After breakfast, Aziraphale put on his hat and coat and slid into warm mittens and scarf and took his sad excuse for a middle-aged adult for a walk in the park. He lectured himself about the insecure feelings; he had plenty of things to be proud of. He'd written a book! He'd been to Chicago! He'd successfully designed and constructed a greenhouse in a backyard he owned! He'd –

He'd better get back home and prepare for his date.

Because that's what it was; no explaining it away. He and Anthony J. Crowley were, later that evening, getting in that long lank of a black car and driving north for snowshoeing and hot cocoa, and who knew what else?

It was the 'what else' that had Aziraphale in a panic. It had been a long, long time since he'd been on a date with the potential for 'what else.' What if he turned out to be a disappointment?

But no. That kind of thinking would only make things worse. He had to believe in himself, in Crowley, in – whatever it was they had. One certainly couldn't force one's – well, it was best to leave the future where it was, perpetually out of reach.

One very, very hot shower and a cold towel over the face later, Aziraphale stood in his bedroom staring into the closet. He faced a conundrum: wear something soft and comfortable for traipsing through the woods or something that conveyed how he longed to be rogered over the back of the sofa.

He settled for soft and comfortable (long-sleeved tee, cotton button-down, fleece-lined slacks), but left a few more buttons that he normally did unfastened. He did like the picture it made, exposing the thin skin at the base of his throat (and he wouldn't say no to a good rogering).

Nothing, however, would ever change what he looked like in snow pants. Puffy and voluminous, elastic stretched as far as it would go over his belly, it made him look like the Michelin Man. The large one, from the fifties.

Aziraphale slouched against the mirror in the hallway, forehead touching the cool glass of his reflection.

"OK, Bibendum," he sighed, unable to see his toes over the stack of tires that was his torso. "Time to get our sexy on."

He took off the ridiculous pants and rolled them into a ball, then stuffed them with more force than was necessary into the duffle he'd procured for the occasion.

His heart began to hammer a good half hour before Crowley was expected to collect him, and the vague rumbling in his stomach became a torrent thunderstorm. He started to sweat under all those layers, causing another button to be released, and his hands shook as he tried to tie his bootlaces.

And then, there he was. Dazzling smile, shock of red hair poking out from under his knitted stocking hat. He wore an overstuffed coat and the same scarf from Christmas, but his skin glowed and his eyes shone and he was somehow so much more lively and vividly colored than ever before.

"Hiya, 'Ziraphale!" he purred, voice seductive yet joyful. "Ready to see how absolutely unathletic I am?"

Aziraphale's cheeks were instantly warm. The organ inside his chest jumped and skipped happily along. "I quite think I beat you in that department, my dear."

Crowley positively beamed. He held out his hand to take Aziraphale's bag, offering the other arm like the gentleman he was.

He snorted. "Yeah. Right. Says the amazingly brave individual who bikes to work every day."

The gentle ribbing did something to Aziraphale's brain; he was suddenly not at all nervous, just eager.

And warm.

Crowley fired up the engine, talking animatedly the moment they pulled out of the alley, motioning with his hands, turning his head often to look at Aziraphale. For the first few miles, their smiles matched each other's, and Aziraphale's cheeks became sore from holding it for so long.

"I've always wondered," the energetic man mused, well into a cheerful lecture about Venus and her outstanding characteristics (the planet, not the goddess), "if the clouds of sulfuric acid could be smelled from space. I mean, as a ship full of oxygen approached, would it be overwhelmed by the stench of rotten eggs?"

Aziraphale shook his head and thought Crowley's cheekbones were absolutely perfect.

"The vacuum of space is devoid of molecules, so the smell couldn't even travel to the air inside the craft." Crowley shrugged, both eyes on the road for once. "It's sort of like the old saying, 'If a bear shits in the forest –"

Aziraphale guffawed. "Oh, my dear. I believe the saying is, "If a tree falls in the forest."

Crowley swiveled his head, a smugness hiding at the corner of those thin lips. His eyes pierced the dark interior of the car. "You've got such a lovely laugh."

Aziraphale wavered under the compliment, looking down at his hands in his lap. "Oh. Well. Thank you."

"So. I've told you the story of my inspiration; the nun that taught Astronomy my first year of college," (who, Aziraphale had learned, disappointed most of the students by explaining how it had nothing at all to do with Astrology and that they would find no fortune telling in that class. Not Crowley, of course. He'd been delighted by the nun's dry sense of humor and candid approach to the fact that the universe was much, much older than what her Catholic faith allowed). "How about you? What got you into the art of language?"

Aziraphale very much liked how his colleague – his date – described his profession. "Oh. I don't really remember. I picked up a book when I was young and never put them down."

In the glow from the dash lights, it was easy to see Crowley's gaze linger on Aziraphale's hands before returning to his face (and not the road where they should have been). "Do you remember your first?"

