself as Aziraphale nigh on petted him. There was a reason his animal form wasn’t a cute fluffy animal but he tempered the feeling down. Just.

“I might,” Aziraphale said before putting on his magician patter. “You may never know.”

“Oh, I’ll know,” Crowley muttered, closing his eyes. “The plants will tell me. So don’t try anything saucy.”

Which in turn, nine weeks later had brought them to a lazy Wednesday afternoon, Crowley doing his very best not to burn Croque Monsieur while singing that stupid Sondheim song about roses that Aziraphale wouldn’t stop humming. That’s how long it took to domesticate a demon, apparently.

“Your fancy cheese toastie thing is ready!” Crowley shouted round the kitchen door, knowing wherever Aziraphale was in the bookshop, he would hear him.

In slightly less than eighty seconds, Aziraphale was stood in the doorway, head cocked barely perceptibly to the side like a confused beige Spaniel whose owner had just fetched the stick himself. “You’re singing show tunes in my apron.”

“Am I?” Crowley looked down, faking incredulity. “So I am. How bizarre. Eat up.”

Aziraphale took the proffered plate and eyed it for a second before putting it on the table, otherwise untouched. “Are you trying to seduce me?”

“No, I was just…” Crowley started, feelings ever so slightly hurt before clocking that Aziraphale had ignored his attempt at cheese on French toast. His cooking wasn’t that bad, surely. “Why? Is it working?”

“Would you be willing to find out?” Aziraphale asked tentatively, watching his own fingers brush back and forth over the table top before glancing up, knowing it was awfully unfair to tempt him but he had to know. “Before the moment passes.”

Crowley caught his fingers, stilling them before running his hand up his arm, closing the distance between them. “Only if you take this off me first.”

“Happy to oblige, I would hate anything to happen to it, it’s my favourite one and you do look so good in it,” Aziraphale said, pulling the apron strings around the back and lifting it over his head, an excuse to breathe him in as he tried to hold onto the feeling he’d had when he’d first caught the scent of unprompted, decadent, dripping Gruyère… he was almost positive it was the romance of the gesture, not the actual dish, that had something stirring distantly, something not unlike when Crowley kissed him, which he was used to now. Only this feeling was far more fragile, like if he examined it, it might flutter away.

“What do you want, angel?” Crowley asked, hands still moving slowly, seeking out any boundary he might brush up against so that he wouldn’t break it.

“What you want,” Aziraphale answered, instinctively knowing that would always be what he wanted, above anything else. As soon as he said the words, some of the panic, the weight on his chest, the tightness in his shoulders melted away. When he thought about it like that, it wasn’t quite so alien to him.

“Have a seat,” Crowley invited, pulling a chair out from under the table, gently guiding him down onto it as he sank just as slowly to his knees, looking up at him with a rare glimpse of vulnerability. “Say stop and I’ll stop, I promise.”

“I will,” Aziraphale promised back before shaking his head. “I mean, I will say it if I want you to, not that I will say it. I mean, there’s every chance it will be absolutely fine-”

“Stop semanticising,” Crowley said soothingly, kneeling up to almost full height, smiling when Aziraphale met him in the middle, words silenced by the slow, strong press of his lips, solid ground.

Stretching a little higher so Aziraphale would sit back, Crowley braced his hands against the angel’s thighs, one last lingering kiss before he settled back on the floor, his own cock painfully hard at just the prospect. True, he could have lived without this quite happily, but he was determined to savour every second while it was on offer.

Which was how he ended up still on his knees forty seven minutes later, the Croque Monsieur definitely cold, trying to mumble the question around Aziraphale’s cock to see if his mouth was actually doing anything for him.

“Pardon?” Aziraphale asked, admitting his mind might have wandered slightly in the intervening three quarters of an hour.

“M’said,” Crowley tried again before sitting back on his heels, shifting his hips until he was comfortable, still achingly hard, the tight confines of his jeans making him throb incessantly, the zip digging in, the barest taste of precome on his tongue teasing him with how tantalisingly close he was himself, without even being touched. “Nothing at all?”

“I wouldn’t say nothing,” Aziraphale pointed out, nodding down encouragingly. “It all seems to be functioning as intended.”

“Yep,” Crowley agreed, like they were composing a review for a household appliance. “Anything I’m not doing right?”

