Archive of Our Own

Give all your hope to me

( Tree to fruit, apple to seed)

Make all your love to me

—Catherine Wheel, ‘Delicious’

~~~

"Focus, Angel."

The eyes observing him lead by bright example, two shards of stained glass bundling the soft ambient light into shameless electricity.

"Open your mouth."

Aziraphale swallows before parting his lips.

"How's this?"

He sucks a mouthful of warm dessert from fine silver tines: the buttery crisp of pastry, the tang of baked apples, and the toasty maltiness of blackened sugar.

"Mmh—"

It's more than just the terzetto of flavours that makes his lids flutter shut. Aziraphale moans around the smooth metal of Crowley’s fork stroking his lip on its way out—a celestial harmony to sharp demon ears.

"Hits the spot, does it? Don't forget to chew."

Aziraphale wills his eyes half-open, jaw moving to the steady rhythm of the demon’s other hand underneath the innocently white table cloth, adding zest to the sweetness on the angel’s tongue.

"Do you remember?"

Another bite of the apple tart enters his mouth, a tiny slice of paradise fresh out of the oven. Not the heaven that he’s left forever, but the one they carved out for themselves, like a never-ending afternoon tea.

"We were there when this concoction was invented, weren't we?"

The empty fork draws a question mark in the sparkling air between them. Crowley can't help but grin at the adorably concentrated twitch of his angel's dampening brow.

"Hôtel Tatin, eighteen eighty-four, as I rec—ah!—ll. Such a fortuitous accident that happened to…mmh…dear Mademoiselle Stéphanie…"

"Who knew that letting the sugar burn would only make these buggers tastier?"

A new recipe that was never meant to be yet flowed into such utter perfection.

Speaking of, Aziraphale is smiling at him now, shy and red-cheeked and just the slightest bit indignant—beautifully self-aware between all the unsuspecting couples dining around them.

It's a smile that bounces off the chandeliers and reflects in their champagne flutes, turning the blood in Crowley's veins to tipsy bubbles.

He still remembers that time when the angel stopped smiling, a few weeks after the apocalypse that never was…

~~~

It started with trifling changes, barely worth mentioning. Minor inconveniences. For a spoiled angel settled in a world that catered to his whims with grace and subtlety, those early signs were easy to swat away with one wave of a benevolent hand.

First, there was that one pesky puddle, slow to slosh out of his way as he was strolling down Greek Street. His trusty Balmoral boots had kept his feet nice and cosy ever since Prince Albert had had a pair made for him by the court's cobbler. Yet, that rainy afternoon, the angel arrived at the shop with his toes damp.

It kept pouring down well into the wee hours of the morning while Aziraphale was immersed in his spick-and-span copy of 'William in Trouble', sipping on a cup of cocoa that did not quite uphold its pleasantly tongue-warming temperature. The angel was too engrossed to notice a small leak working its way through the leaded window by the desk. His bookshop had never required any conscious upkeep on his part!

He quickly dried up the trickle with a snap of his fingers, but not before it nearly ruined his original manuscript of 'The Perfumed Garden'.

Now, the 'Just William' first editions might have been a present from Adam, the human boy. But over time, Aziraphale had discovered souvenirs of a rather different nature scattered throughout the shop: smirking gifts from the Antichrist himself.

This fifteenth century opus detailing the shamelessly physical aspects of loving thy neighbour was one of those fascinating souvenirs. Naturally, it wasn't something that Aziraphale had any interest in perusing. Unless the shop was quiet and he had not seen Crowley in a few days. At which point, it seemed tempting to snuggle up in his armchair and study the astonishingly elaborate illustrations. Some made him wonder if human bodies were truly meant to bend that way, and whether being of serpentine heritage might be advantageous?

Those thoughts, too, were new. And they, too, were like snakes, lurking in the tender folds of his brain; likely remnants of having been inside a corporation built from the same strands of protein and sparks of electricity as his own, yet searingly different. Each molecule branded with that unblinking, unapologetic, ruthless confidence of someone who had fallen too deep to care about stumbling. A fire that could hold its own even in the pits of Hell. A need so primaeval—

Aziraphale knew it from the garden where everything blossomed. When touch was so raw it was deafening and the craving to taste this newly imagined shape of love took away the breath he had only just learnt to draw.

The unseemly urge to hold and be held had worn off over time. If it could have been called an urge, nothing was ever urgent, not to them.

Yet six thousand years had passed and he had been left choked up looking at those same sharp features, dozed off after a hard day's work of saving the world. The night at Crowley's flat, there had been dreams and possibilities spread out in fine linen sheets.

But they had risked life and limb—well, limb—to preserve their status quo, and it would have been madness to want to twiddle with that.

Still, sometimes, when the angel was thumbing through his unexpected new acquisitions, imagining other faces in place of the ones inked onto the yellowed pages—sometimes his hand would wander south and the sign on the door would bashfully turn itself to 'Closed'.

Until one day it failed him, and he found himself rather unprepared for a detailed discussion of his rare extended edition of 'Moby Dick' with an unreasonably eager customer.

Even that embarrassing little mishap was no cause for concern. Aziraphale was at liberty to make mistakes now, a freedom that was new and intoxicating. He was whistling to himself on his way to the bank later that day, to pay his rent and utility bills, which he habitually handed over in a pristine white envelope.

He was still smiling as the lovely lady behind the counter opened it and fumbled inside. When she raised a strenuously polite eyebrow and showed him that the envelope was empty.

That was when it finally hit him like a cold punch to the throat. All the trivial blunders of the past days and weeks pulled together into a chilling realisation. The angel felt his face drop as he reached up for a spark of magic, and then he felt it. A rigid, brittle fragility, like chewing gum past its expiration date.

He swallowed and shuffled and asked the clerk to please check again. Sure enough, the notes were there, just enough to pay what he owed.

Once he arrived back at the shop, he blew whatever miracles he was still capable of all at once, in a bout of sheer panic, feeling the magic flow less and less willingly each time.

Then it stopped altogether.

~~~

Screw this.

Crowley had been patient enough, and heaven knew that wasn't his strong suit, or shirt, or any part of his attire, really.

The first few weeks of living on a planet astounded by its continued existence had been like walking on sunshine. Both metaphorically, and very literally. Once they could be sure that no one was watching, there had been no reason not to spread their wings now and again. To admire their forever home from on top of the world.

It was a stunning view. Well, watching London glisten like shiny pebbles underneath their feet had been not too shabby either. But Aziraphale was stunning. Glowing with such careless joy whenever he floated on a cloud of fluffy feathers. It would have pulled the ground from underneath Crowley's feet, had there been any.

And maybe there had been ground to think that they could be something new, one day, in the midst of all this new-ness. But Crowley had not wasted too much precious time on those what-abouts. The perfect was the enemy of the almost perfect, the demon knew that better than anyone.

The world had become their oyster, their sashimi platter and mousse au chocolat. Their favourite city was buzzing and laughing and quacking with a whole rainbow of life. Nothing but open doors that took them to quiet restaurants and loud concert halls, and on long walks where it seemed that the grass could not be greener on any side that wasn't theirs.

Until one day he got turned down for the first time since all reasons to turn each other down had been removed.

He couldn't do lunch, Aziraphale’s voice came muttering through the receiver. The shop was busy. Crowley was not given the opportunity to ask an obvious follow-up question of the 'with what, biscuit beetles?' variety.

So, that was a thing. Not one that made a whole lot of sense to him, but the demon chose not to question its thingfulness.

Yet when it kept happening with ever-increasing frequency; when Aziraphale cancelled theatre visits and vernissages, and even failed to turn up to a piss-up in a brewery, which, by the way, Crowley excelled at organising…well, it did not take an evil genius to figure out that something had ruffled his angel's feathers.

It could not have possibly been him, no, the demon had been more careful than ever, despite a growing longing for a different kind of feather ruffling. He would not risk something happening by accident that should not be an accident.

So, what was up that brought Aziraphale down?

Crowley did ask that question the last time they met at a somewhat run-down café of the angel's choosing. His success at interrogating celestial beings had been patchy in the past, and this time was no different. Aziraphale ordered a milky tea and a gossamer-thin slice of the cheapest cake, which he ate in nervous silence, without a single word on his newest ancient books. That was when Crowley started to panic ever so slightly.

He was just busy doing inventory, the angel finally explained. Lots to do. You know what it's like.

Crowley emphatically did not know what it was like to be inundated with work. But he did notice the angel's eyes darting sideways as his hands squeezed the tablecloth into oblivion. It was astonishing, really, how they had tricked both their head offices for millennia, given that Aziraphale was the universe's worst liar.

In the end, the angel wrinkled his adorable nose at the shiny note that Crowley pulled out of thin air and paid for his meagre lunch with exact change instead, adding a generous twenty percent tip. Then he scurried away, leaving the demon to scratch his head in confusion.

Crowley did not want to press the matter. It had always been a tacit agreement between them, not to cross a line in the sand when it had been drawn so clearly. It had kept them safe for centuries. Only there was no longer a reason to hide. The demon's hell radar worked perfectly fine, and had been blissfully silent for months. No one was watching them. No one cared.

Still, he might have left it alone. After all, there had been times in the past when they had not seen each other for years on end. But then Aziraphale turned at the door and flicked him a little glance from underneath feathery lashes. Crowley knew that guardedly pleading look, the one that told him to please do something.

He had never been able to resist that look.