Something skipped in Aziraphale's chest. The man spoke of books as if they were people; Aziraphale felt a sudden kinship blossom between them, stronger than it was before. "Oh. You know," he stalled, finding it difficult to breathe normally. "It was probably some nonsense about a cat chasing a rat carrying a bat."

Crowley still hadn't looked at the road. "Wearing a hat?"

Aziraphale smiled, loving the man's brand of humor, so much like his own. "Something like that."

Crowley laughed and finally turned his eyes to the task at hand. His profile was lovely. "Tell me more. Who was your favorite teacher?"

Aziraphale knew how to answer that. It was both his most favorite at least favorite, at different times. "He – he was a linguistics instructor. Also while I was in college. He opened my eyes to the beauty of the romance languages and the vulgar things done to it when it devolved into English." He cleared his throat, trying to dislodge the instant blockage there. It still hurt to think about it. "And he made me realize what a harsh, cruel, lonely world it could be."

Crowley turned to look at him, although Aziraphale didn't meet his eyes. "He dumped you?"

Aziraphale nodded. "It was my own fault. I was young, and he was French – one tends to lose one's faculties when one meets a Frenchman."

There was a long, uncomfortable moment where Aziraphale regretted saying anything about it at all. He opened his mouth to say so when Crowley's warm hand covered his own.

"It was his loss, the absolute numpty."

Aziraphale smiled, turning his hand in his lap to be able to clutch Crowley's fingers. "Yes. It was indeed."

The conversation turned from the past to the future. They were headed thirty miles north of the city to a small range community where his uncle's farm was located. (Said uncle was currently living in a home with full memory care. Crowley said he visited him twice a month, even though he no longer recognized him.)

"Uncle Fur Fur was a bizarre old fart," Crowley said, squeezing Aziraphale's hand tightly. "Don't be alarmed by what you see there. He was – a bit of a collector, of sorts."

"A collector?" Aziraphale could appreciate a good collection; he fancied himself a curator of words in print form, after all.

"More of a hoarder," Crowley clarified, rubbing his thumb over the ridge of Aziraphale's first knuckle. "He didn't have any kids, and Hastur and Ligur wanted nothing to do with it, so I've been steadily working to move some stuff out. The old farmhouse serves its purpose, though."

Aziraphale rather liked the soft, mushy texture of his insides as Crowley held his hand. "How so?"

The smile on Crowley's handsome face had grown sadly fond. "Well. We don't need a security alarm, that's for sure. I'd be glad to pay someone to steal all the stuff inside the garage alone."

Apparently, it was an ongoing issue in such a rural area. People broke into older, unoccupied homes to steal anything metal they could get their hands on. The money was good, for aluminum and copper especially. Sometimes, people went as far as to rip out gas lines and pipes inside the walls to be able to sell them.

"But that's awful!" Aziraphale gasped, horrified.

Crowley shrugged again. "People have to eat, right? The economy is tough on marginalized individuals. The house should really be torn down. And if they can make money off things my uncle no longer needs — ?"

Still shocked, Aziraphale felt even more warmth toward his date. "I feel like you could find the goodness in anything."

Crowley arched an eyebrow and said nothing as they pulled off the highway and onto a side road. Aziraphale looked out the window and relished the way their hands seemed to fit so well together.

They took another turn and drove down a dirt road that looked as if it hadn't been plowed in some time. Crowley's car didn't seem to have a problem with it, but he did let go of Aziraphale's fingers to be able to grip tightly to the wheel. He piloted the vehicle through the deep snow and gunned it over the frozen sludge left by a plow, settling into a driveway next to a garage that had seen better days.

It was boarded up, the paint peeling and faded. Each of the two overhead doors were padlocked, probably to deter further broken windows. And as Crowley killed the engine, a security light turned on over the front door of the shoddy-looking house, shining on the glossy black hood of the car and nearly blinding them.

Crowley got out of the car and trudged through the snow to Aziraphale's side. "Come on," Crowley said, opening his door and offering that ever-present hand. "Let's go inside. Don't bother taking off your boots."

Aziraphale hoisted himself from the low-slung seat, and Crowley collected two bags, one for each of them, from the back seat. He clicked his tongue as he passed as if to a horse, jerking his head toward the house. Aziraphale followed (it was unlikely there was nowhere he wouldn't).

The pressure from opening the front door pushed a wave of warm air outside. Aziraphale hadn't expected the place to have electricity, let alone heat. He stomped his feet on the mat and stepped inside, totally unprepared for what he saw as Crowley turned on the hall light.

He hadn't been kidding that his uncle had a lot of stuff. There were assorted-sized boxes piled against both walls, furniture loaded with more boxes, some packed, some not. The floor in the living slanted dangerously downhill into the adjoining kitchen, which was also full to the brim with a variety of things.

"See what I mean?" Crowley drawled as he lifted both bags above his waist and moved between the stacks of boxes. There was just enough room for a walkway into the living area, but then no space at all to sit on the horrible yellow-flowered sofa, or the ratty-rust-orange overstuffed chair.