“No, rest assured, it was perfectly pleasant, certainly nice and warm, almost cozy.” Now they seemed to be reviewing a blanket, or perhaps a holiday let.

“Glad to hear it.” Now a baby grand piano or maybe a whistle.

“I just can’t seem to…” Aziraphale frowned, trying to organise a hundred and one conflicting thoughts of what he wanted to feel and what he did feel, or rather, didn’t, into one sophisticated yet profound metaphor.

“Connect that and this,” Crowley summed up, gesturing between Aziraphale’s lap and his head.

“Yes! And if I do, one or the other starts to panic,” Aziraphale said, breathing out a sigh of metaphorical relief when Crowley smiled knowingly rather than thinking him daft. “How did you know?”

“At one point, you did start quoting Virgil to yourself,” Crowley said, rotating his wrist to ease the stiffness in it. “In the original Latin, I might add, which was impressive given the circumstances. If this isn’t working for you, I don’t want you to feel like you have to.”

“I don’t think it will, I am sorry,” Aziraphale apologised, guilt twisting in his stomach the way he was certain other things were supposed to as Crowley zipped him back up. “I wish it were.”

“You don’t have to apologise," Crowley said, squeezing his knee, knowing there were plenty of other things he could do to keep Aziraphale happy, that didn’t involve his vessel’s anatomy. Or not that part of it, at least. “It was worth a go and now we’ve ruled it out.”

“Let’s not rule everything out just yet,” Aziraphale said quickly, wanting to test the conclusion he’d come to earlier, before Crowley had gotten on his knees. “If I might make a suggestion?"

“As long as it doesn’t involve that apron. I would do anything for sex, but I won’t do that,” Crowley said, deadpan, not really meaning it. About the sex, not the apron. He dusted his hands off on his thighs. “Can I get up first?”

“Yes, that might actually be preferable,” Aziraphale said decisively, obligingly helping Crowley back onto his feet. “I would hate to wear out the knees in these trousers.”

“Beg’pardon,” Crowley said as he was guided backwards towards the table. “I thought we weren’t…”

“Just because one way round doesn’t fit, doesn’t mean we can’t try the other, like that upside down pineapple cake I made,” Aziraphale reasoned, the tip of his tongue wetting his lips. “There’s nothing wrong with my mouth, after all. In fact, I think it might be the part of me I use most so I should be rather good with it.”

“Fu- I know you mean that in an entirely innocent way, but you really are killing me here,” Crowley groaned, gripping so tight to the edge of the table, he heard it groan too.

“I’ll have you know was very much the effect I was going for,” Aziraphale said, that slight, sharp sass that had been rather missing since the world hadn’t ended making a welcome return. They’d been far too nice to each other. “After all, there is one other thing I like, aside from the food, and the dancing, and the lovely flowers you bought me yesterday. Making you happy.”

“You don’t have to… not just for me,” Crowley said, looking him properly in the eyes. “I’d only ever want it if you wanted it to.”

“I want it,” Aziraphale said, unwinding Crowley’s scarf, undoing the buttons on his shirt one at a time before his hands reached his very tight jeans. “I like knowing this…” Aziraphale stroked over the denim wrapped hardness. “Is for me and only for me… though I suppose you might borrow it… should the occasion call.”

“Keep talking,” Crowley urged, pushing up into his touch, agreeing to his terms without even a dignified hesitation.

“That only I can do what you want with it,” Aziraphale continued, surprising himself by squeezing Crowley’s cock more than slightly possessively, “Which is exactly what I intend to do. Now, would you be so kind… the rest of that outfit of yours is far too confounding for me to try and remove.”

“Sometimes I wonder why they gave you special powers,” Crowley said, waving every item of clothing he was wearing away in one fell swoop. “Better?”

“Aesthetically? Much,” Aziraphale said, pulling his chair in, raising an eyebrow when two bare feet came to rest either side of him. He stroked a firm hand up one of Crowley’s legs. “You see this…” he pressed his fingers into the hollow behind his knee. “This I can understand.”

“Kneecaps?” Crowley joked even though his breath had caught in his throat.

“Beauty,” Aziraphale corrected, his expression serious for a moment, before a flicker of a smile gave him away. “That’s why I have a house membership to the National Galleries.”