~~~

So this was goodbye, then. Aziraphale sighed, smoothing his hand over the soft leather. It was his favourite of all the bibles, not least because he had added a few helpful clarifications to the third chapter of Genesis.

"One moment, if you please," he forced a courteous smile onto his face, reaching for a sheet of parchment paper, "I shall wrap it for—"

"No, is ok," the customer's thick Russian accent was nearly drowned out by the loud smacking of chewing gum. "I will put here."

He pointed to his greasy rucksack, the damp stain along its bottom seam indicating a recent leak. Aziraphale felt his hands curl into fists. His weekly manicures were no longer a weekly occurrence, allowing his nails to dig angry crescents into his palms. He did tell Crowley once that he would never want to kill anyone, but surely this was the exception that proved the rule.

"Cer-tain-ly," the angel made sure to enunciate each syllable to perfection as he relinquished his treasure.

The door chimed.

~~~

Crowley stared open-mouthed. Aziraphale stood straight as a miserable ramrod behind the counter, handing over his precious Buggre Alle This Bible, the befitting expression of a martyr adorning his face. On the other side of the antique sales desk, a bald, bulky tourist in a gold velour tracksuit was reaching for the tome with grubby paws. There was little about him to suggest a passion for ancient religious texts. If Crowley didn't know any better, he could have sworn that a financial transaction was taking place in the bookshop, in front of his very eyes.

"Angel? What the deuce are you—"

"Shh!" An agitated finger pressed to plump lips. "I am making a sale, as you can well see."

Crowley blinked. Humans claimed that seeing was believing, but on this particular occasion, the demon agreed to disagree.

"I need creepy old book," Gold Velour chipped in unasked, waving a bunch of dollar bills in the angel's disgusted face. "For children Halloween party."

"Oh, no, you don't want that book, my friend," Crowley offered him a sharky grin, ambling closer.

"Be gone," Aziraphale gave a stifled hiss in his direction. Well now, last time Crowley checked, he was the one responsible for all the hissing around these parts.

"And you are who?" Bald Head gave him a once-over dripping with disapproval.

"Nothing more than a friendly stranger," the demon clasped a hand to his heart, "coming to your rescue, to warn you about the ancient curse that resteth upon that wretched booke."

"Eh?"

"Woe is me, for I have already fallen under its wicked spell. Behold…"

With a final stride, Crowley moved protectively in front of his friend, swatting away the heavily beringed fingers still reaching for the bible. He placed his own hand on the weathered cover, removing his sunglasses with the other.

What happened next would later be described by the tourist as a vision of Rasputin's ghost possessing the poor English bastard's body. A monstrous, scaly beast jumping from his neck, golden eyes glowing, poisonous fangs bared. He squeaked, dropped the money, and sprinted out of the shop as fast as his shiny legs would carry him.

"Thank you for your cherished custom," Crowley waved after him, "and on that note, Angel, whatever possessed you to—"

The mischievous grin slid right off the demon's face as he turned to find Aziraphale staring at the notes strewn across the floor with his bottom lip trembling. For all the horrors he had seen in heaven and hell and on this fun rock in-between, watching the angel cry was the one thing that Crowley could not bear.

"Oh, devil, no."

He snapped his fingers, hastily locking the front door. Strangely enough, it showed perfectly regular nine-to-five opening times. He should have known that something was very wrong when he noticed the change on his way in.

"Come on."

Aziraphale gave a convincing ragdoll impression, letting himself be gently but urgently dragged to the backroom by the elbow.

"Sit."

The angel all but collapsed into his armchair, and Crowley's heart followed suit.

"So, what’s rattled your cage, then? Inventory never gets you into such a state. You bloody love counting books!"

"Please, just…"

There it was again, a subtle but all too expressive bobbing of that round chin. Emergency measures were in order.

With another snap of the demon's fingers, three filigree crystal bowls alighted on the small table, each bursting with scoops of colourful dessert.

"How about a spot of ice cream?"

It was worth noting that half a mile from where an upset ethereal entity was currently being comforted, an ordinary family sitting in an ordinary café had a rather extraordinary experience. With a puff of black smoke, their freshly ordered ice creams turned into three plates of salad, each garnished with the helpful note ‘two of your five a day.’

"This is ridiculous, Crowley," Aziraphale sniff-huffed. But then he did pick up one of the bowls and tuck into it with unexpected zest. To the uninitiated observer, it could have almost appeared as if he had been starving his corporation. The thought was laughable, of course. Crowley knew that Aziraphale liked to keep it all soft and supple, thank badness.

Yet, everything seemed off about his angel, now that he was watching him savour his dessert from up close—something that never failed to give them both equal amounts of pleasure.

Aziraphale took pride in looking neat as a pin, though one too beautifully delicate for any actual pinning business. But now his hair and his nails seemed a tad long. A few light stains marred his crumpled lapels, and he did not give off the fragrance of whatever aftershave his barber had been told to sell that month. Which, truth be told, Crowley did not mind at all. He much preferred Aziraphale's own subtle smell of spring mornings and spun sugar.

Under normal circumstances, he would be breathing it in from a few feet away, stretched out on the old leather couch or perched on its armrest, or maybe strolling between the crammed bookshelves as he and the angel gossipped about all the world and his brother.

But these weren't normal circumstances. So the demon drew closer and crouched by the armchair, pulling a flicker of the moulding heat that lurked beneath the crust of the world into his voice.

"Tell me what's bothering you, Angel."

He managed to tickle out an answer that time. It came quietly, and wasn’t what he expected.

"...don't call me that."

"What?"

"What sort of an angel am I?"

"A slightly confused one, I’d say?"

"They cut me off, Crowley!"

Aziraphale finally met his gaze, and the hurt in those eyes and that voice really rammed in the knife.

"Cut off what?" The demon found himself more than just a little concerned.

The words started pouring then, drowning in puddles of vanilla ice cream.

"...upstairs…they locked me out…'cancelled my subscription', as you would say…can't use miracles anymore, not even a smidgeon!"

A few drops of hot, salty liquid dissolved in creamy yellow.

"...can't even say 'Let there be light!' or help a blameless slug that chances across my path…oh, Crowley, I stepped on two slugs just this morning!"

Crowley was starting to get the picture now. His mind was running wild, but his hand was soothing as it wrapped around the angel's shaky fingers.

"...my pockets are empty…don't have the wherewithal to meet you for brunch, or theatre, or…can't even keep my shop if I don't sell!"

Out of Aziraphale's mouth, the innocuous word sounded like the eighth deadly sin.

"...lost my wings, too…oh, what good am I if—"

"Angel."

Crowley made sure to sink all the weight of an anchor into the familiar endearment. It allowed the tight line of that pretty mouth to curl up as Aziraphale squeezed his hand.

"Whatever's going on, 'm sure it's nothing that can't be fixed, just a glitch in the Matrix."

"In the matrix of what?"

"Y'know. A blip in the code of the universe. We'll figure it out. Can't be harder than stopping time. Or, uh, the end of time. Why didn't you tell me?"