"Yes. I do," Aziraphale said, turning sideways to be able to fit.

He followed Crowley into the kitchen, where a bigger area had been cleared. One could make out the cracked-green linoleum that had begun to roll back on itself. It was warmer here; Crowley had apparently freed up the vent so that the heating ducts could work properly. The warm air blew out at their feet, filling the kitchen with a musty reheated smell that was just this side of unpleasantness.

"Fur Fur had cats," Crowley said, wrinkling his nose. He set the bags down on the slanted floor next to a small wooden table, two matching chairs tucked underneath. "I don't think I'll ever get rid of the smell."

More of a dog person himself, Aziraphale did like cats, as long as they were somebody else's.

"Take a seat. Figure we can dress inside where it's warm before we venture outside."

Crowley pulled out a chair for him, and Aziraphale took it. He pulled his duffle closer and watched as Crowley did the same, sinking into his chair with a weary-sounding exhale.

He looked up, cheeks pink, and smiled. "Would you like an energy bar before we go? Bathroom break?"

Aziraphale hesitated before saying yes to the loo. Who knew what kind of mountain he'd have to climb to get there?

He needn't have worried, though. It appeared Crowley had begun with the bathroom. It was completely emptied, ceramic tub and sink and toilet all sparkling clean. He did his business and returned to the kitchen, where Crowley had removed his boots so he could wiggle into his snowsuit.

It was like watching a snake shedding its skin, only in reverse. Like he was crawling back into it. Crowley arched his back and bent at the waist, pulling the one-piece contraption over his knees and thighs and then –

Oh, his eyes were so pretty.

"It's cold out," he said plainly, although his eyes said something more. Narrowed and teasing, that one eyebrow arched upward, he made a stunning picture as he threaded one arm through a sleeve. "No wind, but we better bundle up."

The one-piece garment was tight and fit incredibly well. It made his long legs were even longer, and it left little to the imagination (what exactly was the man packing in the region below his navel?).

Aziraphale averted his eyes and sat in the chair to remove his boots, too. He dug in the bag, refusing to even chance a glance at the man standing so close, zipping into his snow gear in a way that was almost –

Well.

He looked up and found himself being watched with a seductive smirk. Crowley had paused his zippering in the act, forefinger and thumb holding tight to the pull. His gaze fell on Aziraphale as he had put both feet through into his snow pants, as he leaned forward to get up out of the chair, as he shuffled clumsily into them, as his face flushed hot.

Getting dressed had never before been so sensual.

Crowley finished with his zipper and began with his boots again, tying them smartly and standing tall. "I'll just head out and get the snowshoes. Meet me by the car when you're ready."

Aziraphale, sweating under the close scrutiny, would probably never be wholly ready. But he smiled and he nodded and he collapsed back onto the chair the second he heard the front door close.

"Oh my lord," he breathed, sucking in his gut where the button pushed uncomfortably into his navel. "What am I getting myself into?"

Crowley was waiting at the rear of the car when Aziraphale shut the door behind him. He stood in the harsh overhead light, a pair of jet-black metal snowshoes slung over one shoulder. There was a tilt to his head and a tooth-baring grin. And a little white tag dangling from the end of one shoe.

"Are these – did you buy these new?"

Crowley looked over his shoulder at the price tag, ripping it off with bare fingers and stuffing it into his side pocket. "Of course!" he smirked, nonplussed by the omission. "Nothing but the best for my Aziraphale, after all."

Aziraphale tripped and nearly fell to the ground (to make snow angels, of course).

"Where are we going?" Aziraphale asked, not even trying to hide how it felt to be called such a name.

"The cabin."

"The cabin?" It seemed there was an echo.

Crowley handed over the snowshoes and returned to the trunk for a second pair, also brand new. "Yep. There's a river that runs alongside the property border. Fur Fur built a little place before he started losing his marbles. It's really very charming."

Aziraphale fumbled with the straps as he adjusted them to his size and did absolutely nothing but think about how charming his companion was.

Crowley was elegant, even as he sat spread-eagle on the ground. Even as he struggled with his own straps. He listened and watched carefully as Aziraphale showed him how to slide his boot all the way into the toe piece, then wrap the strap around his heel. He tried and tried and tried without success to copy him while Aziraphale smiled and smiled and smiled. In the end, he got down on his hands and knees with Crowley's boot between his legs, reaching under the man's knee to help him out.

"Be kind," Crowley joked, his low thrum of a voice close to Aziraphale's ear. "I'm going to look like a clown in these things. All elbows and knees and long, crooked nose."

Aziraphale finished with the binding and sat back on his heels. "You'll look nothing of the sort. And I'll have you know that I happen to find your nose attractive."

That one eyebrow peaked once again and Crowley waggled both feet back and forth. Aziraphale didn't try to hide his satisfied smirk, and finished strapping his own boots into the contraptions.