“Don’t lie to me, angel. You have that for the discount in the restaurants and you know it,” Crowley said, faux sternly.

“That too,” Aziraphale conceded, pushing up further, rather enjoying mapping out the usually hidden places he hadn’t got around to yet.

“I’ve missed this,” Crowley sighed to himself, realising that it had been a while since Aziraphale had teased him in the more traditional sense.

“You literally tried to bite my hand last night. Called me Blofeld and told me to buy a real pussy,” Aziraphale pointed out, fingertips rubbing back and forth over one sharp hip. “I assumed you meant a cat.”

“Did I? I don’t remember that. Anyway, I meant these little tiffs,” Crowley clarified, digging his toes into the angel’s side. “It’s how I know we’re alright. You’re alright, not just with this, with all this?”

Aziraphale pressed his lips together, taking general stock of his world and the last few months. “We’re still here, humanity lives on, I now have a conservatory-”

“Sun room.”

“And…” Aziraphale continued as though he hadn’t spoken. “I’m hoping to make you very happy momentarily. Which makes me very happy.”

Crowley smiled softly, the one only Aziraphale got to see, leaning down to kiss him, stopping just short. “You do that anyway,”

Aziraphale sighed, almost radiating pure bliss as he finally laid his other hand on Crowley’s chest, amazed at how the lightest pressure had the demon melting back against the table, completely his, to do whatever he wanted with. Fingers tapping their way up over his collarbone, one teasing the pulse in his neck, watching the rise and fall of his chest, the resounding thumping of his heart, right there, just underneath. Completely his.

And somewhere, buried deeper, was that little spark that transcended this physical form. He dragged his eyes over every inch of him, like he could find it, committing him to memory, his mind sketching out new lines, it might only be a vessel but it was creation at its very finest and he hadn’t been lying when he said he could very much appreciate true perfection in his eyes.

“‘Ziraphale?” Crowley said, lifting his head, the yellow of his eyes glowing amber, betraying how desperately he needed this even more than his body did.

“Shush,” Aziraphale said, surprising himself with how in control of himself he sounded, not wanting to rush, wanting to savour the sight, rising slowly from his seat. “I’ve not forgotten you down there, don’t worry.”

Crowley opened his mouth to speak again but whatever he’d planned on saying had caught in his throat in a hitched gasp, almost coming just from the heat of Aziraphale’s palm around his cock, certain, sure of himself, not what he’d been braced for at all.

“Not too quickly, if you please?” Aziraphale asked as nicely as he could, his hand following the same pattern of Crowley’s breathing, picking up each slight nuance. Rise. Fall. Rise. Fall. Slight stuttering inhale, deep, languid exhale. “I’d rather like to keep you like this.”

Crowley’s only response was to push his hips insistently up and to swear at him in a dead language, making Aziraphale smile, rather proud of himself. He took that to mean he was doing something right. He tightened his hand a little, only moving his thumb back and forth. “I didn’t quite catch that…”

Crowley stretched out, as though he could push the frustration out with his fingers and toes, one foot finding the back of the kitchen chair, the other the back of Aziraphale’s thigh, both hands fisting in his jacket, pulling him down to him. With barely a breath between them, the look he gave him so intense, Aziraphale could almost feel the heat radiating out of him, eyes ever so slightly wild as he negotiated; “Just let me come, then you can do anything you want with me.”

“Anything?” Aziraphale pouted, tilting his head consideringly, knowing he ought not take advantage but the temptation was pretty hard to resist. “Dinner?”

“Done,” Crowley promised, sealing the deal with a desperate kiss.

“And a show?” Aziraphale added, against his lips.

“Fine,” Crowley agreed quickly, deepening the kiss, subtly rocking his hips to try and get even the slightest relief.

“In Paris?” Aziraphale suggested, the tip of his tongue teasing Crowley’s lips, knowing he very much had the tiger by the tail. Or the snake.

“Arrête de parler avec cette jolie bouche et suce-moi avant que je jouisse, que tu le veuilles ou non,” Crowley said, arching an eyebrow and releasing the angel from his grip, leaning back on his elbows so he could do his best attempt to stare him down. “D’accord?”

“Well, when you put it like that,” Aziraphale said with a roll of his eyes, shedding his jacket and hanging it on the back of the chair rather than trying to smooth it down, unable to stop the grin that lit up his face as he unbuttoned the cuffs of his shirt sleeves and pushed them up.