The blush of embarrassment on the angel's cheeks was answer enough and Crowley decided not to press the point. He knew what it felt like, the shame of being cast out and stripped of who you thought you were.

He got to his feet, gently pulling his hand from the grip of desperate fingers to reach into his back pocket.

"In the meantime…here."

Aziraphale replaced the empty bowl, wiping his eyes before peeking down.

"Really, my dear?"

Crowley inspected the note in his hand. It had countless zeroes running along its top edge.

"Sorry, I was forgetting myself."

He gave it a shake from the wrist, turning it into a crimson fan of squeaky clean fifty pound notes.

"Can make as many of these as the queen of England. No need to flog your books."

"I don't think royalty is responsible for printing money these days," Aziraphale sat up a little straighter.

"Eh, whatever. You catch my drift. I'll pay your bills, whatever you need."

"So you have not experienced any…miraculous shortcomings?"

The angel eyed him up with a mixture of envy, disbelief, and a dash of disgruntled awe that made Crowley a little weak at the knees.

"No-pe. And if you saw their filing system down there, you wouldn't be surprised I fell through the cracks."

"No Dewey Decimal, I presume?"

Aziraphale was smiling again. Good.

"It’s very generous of you, Crowley, but I cannot accept you paying my way."

Bad.

"Why not? That's what you've been doing since…hm."

The demon cast his mind back to an era when he scoured the beaches for colourful seashells in order to pay for their dinner of flame seared prawns. He did not miss those days.

"Ever since people wrapped their heads 'round the concept of currency, at least. Remember that time you 'tempted' me to try some oysters? Cost me twelve bloody sesterces, that did."

"Well, that’s different," Aziraphale crinkled his pointed nose. "I could have returned the favour!"

"Uh-huh…?"

"I mean, I was going to cover the bill, one day, I simply—"

"—you just don't like handling cold, hard cash with your lily-white angel hands."

"I believe you will find that I have handled my funds rather excellently," Aziraphale quipped primly, nodding to a neat row of folders, each boasting a decade's worth of impeccable tax returns. "As that lovely young man once said," he raised an instructive finger, "'render unto Caesar the things that are Caesar's'."

"Don't think he'd object to me being the money lender in your temple."

"But what if I can never repay the debt?"

"Eh, then I'll have to make do with just the pleasure of your company in exchange."

"No." A determined shake of golden curls. "I do not fancy myself as a burden."

Crowley tilted his head, stuffing both hands into his front pockets. The angel could be as stubborn as a mountain goat sometimes, balancing on a narrow ledge above a dizzy drop. And where they could go from here were dangerous heights indeed, but the view that offered itself up was magnificent. Crowley knew a thing or two about horned creatures, and how to take them by said horns. And still, he had to draw a deep breath before he dared to progress.

"Alright. How 'bout this, then. Maybe you can repay me. I'll keep you in the gravy, and in return...you'll allow me to tempt you a little."

It took another moment of Aziraphale inspecting his overgrown cuticles in despair before the words sunk in and he looked up.

"...tempt, you say?"

There was surprise there, along with a thinly veiled curiosity. And something else, enough to make the skin at the back of Crowley's neck prickle. Oh, he had missed that feeling!

"Yep. Y'know." He casually painted in the air with long fingers. "I whisper suggestions in your ear. You do as I say. Succumb to your darkest desires. The classics."

"Goodness, whatever leads you to believe that I have such—" the angel gave a little wiggle in his seat, "—desires?"

Well, there was the captivating pink sheen spreading across his cheeks, to start with. Crowley felt his own lips spread in response.

"No, you're right," he allowed his words to drag and stretch languidly, "your desires are of a more cream-coloured nature. Still, even tartan has dark streaks. 'S what makes it tartan, no?”

"Sometimes, I find your methods of expression a little difficult to follow."

"Could be sort of a new arrangement. Until we work out how to unblock your miracle hose."

"Let's not call it that, shall we?" The red crept all the way down Aziraphale's neck and slipped underneath his collar. Crowley wondered how far the heat ventured from there. "You’re getting bored with tempting humans then, I presume?"

"Eh, guess I do miss the bad old days, now and again. Messing with people is less fun if I can't even brag to hell about my terrific ideas."

"Terri-something they were, for sure."

"And isn't this the traditional way of paying the devil?"

"Delusions of grandeur…"

Crowley chuckled, glad to see his opposite returning to old form. Here was the bit-of-a-bastard angel that he knew and…well, best not to get into that. The main thing was that he had taken Aziraphale’s mind off his troubles, which was an accomplishment in its own right.

"So, what d'you say? Do we have a deal?"

Aziraphale studied him in silence then. A cautious gaze that slid from the offering of crisp banknotes in his hand, up his arm, to his neck, resting on his smirk for a beat before diving into his eyes. An attempt to coax what lingered below the surface up for a breather. And hell, Crowley had as many inspiring ideas as there were grains of sand, but he wasn’t going to reveal anything but his pearly whites just yet.

“Well, if you must,” the angel finally surrendered with a sigh so theatrical it would have made old Bill Shakespeare proud. “But I wager you’ll be rather disappointed.”

The demon doubted that very much.

“Great! Pick you up around lunchtime tomorrow,” he dropped the cash between two bowls of half-molten ice cream and waltzed out of the room before Aziraphale could consider changing his mind.

Crowley had a spring in his step as he entered his flat later that day, yet by the time he stood in front of his safe he was feeling rather sombre. His sigh was not theatrical at all as he opened the heavy iron door, picked up the object inside and got to work.

~~~

There were some splendid options to choose from: bluebell and champagne, latte and azure, cornflower and caramel…Aziraphale was justifiably proud of his tartan bow tie collection. Each one would look suitably handsome hugging his collar, yet his fingers were still hesitant as they hovered over fine linen.

He had nothing to be concerned about. Or rather, he had far more pressing matters to be concerned about than just your average we-shan't-call-this-a-date date with Crowley.

Granted, today wasn't entirely average, but the arrangement had taught the angel a thing or two about temptations. The whole trick was to lead your opposite into doing what they already wished for, deep down. It had always struck Aziraphale as cheating rather than honest-to-Devil work, but what else could one expect from downstairs?

Speaking of downstairs, the wily old serpent would not possibly use their new arrangement to make him—

Make him!

A rude little shiver snaked the length of the angel's spine. He quickly grabbed one of the beige-and-blue strips of fabric and tied it around his neck, as if turning himself into a present.

He had nothing to worry about because he was incapable of wishing for the wrong thing, just as he was incapable of doing wrong. Crowley had seemed very sure of that, back in the garden. Because Aziraphale was an—

Angel.

He smiled at himself in the mirror, plucking at the immaculate bow he had made. Some things never changed. He had been silly, really, trying to hide from Crowley. Too scared to see those bright eyes dull when inspecting him, to lose their devoted glow along with his magic. To be no longer deserving of Crowley's moniker for him, the endearment he had always accepted so naturally...

Tell me what's bothering you, Angel.