They set out slowly in the dark, taking the direction Crowley indicated. It appeared to be a trail, double wide, wide enough for two cars to pass, although there was no road. The man exaggerated each step, like a diver wearing flippers out of the water. Aziraphale kept a wide berth, giving him plenty of room for those elbows and knees, hiding the fact that he himself was well out of shape for that kind of exercise.

They stopped several times to laugh and tease and joke (of the gentle kind, of course). And as the twilight gave way to night, the stars came out in full force. Even without a moon of any sort, Aziraphale could see clearly how happy Crowley looked. He hoped it was the same for him.

At one point, they paused to rest and were assaulted by the bark of a coyote, followed by the excited yapping and yipping and barking howls of more.

Crowley reached for Aziraphale's elbow and squeezed hard. "That sounded close." He peered intently into the darkness. It was endearing how protective (or scared or both) the grip appeared to be.

"There's no wind," Aziraphale explained, sounding surer than he felt. "We seem to be in their territory."

Crowley stiffened, and Aziraphale laughed. "No cause for worry. They won't attack us; I'm too big and you're too scary for that."

Crowley frowned sideways at him. "In California, they come right up to you in the city. Aren't afraid of humans one bit." He shook Aziraphale's arm gently. "And there'll be no more of that self-deprecation as long as I'm here. Understood?"

The temperature had dropped below zero after nightfall. Aziraphale could see both of their breaths. His cheeks were still very warm. "Understood."

They continued forward for a time, Crowley reminiscing about where he'd been born, grown up, and lived. Aziraphale walked beside him, breathing deeply, loving the sound of the man's voice in the woods. The snow muffled it, and the trees bounced it back to them. And the fact that it was black outside made it seem that much more mysterious.

Just as Aziraphale was about to ask for another rest, they turned a gentle corner, and a large, dark shape loomed ahead.

"Is that it?"

Crowley paused to take off a glove and reach into a pocket. He pulled out some kind of remote and clicked it. A light on a pole turned on overhead, shining down on them like a phone call from god.

"Yep," he said, zipping the remote back into a pocket and hurrying back into his glove. "And we've got three minutes to punch in the security code before a call is made to the local police chief."

Aziraphale made a squeaking sound, and Crowley took off for the building, now bathed in pale yellow light, and not looking like a cabin at all.

It was a house. A rather large house. An A-frame with massive windows, all of it natural wood colored and dark inside.

Crowley hurried through the snow, shuffling his feet in an expertly way that didn't make him seem at all like an amateur. It was difficult to keep up, and Aziraphale couldn't help but smile as he considered the fact that his date had used the snowshoes as an excuse to get him way out there in the woods to show him –

To show him what, exactly?

Puffing great billowing clouds of moisture, Aziraphale caught up at the side door. Crowley had already typed in the security code into an outdoor pad, then reached through the open door to flip breakers inside an electrical box. Things inside began to hum, indicators flashed into on positions. And Crowley turned to look over his shoulder.

"Welcome to the cabin," he said, sinking to the snow-covered ground and deftly working his straps loose. He kicked out of both shoes before Aziraphale had undone one, then crouched forward to help him with the other.

He was sheepish when he spoke again. "You mad at me about the —?" He waved vaguely towards the discarded snow shoes.

Aziraphale smiled because there was nothing else to do. "Dreadfully."

"Great!"

And Crowley helped him to his feet, guided him through the door and into the building.

It was colder inside, the shellacked wood floors creaking and snapping under their booted feet. Built from all wood materials, the place had an open-air design. The large, square windows on one wall all faced what was presumably the invisible river.

"Ready for a tour?"

Aziraphale blinked in wonder at Crowley’s child-like eagerness. It was contagious. "Of course!"

Where the old house was cluttered and stifling and old, this new place was the exact opposite. There wasn't any furniture, the walls bare and undecorated. Everything was spotless, and, although every surface was covered with a fine layer of sheetrock dust and littered with lady beetle carcasses, unlived in.

"Old codger only stayed in it for one summer," Crowley mused, voice echoing in the large, uncarpeted space. "Some friends helped clean it out, and we helped pay for the security detail. Been sitting alone here, in the woods, for a few years."

The ceiling over the living space was at least two stories high. Crowley led them up a wide staircase to a landing above.

Aziraphale's breath had already been taken away from the exercise. The beauty of the place was captivating.

"Look up," Crowley suggested as they reached the top of the stairs. A row of skylights ran from left to right, with a larger one over what appeared to be a sleeping space.

Crowley walked carefully across the wood floor, not wanting to slip from the snow packed in his boots. He stopped mid-center and cranked his neck back.

"I'm going to put a great, big, fluffy bed right here in the middle. So I can lay here at night and look up at the stars."

Aziraphale did a double take. "What? You're going to live here?"

Crowley hummed without tearing his eyes from the overhead view. "It's why I moved north from California. Fur Fur designated me as executor, and my brothers want nothing to do with the maintenance. Figured I'd keep the old house to deter the locals. Live here in the summer and spend winter in the city until I retire. Then take up residence here permanently."