“Dear God, I could come just watching you fuck about with your clothes,” Crowley admitted, not even realising he was speaking aloud, mourning the loss of Aziraphale’s hand and dying to replace it with his own.

“I will bear that in mind,” Aziraphale said, retaking his seat and drawing it in, this time not teasing, not bargaining, not worshipping the body laid out in front of him. He focused his whole attention on one thing and one thing alone.

Hands gripping Crowley’s thighs, he dragged him to the edge of the table, inhaling the scent of him before nuzzling his soft cheek into the hard flesh. Fingers curling around the base so he could lower his lips over the tip, his tongue danced over the head, hands quickly having to pin down Crowley’s hips to stop his cock going all the way down his throat.

“M’sorry, can’t help it,” Crowley said breathlessly, every fiber of his being holding himself back from coming, not just from finally, finally getting the precious heat of his mouth on him but the sight of his angel, in complete control of his pleasure, all the more powerful knowing he wasn’t doing it because of some instinctive drive or with any thoughts of his own gratification. He was doing it simply because he wanted to, for him, to get him off.

Aziraphale pulled back, flicking his eyes up to Crowley’s, silently letting him know that he could handle it, that he really rather liked it, even if it didn’t spark the same need in him, he adored knowing just what he could do to him, knowing just how good it made him feel, the sounds coming out of his mouth guiding him faster, messier, infinitely less artistic than the drawings had shown.

Something smashed to the floor, making him momentarily relax his grip on Crowley’s hips as he pulled up, glancing to the floor. There goes the Croque Monsuier…

“Please can I come?” Crowley begged, dragging Aziraphale’s gaze up to his face. He’d expected Crowley to buck up again, to take his chance for more but to his surprise he stayed completely still, jaw clenched, thighs trembling with the effort, yellow eyes blazing.

Aziraphale held his own breath, mouth pressing one last kiss to the tip of his cock before sitting up, fingers resting lightly on his skin. He was curious how little it would take. A touch? A look? A word?

Squeezing Crowley’s thigh, he looked him in the eyes, taking in the sight of him for a moment before inclining his head. “You may.”

Aziraphale watched, fascinated as Crowley’s head tipped back, cock twitching for a moment before rather violently jumping, like Aziraphale was pulling on an invisible string, line after line of come painting his chest rather beautifully, rivulets sliding back down to his stomach. He couldn’t help himself, reaching out and smearing one perfect drop into Crowley’s skin with his thumb, bringing it up to his lips, blushing slightly when he noticed Crowley watching him.

“God, I love you,” Crowley said, smiling blissfully, almost delirious. “Not because of that. Well, a bit because of that. That was really fucking brilliant. But even if we never do anything like it ever again, I wouldn’t care. Just… love you.”

“I love you too,” Aziraphale said, laying his head on Crowley’s leg, smiling ever so innocently up at him. “But you’re still taking me to Paris.”

“Tomorrow,” Crowley said contentedly, reaching down to ruffle blonde curls, the only part of him he could reach without getting up. “Anything else I can do for you, angel?”

Aziraphale considered, turning his head to rest his chin against Crowley’s knee. While it was true it hadn’t awakened anything physical in him, it had given him a lot to think about. How Crowley would do anything for him. How much he liked that. How much he, in turn, enjoyed giving that much pleasure back. His mind hadn’t wondered to Augustan poets at all. They had plenty of time to work all that out but right now, he had a more immediate need.

“Would you… make me another fancy cheese toastie thing, as you call it?” Aziraphale asked, the picture of faux innocence.

“Your wish is my command,” Crowley said, sitting up and stretching out. “Let me just make myself decent.”

Aziraphale caught his hand before he could miracle himself clean and dressed. “Oh, there’s no need for that.”

Crowley raised an eyebrow, glancing down at himself. “That’s not somewhere I want near a naked flame.”

“Alright, if you insist,” Aziraphale relented, Crowley groaning as a glint came into the angel’s eyes, knowing he’d just walked straight into a trap. “You may borrow my apron.”

“Espèce de pervers,” Crowley muttered under his breath, jumping off the table and bending down to pick up the offending article. “Ange, mon cul.”