It had never meant more than yesterday when Crowley was crouched by his side, looking at him with such worry hidden underneath a warm blanket of comfort. Aziraphale could have leaned down and kissed him just then, tasted his lips, threaded a hand through his tresses. It would have been easy. One twitch of a muscle. One second of forever. Too easy. Too human. Too—

"Well look at you all fine and dandy."

A serpentine grin flashed up in the mirror, hovering above his left shoulder. Aziraphale jumped out of his little daydream, suddenly aware that Crowley's face was the first one he had seen that day. There had not been a single customer. Perhaps the note on his door had returned to its usual—or, rather, unusual—opening hours; or all of London had been struck with an inexplicable case of temporary analphabetism. It wouldn't have been the first time!

He turned to the only face that he still wished to see, even in his sorry state.

"Ready to roll?"

"Won't you have to buy me a lovely filling lunch first?"

"All in due course."

Despite the sunglasses, Aziraphale could feel the demon's eyes hone in on him.

"Come on."

A sweeping gesture towards the door.

"What devious scheme have you concocted?"

"That's for me to know and you to find out."

"But—"

"Nuh-uh," Crowley wagged a warning finger in his direction, sauntering over to the coat stand. "We're not even out the door yet and you're protesting already? That won't fly, Angel."

He picked Aziraphale's trusty trench from its hook, holding it open for him with a twinkle in his eye.

"Chop chop now."

Aziraphale swallowed and hesitated; then tried the swallowing part again to find that his mouth had gone utterly dry. Something was different about Crowley today. Were his shoulders even wider? Were his trousers even tighter? Was his flaming-like-anything hair defying gravity more boldly?

No, this was still his oldest friend and partner in crime against the ineffable plan. Why, then, did he coax out these thoughts that weren’t entirely of a friendly nature? Crowley had not changed, but the floor beneath them was slanting, drifting, leaving the angel wobbly on his feet as he approached.

"I'll have you know, I only lost my magic," Aziraphale huffed, turning his back to Crowley and slipping on his coat, "not my ability to dress!"

"Just making sure you don't strain yourself," the demon's voice curled playfully around his ear, "got big plans for you."

For a brief moment, Aziraphale forgot how to breathe, a skill he had practised so diligently for six millennia. Oh, they had played games before, and plenty at that. Some to let shackles fall, others to bring down whole houses of glass and stone. One could not fault the theatrics of a flamboyant rescue, but this here was no idle pastime.

He really was in Crowley's hands now. The demon's large palms were smoothing the stress out of his system along with the wrinkles in the cotton. What if he leaned back into their warmth and—

"Aziraphale..."

It sounded more sober and sotto voce, a stage director peeking out from behind the velvet curtain.

"...you don't really have to pay me back in favours. You know that, right?"

Aziraphale did not need to see his face to know the look of unassuming affection it likely carried. Even when Crowley wasn't around, the angel could see the quirk of his sharp brows and expressive mouth clear as day. Or, maybe, clear as neon-lit night, in his case.

"Fiddlesticks! You are wonderful at spoiling me, Crowley." He was more acutely aware of it than ever before. "It will be my pleasure to indulge you."

"I'm counting on it," the pair of firm hands remained on Aziraphale's shoulders for one more titillating beat. "Let's 'get a wiggle on', shall we?"

~~~

By popular demonic opinion, lunchtime was a great time to start your day, and in the estimation of one particular demon, 'Sharp As Hell' was a great place to start it.

The salon was far from Aziraphale's usual turf, sporting a distinct lack of stuffy old geezers mumbling about their stuffy old issues through soggy limp terry towels covering their mugs.

Crowley, on the other hand, was a known entity around these parts. Not that he would ever let anyone touch his glorious hair, Satan forbid; one swirl of a finger was all it took to shape it into the current flavour of the month.

But he did enjoy hanging out in the ridiculously priced parlour where Judas Priest blasted from the speakers, the light was equally loud, and a bunch of tattooed beauty artists wielded their scissors like katanas. It was a little dangerous and a lot stylish, just the way Crowley liked it.

Occasionally, he could be found slinking between the black leather chairs, flirting with the staff and nudging the patrons a little further into the skin-deep embrace of their own vanity.

Not that Aziraphale needed much help in that regard. What he did need, however, was some all-round pampering, which Crowley was quick to impart on the receptionist with a smattering of large notes manifesting on the counter.

"My friend here has had a few taxing weeks," the demon purred, casually ignoring the 'Strictly by appointment only!' sign on the wall. "We'll need hair, shave, nails, the whole shebang."

"She what now?"

Aziraphale seemed more than a little concerned as he was whisked away to a miraculously empty chair by an eager assistant. A moment later, a young individual with pink and blue hair and a ring in their nose planted themselves in front of him, giving him an appraising look.

"Crowley, I'm not sure I—oohh—"

The rest of Aziraphale's protests dissolved in a quiet sigh of contentment as nimble fingers sank into his hair, massaging his scalp. Crowley lived for those little noises. He was pretty sure he could die for those little noises, but that wouldn't be half the fun. He observed with plenty of contentment of his own as his fussy angel gave habitually comprehensive instructions, having quickly warmed to his new stylist. The ten commandments were but cautious suggestions by comparison.

"Oh, Crowley, I rather missed this," Aziraphale beamed at him from between the deft hands of the stylist as the demon sprawled himself across a nearby sofa.

"I know."

"But," the beam of sunshine took a mildly suspicious turn, "I'll admit it's not my hobby horse, but this is barely what I would call a temptation. What are you—"

"Don't worry about me," Crowley grinned, picking up a complimentary copy of 'Inside Soap' and the triple espresso that someone had delivered to him unasked. "You enjoy yourself, Angel. I'll have my fun."

And so he did, looking up from the latest Corrie drama now and again to watch Aziraphale's eyes flutter shut. To see his brows crinkle in quiet delight at the attention he was receiving. The angel wasn’t generally a hug-and-cheek-kiss kind of being; but, hell, when required or justified by the context, he liked being touched.

Crowley knew, and Aziraphale did little to hide it wherever he peeked through half lidded eyes, watching him in turn. Smiling at him so primly as someone else's fingers carded through his curls, lathered his cheeks with creamy soap and rubbed lotion into his hands.

Crowley enjoyed the twists it gave his stomach as much as the twitches lower down. Jealousy was a quintessentially hellish emotion, and he knew how to savour it. And yet…

Something was different, swelling and cresting in the angel's wave blue gaze. There was that same teasing admiration they'd always held for each other. The same unconditional love. And its hot undercurrent was barely new, but now it was bubbling to the surface, spilling through the cracks in the shifting ground. The gratitude in Aziraphale's eyes was as genuine as it was giving. And, oh, Crowley wished nothing more than to take. But what if, once all was given and taken—what if nothing remained?

"Thank you, Crowley," the angel breathed as his neatly rounded nails were given another polish. "I am feeling rather more like myself…"

"Just one more thing," the demon gave his best Columbo impression, peeling himself off the sofa. He strolled behind Aziraphale's chair, leaning down. The whole whisper-in-your-ear routine was corny, sure, hardly the methods of a modern demon of the world. But it was heaps of fun.

"You've never had your nails painted, Angel. You thought it might be over the top, even for you. But you’ve been wondering what they’d look like, all colourful and pretty, haven't you?"

Crowley's lips weren't quite touching skin, but he could feel the wisp of a shiver creeping over the angel's body before rippling through his own corporation.

"How 'bout a jazzy blue to match your eyes?"

~~~

Aziraphale admired the lovely iridescent colour every time that he lifted a bite to his mouth, only mildly piqued to admit that Crowley knew him better than he knew himself.

"Oh dear," he finally leaned back in his chair, dabbing his lips, "I appreciate us progressing from pride to gluttony, but you cannot possibly fancy me consuming all of this."