He dropped his chin and made the most startling eye contact. "There's no one about for miles and miles."

Aziraphale laughed nervously under such an intense gaze. "That's wonderful."

He sounded terrified.

Crowley showed him the little work-study off the landing, the single bath with the shower, then headed back downstairs. There he took Aziraphale to the larger bathroom with jetted tub, past the laundry room and out a second door.

The patio was narrow and sprawling, with a screened porch all the way around. Crowley allowed Aziraphale to pass into the space, gone quietly sullen, all of a sudden.

"It's very nice," Aziraphale said, unsure of himself now and hoping to recover. "Plenty of room for your pets and a lot of light for your plants."

"It's a little too much space for me," he responded sadly. And then, cheering up, "Are you hungry?"

Aziraphale welcomed the warmth of that smile. "Only if you are."

Crowley turned and muttered something under his breath, heading back into the house, where he lifted his backpack off his shoulders.

He set the bag on the long marble countertop. Out came a thermos, two cups, a container of fruit. A package of crackers. A long cylinder of summer sausage. A ziplock bag of cheese. A knife.

"I'm no Frenchman," he said with a smirk, ripping open each package and laying it on the table. "And I hope you'll forgive me, but I did bring wine."

Aziraphale took the thermos from him, unscrewed the cap, and let it breathe. A red. Fruity. Sweet. Just like someone else he knew.

Crowley rounded up a couple of stools while Aziraphale poured. He carried one in each hand, still grinning like he was up to something untoward. Even if it was the plotting of evil-doing, Aziraphale would have been none the wiser. He thought Crowley hung the moon.

Wine from a thermos with Crowley was divine, even in the frigid emptiness of a barely used kitchen. They sat together at the counter, smiling as they enjoyed the impromptu picnic and shared company alike. Aziraphale lost track of time; his nose grew cold, and his feet did, too. But he didn't care. Truthfully, it was all quite lovely for a first date.

Eventually, nature called, and they packed up Crowley's bag and locked down the house. There was an outhouse a ways back in the woods that didn't require plumbing, and what looked like a shed with a stovepipe off the porch. Possibly a sauna?

Crowley did his own strappings this time while Aziraphale felt mildly disappointed. It would have been nice to have a reason to get close. Especially now that he knew his companion had planned the whole thing. There was a suggestion in it, a hint at a hopeful future. And Aziraphale's chest felt tight as he thought about that future.

(It could also have been the food and wine, too.)

Without haste, they headed back the way they'd come. It was much later now, and the stars had come out in the thousands. Crowley stopped several times to point up and gape at the Milky Way. The starlight was so bright, reflecting off the snow, that they didn't need a moon to be able to see each other's faces.

"Pop quiz," Crowley said, practically bouncing on his heels. Aziraphale's toes were freezing. "Any idea what the brightest object in the sky is?"

Aziraphale nudged a little closer, until the toes of their snowshoes pressed right up against each other. He liked the shadows playing on Crowley's face. It accentuated his cheekbones and drew every ounce of Aziraphale's attention to his mouth.

"That's a trick question. You're trying to fool me."

Crowley looked down on him, a flash of white teeth as he spoke. "Who me? I would never –"

"It's the sun, of course," Aziraphale interrupted, garnering a sound of surprise and pride from his companion.

"Clever Aziraphale."

The praise was enough to start something brewing deep down, an ache that had been hovering somewhere about his navel the entire evening.

Crowley leaned forward for more teasing. "How about the second?"

If Aziraphale could sing, he would. "That would be the moon, my dear."

"Very good!" Crowley took off a glove and brushed his knuckles over Aziraphale's cheek. "And the third?"

Aziraphale shook his head. His nose dripped unhelpfully. If he were to open his mouth just then, he'd be proclaiming something he knew would not be well-timed. He didn't want to break the spell.

"The third brightest object," Crowley said softly, withdrawing his hand and leaning impossibly close, "is –"

It was too much. Aziraphale was done resisting. He never heard what it was that shined so bright after the moon. He reached up and wrapped a hand around the man's long, thin scarf. He pulled him in. He didn't care that his nose was running and his feet were ice, because his lips were warm. And so were Crowley's.

It was a brief thing, this first, fervent kiss, the angle awkward for each. Aziraphale was up on his frozen toes, and Crowley had been pulled forward and slightly off-kilter. And Aziraphale felt right away that it was unbalanced in more ways than one.

He pulled back, gave the man's space back to him. Oh, how stupid could one person be? Taking something so dear without asking –

"I – I'm sorry," Aziraphale began, stomach dropped clear to the ground as he looked immediately away. "I thought –"

But Crowley took a step forward where there wasn't any room to, carefully rocking up onto Aziraphale's snowshoes with his own. A bare hand slid over Aziraphale's cheek, under his scarf, to the back of his neck. And when he looked up, Crowley, head tipped slightly, mouth open and eyes wide, touched the point of Aziraphale's chin with his thumb.

"Aziraphale."

He hadn't gotten it wrong; he'd been so very right. Hearing his name said like that was proof enough.

Crowley hovered for an exquisite moment before tipping Aziraphale's head back with the thumb on his chin. His eyes were ablaze, his whole body leaning and determined, and Aziraphale was weak for it. With quivering lips, he closed his eyes and met Crowley in the middle. Chest pressed against chest. A hand on the man's upper arm. Breath hot and humid between them. And then –

Crowley kissed him, well and properly kissed him. And it was everything.

Muriel rolled their eyes as they straightened, greeting their partner with a gentle slap to the arm. Aziraphale's chest swelled as the room filled with content omega at seeing his friends getting along so well. Muriel was a peach, and they deserved the very best things. Eric wasn't bad at all.

(He really wasn't.)

"This the last?" Eric asked as he hefted the stack into strong arms.

Muriel was looking very proud at their hard work. "That's it."

"Great. We should be going. Gotta get to that thing?" The Demon caught the Angel's eye and winked. Aziraphale pretended he saw nothing.

"Oh! Yes! Right!" Muriel turned and approached the chair, flustered, reaching down to extract the cat and her claws from Aziraphale's lap. "Don't worry," she cooed to the animal. "Uncle Muriel and Auntie Eric will bring you back next week. We have to finish the blinds after Mr. Crowley puts together the crib."

The cat mrowed in protest as she was cuddled in Muriel's capable arms. Aziraphale brushed the hair from his oversized shirt and pushed himself to stand.

"Oh, my," he groaned, feeling it in the small of his back. Eight-and-a-half months had come and gone and he'd finally found his purpose. That didn't stop his human body from very annoying aches and pains.

His helpful guests left with kisses to the cheeks, and Aziraphale found himself alone.

It wasn't the being alone part that tended to bother him; it was the being alone and unbonded. Even with Crowley's persistent and frankly overprotective attention, his insatiable need, and incredibly large –

Well. Aziraphale shouldn't be lacking in anything. But he was.

He wound his way up the stairs, being careful to use the railing for support. Watching out for another being was a big responsibility. But they were almost there. Not far to go. 

Not far to go at all.

Aziraphale fancied a bath; it always cheered him up. There was something about being warm and clean, properly moisturized and dressed in neutrally scented clothing, that eased his mind. It brought him back to that day Crowley had taken him in, treated him with respect and kindness. He shuddered to think what would have happened if he'd refused Muriel's help.

Of what wouldn't have happened.

Aziraphale finished his soak and wrapped the fluffy pink towel around his belly. It was ridiculously large, hard and unyielding to the touch. Bigger than he'd ever been, in fact, with all the delicious things Crowley brought him. He was such a sweet, sweet alpha. 

He wouldn't hear of it, of course.

The small being taking residence in his womb kicked him in the ribs, and Aziraphale gasped for breath. Little Bleeder was feisty. Taking right after their father. Both of them.

He dried himself carefully and dug into the dresser for something soft and comfortable, but also up to the job of keeping his milk under control. It was beginning to get, quite literally, out of hand, the amount he'd produced as of yet. To make matters worse, Crowley refused to suckle, arguing that it wasn't right this close to the end. "The baby needs it," he'd said.

The problem was, so did Crowley, and so did Aziraphale. Now that his heats had subsided, so had their mating habits. That didn't mean, of course, they were any less sexually active. It just wasn't — well, it wasn't like before.

The poor Demon still had his ruts, after all, still had those carnal lusty desires. They seemed to be increasing in intensity lately, though Crowley tried to hide them. Aziraphale wasn't stupid. He'd been in tune with his partner from the very beginning. His smokey, delectable scent laid heavy on Aziraphale's tongue. Even with child, he would do anything to taste him. 

Perhaps that was why Aziraphale had recently invested in new undergarments. Lacier, thinner, racier. He knew he wasn't exactly the most desirable thing, what with the watermelon he carried so low in his gut. One had to adjust for such obstacles. 

Aziraphale pushed the sensible things aside and opted for something new. This particular item was so sheer it was barely even there. It dipped so low that it provided zero support for the fullness of his late-pregnancy breasts. In fact, if he leaned too far forward, one or both would bulge over the top, spill into the confines of his shirt. Nipples would be forced over elastic, breaking the fragile seal, and he would leak like a sieve. 

This drove Crowley insane, of course. Especially if they were out and about. He'd crowd Aziraphale to cover him, thrust a groping hand inside to reposition him. Then, come out practically growling with need.

"Angel," he'd say, looking frantically around to see if they'd been spotted. He'd press a chaste kiss to Aziraphale's mating gland, just below his ear. "Mine," he'd rumble into the tender, throbbing skin. 

And then they'd leave in a hurry for Bentley.

Sometimes, they made it home. Sometimes not.