His stomach might have waved the white flag, but his eyes were still feasting on a spread of dishes so sumptuous the table was groaning underneath their weight. Crowley had wanted to visit the newly opened Asian Fusion joint for a while, and Aziraphale was fearful that his arteries might be the ones to be fused shut with all the greasy goodness of it.

"Oh, I think I can fancy you..." the demon offered a shameless grin, picking a red chilli from one of the steaming bowls and chewing it whole "...scoffing a boatload. Especially when it's my treat."

Crowley might have been the one with the spicy food habit, but Aziraphale felt the colour rise in his own cheeks. He had been looking forward to a scrumptious lunch after surviving on nothing but Waitrose Essentials for weeks. But watching the demon’s reddened lips now filled his stomach with a flutter, more delicious than even the Korean glazed chicken wings that remained untouched on his plate.

"I believe I’m ready for dessert."

"Praise the almighty for creating a special stomach for that," Crowley laughed and nodded.

There was a flash of heat, followed by the subtle aroma of smouldering coal. Instantly, three suspiciously keen waiters appeared out of nowhere to clear away their plates.

It had been a pleasing pattern ever since they left the shop. No puddles under the angel's step, no tree branches in his face, no red lights, no screaming cabs. He wasn't even missing his magic when he was with Crowley. In a way, Crowley was his magic. He never knew that being powerless could feel like this, that it could be anything but the cold dread of staring into passionless purple eyes. That it could be something sweet.

"I wonder—"

He reached for the dessert menu—only to have it snapped up from underneath his nose.

"Nope. I'll be ordering your pudding."

Another heat flare. A devious grin. A long finger pointing at an item that had no business strutting its stuff between green tea mochi and mango sticky rice.

"That is…undignified," Aziraphale gasped.

"C'mon, we all crave a little break from being all posh and dignified sometimes."

"And how would you know, pray tell?"

"'Cause I can see your mouth watering right now."

Aziraphale huffed and swallowed and gave a pointed little shrug, but Crowley was not wrong. He felt almost giddy when the tempting monstrosity was brought to him. A deep fried Mars bar. On a stick.

"Have a taste," the demon purred, leaning forward, a nimble tongue darting out to wet his lips.

"You are enjoying yourself, aren't you? Fiend..."

"Ye-p."

"Alright, well…here we go."

The burst of delight in the angel's mouth was as unexpected as the moan that escaped it.

"Oh, Lord—"

Crisp, buttery pastry, velvety nougat and silky warm caramel that spilled from one corner of his mouth.

"Good?"

The pad of Crowley's thumb caught the drop of sticky gold as it crawled down his chin, lifting it to his own mouth.

"Mmh."

The demon smiled, sucking on his thumb.

"Yes, very good."

~~~

The rest of the afternoon was filled with equally mischievous pursuits, coaxing the angel to sin a little, smile a lot and allow himself to be distracted from his miraculous woes.

There was the brief visit to The London Library, where, by a fortunate twist of fate, the door to the safe storage had been left unlocked. They spent some time admiring the world's smallest versions of the authorised Bible (Aziraphale) and the Divina Commedia (Crowley). On their way out, the angel gave in to the wicked temptation of tampering with the alphabetical order of the tiny tomes, out of sheer spite for not being able to take them home. Crowley crossed 'envy' off his list.

A short while later, they were sauntering past a long line of bleary-eyed tourists clasping their pre-booked tickets to catch a lofty ride on the London Eye. Once at the top, Crowley threw all health and safety precautions to the wind, quite literally. The glass panes around them dissolved into crisp air, tempting Aziraphale to scream his discontent with Gabriel and his less-than-merry band of heavenly pricks across the Thames. That was 'wrath'. Well, it would have been wrath, had Aziraphale not opted for thou meddling tickle-brained puttock as his insult of choice. Crowley let it slide, too busy shaking with laughter and trying to avoid falling out of the window in the process.

‘Greed’ was next, and Crowley knew just the thing.

"Perfect buns?" Aziraphale gave him a quizzical look. "A...bakery, perchance?"

"Hm. Guess again."

The angel seemed understandably sceptical as they walked towards the crooked, thatched and brick-faced shop that stood out like an ancient thumb between two gaudy bars.

"I never knew there was such a place in Soho."

"Eh, well, ten minutes ago, it didn't know about it either. 'S just taking a little break from its usual spot, up in the Highlands."

Aziraphale chuckled, wiping his feet on the tartan foot mat outside the door.

"What?"

"Oh, no, nothing..."

"Spill."

"Just—it's droll, isn't it? I lost my magic, and you—you are so—"

He made a vague gesture circling Crowley's frame, followed by a quiet glance. There had always been glances. Stolen at first, soon to be replaced by ones that were given and taken freely, but still spelled a crime.

Now there was no hell to pay; no heaven, either. Crowley could have peeled through all the layers in that wistful glance, the little 'so'. Maybe dropped some of his own peel. But if he did it now, he could never do it again, not for the first time.

Time was a fickle thing. Mostly, the future had the common decency to turn itself over to the present smoothly enough. Yet sometimes it stalled and stumbled and ran scared. Some gaps between a present and its future were more safely crossed by flights of fancy alone.

"Don't tell me you find me moving a shop for you more impressive than—dunno—stopping bloody time?"

"I suppose it will depend on what's inside."

"Why don't we check it out?"

"After you."

Once they had entered the shop, the angel's pretty round eyes widened to veritable dessert plates.

"Oh my wig and whiskers, Crowley!"

“Nah, don’t think you’ll get those here, but probably whatever else your tartan-loving heart desires."

It was no exaggeration. From its half timber ceilings to its plush cream carpets, the shop was wall-to-wall, shelf-to-shelf, a plaid aficionado's wet dream. Or so Crowley imagined, it wasn't exactly his scene. But the angel looked like a kid in a candy shop. Or, well, like Aziraphale in a candy shop. And that was the main thing.

"I figured, you should treat yourself to some more tartan than just that little bow tie. By which I mean, I'll treat you to more tartan."

They were certainly spoiled for choice of cheerfully chequered clothes, accessories, home décor and all kinds of weird and dubiously wonderful paraphernalia. The shop looked bigger on the inside, and maybe it was.

"I suppose, I could do with a new pair of—"

"Nu-uh, not that," Crowley pried a set of gold and tartan cufflinks from the angel's hands. "I was thinking something a bit bolder."

He strolled over to a nearby clothes rail, rummaging through the motley options until he found just the one.

"Are you lambing me?"

"'Kidding', Angel. And nope, this is perfect!" Crowley grinned as he held up a caramel and pale blue kilt that matched Aziraphale's bow tie surprisingly well. Miraculously well, one might say.

"Remember, when we were both wearing these thingamajigs? What year was that—"

"Fifteen forty-five, if I'm not mistaken."

"When are you ever?"

"The 'Rough Wooing'. Oh, those poor children. One of your lot's brilliant ideas, I believe."

"Nah, don't think so. We prefer to woo smoothly."

"Haven't noticed."

Aziraphale huffed dismissively, but a twitch of his brow and a tremor of his lip assured the demon that he remembered.

It had been a good look on Crowley: the coarse black leather kilt that rode up his toned thighs, revealing a little more than decency would suggest; paired with fox furs draped across his bare shoulders—a flaming extension of his ginger braids glowing against his sun-kissed skin.

The way that Aziraphale had marvelled at him then, undressing him the rest of the way with his eyes. The way that he was looking at him now—

"It was…a long time ago, Crowley."

"A lot of things were a long time ago, with us."

A lot of things could have been, an awfully long time ago.

"I miss seeing those snazzy pins you got under there. Indulge me, Angel."

"But—"

Oh, hell, why did he have to blush so prettily, like the break of bloody day! No, like the mending of day. Maybe they had to lose their careful balance to finally fall, that last push and shove and red-cheeked yield.

It was nothing but practice and a dash of demonic chutzpah that kept Crowley steady as he approached, handing Aziraphale the tartan padded hanger. Their fingers touched longer than they had to, but not as long as they needed to.

"Look around, there's no one here. Just us."

The shop was not just empty, but a tumbleweed level of deserted. They were all alone between the aisles, in London, on the planet.

Well, apart from the broadly smiling assistant who stood at a respectful distance, giving them space. Of which there was precious little left between them now.

"It seems…I’m not getting a say in the matter," Aziraphale muttered from a breath away, and there was something so heated in his eyes, his voice, a spark that spelled you can make me, so make me, what are you waiting for, oh please—

"Not really, no," Crowley heard himself confirm.

Another stuttered breath and the demon was left to his own devices, crackling with electricity. The shop assistant offered the expected idle chatter as she picked matching accessories, leading his angel away.

Crowley stared down at his snake shoes, as if they held all the answers. As if he didn't know the answers, questioning expert that he was. As if more was needed than simply putting his best foot forward. Walking up to the changing room. Brushing his knuckles along the smooth folds of the curtain.

He was tempted to grab it and squeeze it and pull it aside an inch. To have a peek and take in the wonders unfurling behind soft velvet.

But that was not the plan, was it? For him to be tempted?

"Angel?"

Of course, Aziraphale had long mastered the art of tempting. He had learnt from the best.

"How're you getting on in there?"

"Oh, fine, hm, all tip-top…"

A symphony of muffled fumbling.

"...just need to…insert this…here…"

Crowley closed his eyes, allowing lewd images to flood his brain.

"You've not forgotten the proper way to wear it, have you?"

The fumbling noises came to a screeching halt.

"You cannot mean—"

"Oh, yes. I haven't tampered with the shop's name for nothing."

"Oh."

A sudden realisation.

"Oh. Buns. I see. Painful, even for you."

"Don't tell me it doesn't make you grin."

"Grin and bear it, more likely."

"Bare it sounds about right."

Crowley licked his lips, heart throbbing in his chest. Far from the only thing that throbbed.

"...if you so wish."

Oh, boy, did he wish. True, there had always been too much at stake, but now the stake was too hot to care.

"I think I'm ready."

Crowley backed off and Aziraphale stepped out, a curtain call to all doubts.

"Unholy fuck!"

There were no words, just the popping sound of a mind lost at the rare sight of bared knees.

“That looks gorgeous on you, Sir," the assistant confirmed, somewhat more eloquently.

"It rather does."

The angel admired his tartaned-up behind in the mirror before lifting his gaze to soak up the admiration in Crowley's eyes.

"Doesn't it?"

A question teetering between a challenge and a plea.

"Eh, y'do make tartan look stylish," the demon admitted, "now there's a miracle for you."

"We're just missing a matching sporran, let me check in the back..."

The assistant rushed off. The air in Crowley's lungs attempted the same manoeuvre as one of the garter flashes slipped away, allowing the hose to crawl down Aziraphale's leg.

"Oh, bother," the angel fussed, reaching down for the rebellious sock.

"Wait."

Crowley crossed the distance in one stumbling heartbeat, sinking to one knee in front of him.

"Let me."

He held his breath, pinching the wool between his fingertips and rolling it up Aziraphale's soft, round calf. Slowly. Watching it slide over smooth skin dusted with golden hair.

"Crowley..."

The quiet exhale of his name barely registered, drowned out by the thrum of a soaring pulse in his ears. He picked the garter from the floor and fastened the elastic, then carefully pressed down with both hands, savouring the scratch of the woven fabric against his palms; the warmth of the skin hidden underneath—

"Crowley."

This time, he did look up, past the folds of thick wool hugging ample hips and the stretch of thin cotton across the swell of a belly, straight into a pair of nervous eyes.

"Unless I’m miscounting…," a pink tongue peeped out to slicken plump lips and it was almost too much to take, "...we have covered all the cardinal sins…apart from one."

"One?" Crowley allowed himself a little smirk, hands inching past the ribbing of the hose to graze sensitive skin. "You sure 'bout that?"

"Fine," Aziraphale gasped, red as a poppy, and Crowley felt the goosebumps coaxed out by his touch rise against his fingertips; daring them to move up, up, until they could slip underneath the teasing hem of the kilt. A few more inches and he might well be able to...

"Granted, there's also sloth, but—"

The angel's hands clenched to fists, once, twice—then moved to settle on Crowley's shoulders. Now it was the demon’s turn for a sharp breath.

"—we've done nothing but stare at each other all day, which is slothful enough in my books."

"Hm," Crowley considered it thoughtfully, stroking Aziraphale's trembling inner thigh with his thumb.

"These frankly ludicrous things we've been doing, Crowley—"

Was he referring to their day's smorgasbord of activities, or the centuries of circling each other?

"—it's not what you truly want."

"And what do you want?" Crowley whispered, even though he could smell the angel’s arousal, like apples baked in honey, making his head spin. The seventh sin shone so brightly from blue eyes. But he needed to hear it, too. Needed to know, with all of his senses.

"I—" the hands on his shoulders gave a little squeeze before sliding down his arms, to his hands, pulling him to his feet. The next words were all but muttered against his mouth. "I want you to take—take the proper reward for spoiling me. Whatever you desire."

It would have been the perfect moment for a first kiss—but any moment with the angel had been perfect by necessity. Crowley had learnt the hard way to distrust perfection. The hard, hot and sulphuric way. But here was a fall that would lift him up, not—

"—not designed to match, but this will work very nicely still."

The shop assistant made an unwelcome reappearance, carrying some trinket. Crowley kept his gaze firmly locked with his friend's as he grabbed it, carelessly dropping a bunch of notes onto a nearby shelf. He took Aziraphale's hand.

"C'mon."

They stepped out into the twilit streets of Soho, ignoring the "Gentlemen! We don't accept English banknotes here!" screamed after them.

~~~

Only, this was no longer Soho. To its own continued amazement, the shop had moved for the second time in the space of an hour, finding itself next door to Crowley's block of flats.

Aziraphale chuckled, and the demon grinned in response. His magic was radiating off of him, more striking than ever, painting his hair a more brilliant red, making him even more beautiful, more irresistible, more—

More.

They flew up the stairs and faced each other in that evergreen garden of potted plants and shared memories.

‘Don't worry about breaking me,’ Aziraphale said with his eyes alone. ‘I want you to crack me open, like the sugar skin on a crème brûlée.’

Crowley smiled and nodded, approaching in full-blown orchestral slow motion to rest a warm hand on the bend of his neck.

Then Crowley kissed him—finally!—finally kissed him, hungry and tender and everything that he had always imagined a kiss to be. A touch that stripped him bare, yet made him feel more secure with each brush of Crowley's soft lips against his.

Aziraphale sighed into it, eyes closed in bliss, fingers lost in silky hair; floating on the flutter in his stomach when a strong arm wrapped around his waist and pulled him closer, closer, flush against the demon’s heat.

It was impossibly easy to follow such a confident lead; to let Crowley guide him with a thumb on his jaw until he found a more intimate angle, nudging his lips gently apart. To open up and surrender to the slow possession of his mouth. Crowley’s hand slid up the back of his neck for a more determined hold, deepening the kiss, making his head swim deliciously with each dive of a skillful tongue. Allowing him to sway and sink in, and when a new hardness brushed up against the building tension in his own groin, he lost the use of his legs altogether.

Not that he had a need for them now that their bodies appeared to have moved to the bed, with a firm mattress against his back and Crowley stretched out on top, kissing his face, stroking through his hair and down his side, ready to devour him.

Aziraphale tensed involuntarily, suddenly overwhelmed, heart thumping wildly inside his ribcage. For a moment, he wasn’t sure if the demon would even notice, caught in the heat.