Home. What a concept. How could it be anything but? With Crowley sharing a dresser, bathroom counter space, their bed. Demon-perfumed and alpha heavy fluids, spread all over their —

Aziraphale sighed as he stepped with incoordination into a strappy pair of knickers. Sex had become more and more difficult inside the car. Even with Crowley's seat extensions, he usually ended up with a leg cramp.

Which, naturally, his partner would insist on rubbing out. And that led to different kinds of rubbing.

Aziraphale glanced at the clock; gosh, it was still hours until Crowley's clinic closed. He didn't know if he could sit in the soft blue goodness until then, horny thing that he was.

He gave another sigh and finished dressing, then descended the stairs for another glass of milk. Crowley was insistent that too much tea wasn't healthy, that he needed his calcium, biotin, and protein.

The Angel was just stepping into the kitchen when the front door slammed open. Startled, he spun, ready to admonish a rude guest.

But it wasn't a guest. It was, alarmingly, Crowley. Crowley, in his long black coat to keep out the spring chill. Crowley holding the coat wrapped tightly around himself, fists a shocking white contrast. Crowley, hair disheveled much more so than usual. Crowley, face scrunched into a horrible expression.

Like he was in pain.

"Darling!" Aziraphle cried, heart clenching, chest tight as Crowley kicked the door closed. The action pushed a shock wave of air toward him, ripe with frazzled, emotional alpha. Aziraphale went to him right away.

"Don't," Crowley warned, uncharacteristically tense. "It's not safe. I'm not —"

"Nonsense," Aziraphale said as he tugged away at the sleeve of Crowley's coat. "You're hurting. Let me help."

Crowley clung stubbornly to the coat, refusing to let it go, and Aziraphale's omega radar went off. Something sharp emanated from the Demon, dangerous and angry. His shoulders shook with it, bristled jaw clenched tight. He didn't want any help; that much was clear.

"Crowley? What's happened? Is it Downstairs?"

His alpha shook his head, frustrated. "No. No. I just need to —"

And he pushed past Aziraphale, shouldering him gently out of the way. He hurried across the floor and up the staircase, disappearing down the hall towards their room.

It took a flabbergasted Aziraphale several seconds to respond. He uprooted himself and followed.

Upstairs, he was met by a horrifying sight. His Demon had torn the clothes from his body, shredded them into unrecognizable bits. His back was drenched in sweat, bare thighs quivering as he crouched, hunched on their bed. The muscles in his firm ass flexed and relaxed, flexed and relaxed, fucking into Aziraphale's bunched-up body pillow. 

Between his teeth, drooling, moaning, gasping, he held the latest ruined pink halter from the previous night. Aziraphale hadn't been able to find it when he'd tidied that morning. He never considered that Crowley, riddled with hormones, grown tired of holding back, would devour Aziraphale's soiled clothing with such ferocity.

"Oh, my dear," Aziraphale groaned, insides gone weak with guilt. "I'm so sorry. I'm so, so sorry."

He put a hand on Crowley's ankle, the skin hot and damp, and was met with a growl. Through gnashed teeth, over the soaked remnants of lace, "Please. Please!"

Aziraphale wasn't certain if it was a plea for more or less. He settled for a hand in his flaming locks instead.

"Argh," Crowley cried, voice fraught with frustration. He rolled slightly, giving Aziraphale the first glimpse of his genitals.

Scarlet red testicles, swollen, leaking limp cock; it caused Aziraphale to cringe. His own cunt clenched in sympathy at the sight. Crowley had been denying himself for so long, holding back his knot, he couldn't —

"I can't come!" he howled, graceful head thrown back in disgust. "I've been trying for days, your infernal scent in my nostrils. Under my skin and inside my mouth! I can't get enough!"

This wasn't his scheduled rut, where Aziraphale presented a well-lubed fleshlight for him to use as they clung to each other, never close enough. This was something worse, something much, much worse.

Aziraphale steeled himself, sitting on the bed and pulling the scent-laden lingerie away. Crowley whimpered and curled in on himself, ashamed, wrecked, wretched.

"There's no reason we can't mate, Darling. As long as we're careful."

But Crowley wasn't to be consoled. His eyes flashed open and he growled through his teeth. "But I can't control it, don't you see? I need to fuck, I need to dominate, I need to knot! I need to bite!"

Aziraphale went quite weak in the knees. "Oh, I see —"

Without warning, Crowley attacked the pillow, shoving it into his mouth. His large canines ripped great gaping gouges in the fabric as he tore his head back. At the same time, he thrust his pelvis forward, slamming the bed against the wall. And panting. Gasping. Feral.

Aziraphale felt light-headed.

"Crowley, Love —"

The yellows of his eyes had almost completely disappeared. All that was left was the pulsing black centers.

"Angel, I don't want to hurt you. Don't want to ruin your gorgeous face. Don't want to harm the baby, whether human or hybrid or neither. Couldn't live with myself if I did."

The air left Aziraphale's lungs with a sudden sucking exhale. He'd had a lightning strike of an idea. 