But Crowley noticed. Crowley always noticed. He stopped and leaned away, looking utterly dishevelled, all tousled hair and molten eyes.

“I lied to you, Angel.”

“Of course,” Aziraphale babbled, reaching up to comb through his tresses, hopelessly lightheaded, “you’re a demon.”

“I lied. You have a say in the matter. You have all the say. Can always say ‘no’.”

“No!”

“So—no?”

“No, I mean, ‘no’ to the ‘no’.”

“So—yes?”

“Yes, oh God, yes!”

“Let’s not bring the almighty into this, shall we?”

They laughed giddily in each other’s arms, all tension gone; except for the hardly unwelcome one between the angel's legs.

Crowley was still giggling softly as he let his weight sink down, nuzzling Aziraphale's neck while his hand busied itself with the bow tie. Soon the quiet puffs turned into greedy sucks along his exposed jugular, tasting him with a hint of teeth grazing the skin.

Aziraphale's head tilted back of its own accord to the sound of his breath quickening. His body hummed, unfurling, giving itself over to that talented mouth as it moved down his chest in the wake of nimble fingers opening his shirt.

For someone not too fond of food, the demon most certainly knew how to make a meal of him. Aziraphale was busy melting like bright pink sugar glaze when the touch making him so hot and sticky was suddenly removed. He squinted up.

Crowley sat between his spread legs, smirking down with that alluring tilt to his mouth.

“Are you in the nip underneath there, Angel? Like I requested?”

A pair of curious hands alighted on his knees, smoothing up his thighs below the pleated skirt. This time, they weren’t going to stop.

“S-see for yourself…,” Aziraphale shivered, dizzy with anticipation. He gazed up into the glow of Crowley’s eyes as the tartan slid up his bare legs, until—

“What a good angel you are.”

Simple words of praise that swept through him in a wave of heat so dazzling he nearly lost his mind. And that was before Crowley leaned down and took him all the way into his mouth.

Aziraphale's hands shot up to clasp over his sweaty face, but too late to catch a startled cry at the deliriously slick pressure. A warm, heavy tongue swirled around him, lapping at the tip. And without warning, the pent-up need burnt through his body all at once, strained nerves bursting with pleasure and overloading as he spilled down Crowley's throat.

It took a few moments of floating high as a sunlit cloud before realisation hit him, making him groan in embarrassment and hide his face even more thoroughly behind shaky hands.

“Oh, Lord…”

He could feel Crowley’s weight moving up his body, followed by feather-light kisses along his knuckles.

“Hey, Angel…you in there?”

The demon’s nose rubbed against his fingers, nudging them apart. Finally, Aziraphale dared to peek between them and meet that justifiably smug grin.

“Well…can I get a wahoo?”

“...Heh…I’m terribly sorry…I don’t believe this was meant to happen like that…”

“Think you need to retake Human Anatomy 101.”

“No, I know it happens eventually,” the angel huffed, removing his hands, “but not so fast, and I should have said—”

“Oh, shush now, you silly creature,” Crowley muttered, catching his lips in a slow kiss that made him remember all those beautiful happy chemicals coursing through his veins. Fighting anything coming out of the demon's mouth had always been a losing battle.

"Silly?"

"Yeah, but scrumptious, as you might put it. Utterly scrumptious."

Aziraphale chuckled, dissolving into the heady pulse of the afterglow, the demon's familiar scent and brand new taste, the captivating warmth of his skin…Skin!

He cracked open one eye to confirm that Crowley had miraculously lost his attire. Aziraphale took a moment to admire his chiselled shoulders and the striking beauty of his hard, sinewy body…one part of which was notably harder than others, sliding up against him to make him twitch in response.

"We don't have to stop yet," Crowley murmured around his bottom lip, "you'll recover in a flash, with a little help from your friend."

"Ah, that Beatles reference…I understood," the angel panted as a determined hand slipped between his legs.

"You're learning."

"I suppose…there are a few things you c—ooh!"

"Yes?”

Crowley pressed a soft kiss to his mouth as another long, slick finger entered him.

"—teach me," Aziraphale whimpered, one hand tangled in auburn hair, the other clenched in his pillow as Crowley's fingers bent and flexed, sparking jolts of electricity.

"Happy to."

The afterglow was burning brighter and deeper with each gentle stroke of the demon’s tongue in his mouth as he was being caressed from the inside. Until it was no longer a glow but a fire blazing where his stomach used to be.

"Is this…magic?"

It had to be, with the way Crowley's easy touch made him tremble uncontrollably.

"Yeah," the demon smiled, kissing a bead of sweat from his forehead, "but not our kind. Human magic."

"Hn—"

"Ready for round two?"

The demon removed his miraculous fingers, shifting to adjust the angle of their hips. Aziraphale spread his legs a little wider in response, a hard, velvety heat pressing against him where he had been left desperately sensitive.

"W-wait—" he wheezed, clenching Crowley’s shoulders.

It was a laughable thing to worry about, really, for someone like him—an immortal entity.

"I…um…"

"You've never done this before? With your corporation?"

Laughable! Him, who had spent millennia on earth, blending in, indulging in all those quaint fancies that brought humans joy…but Crowley did not laugh.

"Not like this, not...this…"

One of the demon's brows quirked up, inviting him to proceed.

"...but I want to, with you…I'm just…not sure what to do, precisely…to please you…so—"

The next words were drowned in a kiss so fiery and tender it made his toes curl.

"Not much for you to do, Angel," Crowley muttered. Aziraphale had never heard his voice quite like this, so rich and thick with lust. "Just lie back and let me enjoy my compensation."

There was a spark of mischief in his eyes, lighting up the dark, ravenous haze around the edges; and underneath it all, the unwavering warmth of age-old affection.

"Yes," Aziraphale breathed, closing his eyes as he settled back into the pillow. His body felt heavy, thrumming with arousal as it waited for Crowley to take control. But his mind was light and cloudless, not a doubt, not one shred of guilt.

"Yeah, just like that," Crowley whispered fondly, making Aziraphale tingle with the appreciation in his voice, the hand cupping his cheek and the light touch of lips that promised: "I'm going to make you feel amazing…"

He melted against that tempting mouth as Crowley pressed inside, slowly, carefully, letting him feel each delicious inch stretching him.

It would have been the strangest sensation, another body nestled inside his own, frankly a ridiculous concept. If it weren't the body he had been craving to touch for centuries on end. If it didn't belong to the only being he had always been safe with.

"Are we..." he reached up with both hands to touch Crowley's face. A face that he knew every line and freckle of, that he had often caressed with his eyes; and now he could run his fingers along its achingly familiar features. "...are we really...doing this?"

Crowley didn’t respond, just took one of his hands to kiss his palm, making his heart flutter in delight.

Their fingers interlaced in fine cotton sheets as the demon started moving inside him. Tentative little nudges at first that kept him buried so deep, Aziraphale felt every twitch of his hips like a burst of heat radiating through his own body.

Until he was ready for more thorough thrusts that made him shake and gasp and squeeze Crowley's hand for dear life. He had long given up on holding back all those needy whimpers and noises of approval at being breached and filled and taken again and again. Crowley deserved to hear how good it felt, to be his, to taste his lips after every moan and hold him as he unravelled. They both deserved it all!

The angel’s senses were going into blissful overdrive as Crowley rocked into him more urgently, making his insides throb and clench. He could feel the tension building deep in his core, sweet and heavy and intoxicating. Aziraphale was better prepared for it this time.

Crowley paused for a breathless second to lift his thighs, a subtle tilt that made him whine and sweat out of every pore.

"Good, isn't it? Right there?"

"Yes—" Aziraphale sobbed, nails digging into the small of Crowley's back. Relentless hips rolled underneath his fingers, snapping against him with short, sharp, deliberate movements, "oh—oh my—please—Crow—I'm going to—"

"I know—"

Crowley cradled his burning face in his hands, cushioning him when he started to come apart, kissing him softly as light spilled from within, rolling through him head to toe until every cell in his body shattered with pleasure.

He was floating in that all-consuming pool of heat when a long split tongue jerked between his parted lips and shuddered inside his mouth. Crowley groaned, dissolving into a flurry of frantic thrusts.

Then all was still. Nothing but the comforting rhythm of breathing in and out in perfect harmony.

After a while Crowley rolled them over onto their sides, and they remained there with every part of their bodies entangled, arms, legs, lips—every inch of damp, heated skin molten together.

On the admittedly not too rare occasions that Aziraphale had imagined them getting to know each other in the biblical sense, he had always feared that the moments after would be clumsy and sticky and terribly awkward. Undignified, even.

It was nothing like that when he opened his eyes to find Crowley looking at him with such bottomless content it made his chest feel too tight for his lungs.

The expressions on Crowley's face changed as frivolously as did his hair. Aziraphale thought he knew their whole range by now. Cynical nonchalance and giddy excitement, smirking curiosity and amused indulgence, eye-rolling affection and anguish veiled in snark. Content, however, that was new.

"This was…" Aziraphale’s voice was a mere croak and he had to clear his throat, only to find that there were no words to fit the occasion.

"Yeah," Crowley agreed, stroking his cheek, "...my Angel."

One small syllable added to elevate the meaning, from longing to belonging. Aziraphale didn't know that it would touch him so profoundly, to be touched like this. A silly creature he had been indeed, to think that they were ever in any danger of becoming something less.

"So, this is what I shall now be expected to give you, in return for you paying my bills?"

This game had turned out to be far too enticing to give it up already.

“Well," Crowley grinned, looking magnificently blissed out, "doesn't always have to be exactly this. There are many ways. You'll see."

And so he did.

A sizable portion of the next few weeks was spent, as Crowley might have put it in one of his colourful idioms, 'going at it like rabbits'. No piece of furniture in the flat and the bookshop alike, no stretch of wall or speck of carpet had been left untouched in their valiant efforts to make up for the last six thousand years. And sometimes, when Aziraphale knelt by the ornate throne with Crowley’s hands placed reassuringly on his shoulders, he could feel his wings sprout more freely than ever before.

~~~

A whole new flavour of freedom, warm and filling, with just the right touch of tang. Like the last bite of the Tarte Tatin melting in his mouth as he dissolves into Crowley’s palm.

Sugar meeting naked heat for a perfect happy ending.

Crowley smiles into the rhythm of his hand's swift final swirls underneath the table.

It's yet another new adventure, watching his angel come in silence, with nothing to betray him but the crease of his brow and the twitch of his lip; the firm tightening of his fist in the crisp white cloth. The way he forgets where they are, or when—all the sounds and smells and the people dining around them. Everything but Crowley’s touch.

The demon leans in for a brief kiss, sucking shaky breaths from his mouth.

"Nice dessert?"

"Mmm," Aziraphale's hand curls around his neck, and suddenly the kiss is no longer brief. "You'll get us banned one day, with your tomfoolery."

"Nah, this place, I'll make sure we never get kicked out of."

Crowley leans back in his chair, hoping to keep an easy smile on his face. Now that the pleasant distraction is gone, he can’t stop the sinking feeling. A fun new experience together, there could be so many more, but—

"Got something for you, Angel."

"Something else?"

Aziraphale chuckles, but there is something in Crowley's eyes that makes him tense and start fumbling with his new tie; finest Japanese silk, straight from Kyoto. The demon has been spoiling him something rotten. Perhaps he's had enough, it would only be reasonable if—

"Here," a small wooden box appears in front of him, "don't worry, 's not a ring or anything."

There is the slightest twitch of disappointment at one corner of the angel's eye.

"Open it."

Aziraphale stares at the filigree carvings on the lid—and why does it feel like something might be closing?

He frowns as he lifts it with one hesitant finger.

"What do we have here, pray tell?"

"That," Crowley points at a slim vial of sparkling liquid, "'s gonna give you your magic back, if I'm right. And let's face it, I always am."

Aziraphale's heart is pounding so loudly it nearly drowns out the eager elaborations that follow.

"Been busy doing some investigations for you, the last few weeks. I knew there'd be something, in the book—"

"A book?"

"Um, yeah, might've gotten my hands on the sequel of that nutter's worstseller."

"Agnes Nutter?"

"That's the one."

"The second volume? That Anathema burnt?"

"Yep—that was after I had my minions intercept the parcel and make a copy."

"You made what?"

"Well, y'know, not me personally, sent one of the guys to the copy shop—"

"You put a centuries old tome on a Xerox machine?"

"Not the point, is it?" The demon barks, leaning forward impatiently. "Point is, I knew it'd come in handy, secret knowledge and all. Been in my safe ever since. So when you told me about your, uh, performance issues—"

"Can we not—"

"—I knew Agnes would’ve had something to say about that, an angel losing his magic, big stuff, so I read the whole bloody thing—"

The demon's nose crinkles in distaste.

"—and, voilà!"

A grand gesture towards the vial.

"Found a recipe, cooked it up, all by myself."

He puffs out his chest, though Aziraphale doesn’t find the thought overly reassuring.

"Pretty positive it should work. I mean, there is a teensy chance it might turn you into a bearded dragon, but if that happens, I'll think of something. Anyway, being a reptile's not so bad once you get used to it, I'd still pet you…"

Crowley's flow dries up as he notices a pained twist to the angel's mouth.

"...are you not happy? Thought you'd be chuffed."

"I…," Aziraphale is staring at the box as if it had been handed to him by Pandora herself. "No, I am…very grateful to you, dear. Truly. Going to such lengths, for me…"

"But?"

Crowley's stomach is on a nerve-wracking see-saw ride.

"...No, it’s wonderful news! I do trust you…I’m going to have my magic back and we," the word turns bitter in his mouth, "we can return to how we were. I know, it must be a relief for you, not having to provide for me—"

He pauses to swallow tears—only to have his misery rudely disrupted as the demon bursts into a fit of laughter.

"I fail to see what's so funny," Aziraphale huffs, wiping his eyes.

Even through the blur, he can see the tension lifting off Crowley's shoulders.

"Us, Angel. We’re funny. Right pair of idiots, us."

"Speak for yourself."

"Y'know, I've had that tincture ready for a while. Been putting off giving it to you. I thought, what if you're over the moon, not needing me anymore. Not having to need me anymore—”

"I'll always need you, Crowley!" Aziraphale blurts out unthinkingly, ignoring a few curious heads turning in their direction. "All of your magic and you taking care of me, that's hardly the reason why I love you, though I will admit, it does make you rather, what’s the term nowadays, 'sexy', I believe—"

"You've never told me that before."

"You’re right, it is a little too flippant for my taste—"

"No, I mean, you've never said 'I love you' before. Not with words."

And just like that, time—no, it doesn't stop, what a silly human cliché!

It swirls around them, unfurling in all its glory. And starts out afresh.

An overzealous waiter, however, does stop and backs off, wise enough not to bother them.

"Well," Aziraphale wants to sound a little indignant, at least, but it's not an easy feat, what with a carefree smile tugging at his lips, "how do you like the words?"

"You know I love all your words, Angel. Even the really long ones. And I love you, too. I love you too."

The demon places a hand on the table, palm up.

"Obviously."

The angel folds his slightly smaller one into it.

"Obviously."

Crowley squeezes and Aziraphale knows that he’ll always be taken care of.

“So,” Crowley nods to the long-forgotten wooden box between them, “wanna give this a try?”

Aziraphale ventures a little smirk as he closes the lid with his free hand.

“Maybe. I’ll consider it. For now though, I would rather fancy something else in my mouth, if you would like to request the bill.”

“Oh, Angel.”

~~~ The End ~~~