Aziraphale stood much more quickly than he should have. He planted his feet, throwing back his shoulders and puffing out his chest (as far as it could safely go without tipping him over backward). Then he gathered his wits about him, collected all his energy in his core, and miracled away his outer clothing.

"You won't hurt me," Aziraphale declared, self-assured in his skimpy lingerie, chin held high. "And you won't harm our child."

He ignored the wild astonishment on Crowley's face, the protective way he sat up, turgid erection a painful hardness against that taut stomach. He ignored the confused display of emotions on his alpha's face, and summoned the evil inside instead.

"You, Demon, who thinks you can possibly injure the Principality Aziraphale." 

Crowley's eyes had resumed some of their yellow. His mouth fell open, spittle dripping on his chin. Aziraphale took encouragement from that. He called forth the powers invested in every ethereal being, even those there on Earth, and extracted his wings from their hiding place.

The sound was incredible, the way nothing became something, the molecular physics involved in making that happen. A shock wave stirred the curtains, tipped the art on the walls sideways. knocked the lamp to the ground. Crowley startled as his hair whipped away from his face, unable to decide whether he should fight or not. Until Aziraphale channeled his true form's voice, and laid out his challenge.

"Go on, Demon," he sneered, cheeks hot and chest aflame. Electricity coursed through his veins, vibrated every nerve, activated every scent gland. He caught hold of the blankets on the bed and gave a mighty yank. Everything, pillows, sheets, discarded clothing, sailed off the bed to land in a heap on the floor.

The Demon was rolled against the wall. He scrambled to face Aziraphale again.

"You think you can destroy me? Go on. I dare you!"

Crowley didn't even blink. He charged, tackling Aziraphale and spinning him face down into the mess of the unmade bed. He pushed the Angel's cheek into a pillow, forced it to remain there with clawed fingers against the back of his neck. The other hand jerked Aziraphale's arm, pulling it back and pinning him in place. A knee spread his thighs apart. Elastic ripped, lace tore. That thick cock forced itself against the dryness of his hole. And for a moment, one flash of a terrifying moment, Aziraphale thought he would be taken without preparation, without slick and massage, without care for his body's resistance.

Aziraphale tucked his wings around his body, wrapping them underneath to protect his belly. Strong, resilient, unyielding and soft, they would protect the child from anything the Demon could possibly give him.

Crowley was breathing hard now as if he were giving chase. He came down heavy on Aziraphale's back, covering in preparation to mount him. Aziraphale closed his eyes, nose smashed sideways in the pillow, and presented, hoping to give the least amount of resistance. And then –

And then –

The whine that broke from Crowley's throat was heartbreaking. He released his death grip, his pinning move slackened. He slid down the length of Aziraphale's back, dragging the scruff of his chin along the way.

He paused to kiss the dimples near Aziraphale's spine, to inhale deeply, to beg for forgiveness. But before he could be consoled, before the Angel could shift sideways to address him properly, Crowley nosed against his anus.

That talented tongue slid over the tightness, salivating heavily. He lathed over the hole, down across Aziraphale's seam, chin dipping between his vaginal lips to slurp at the pink skin there.

A moan, gentle fingers spreading him open, then a deeper tongue, with more desperate attempts at making him slick.

Everything was much too dry; Aziraphale was disappointed in himself.

Crowley sat back on haunches and pried him open, penetrating with long, careful fingers. Prodding the lubrication sacs, massaging them from the inside. He held Aziraphale's arse with a free hand, caressing it lovingly. Oh, how the Angel wanted to please his alpha.

Nothing happened; no release of chemicals, no surge of hormones, no slick sliding to coat slippery labia. Crowley whimpered and pulled his fingers away, prodding at Azriaphale's asshole instead.

"I suppose we could use lube, and –"

But Aziraphale wouldn't have it. He leaned heavily into Crowley, another storm approaching swiftly.

"Alpha," Aziraphale cried, sounding pathetically weak. "Bite me. Please, bite me."

Crowley's grip on his hip bones tightened. "I – I can't. Upstairs will find out —" But his protest was lost in their slow fall as the Demon pulled the Angel back, turning Aziraphale onto his side.

The alpha eased his omega's legs apart as far as they would go, ignored the lack of response from Aziraphale's genitals, and kissed the deep crease of his thigh. Slowly, carefully, Crowley nosed into the matted hair there, sucking in deep lungfuls of scent from his inner thighs. He circled the gland at the right one with his tongue, saliva dripping in copious amounts. Aziraphale imagined those canines lengthening, growing sharp. His stomach tightened and his biceps flexed, fingers flying to the Demon's wet hair. Waiting. Anticipating.

It was a sharp slicing motion, like running one's finger along a sheet of metal, all of one second before the hormones released and endorphins surged, radiating in an upward pattern with amazing speed. Aziraphale's sight blurred, his ears filling with the sound of his own blood. Saliva began to pool in the pockets of his mouth as he gasped his mate's name.

"Crowley!"

And then, there it was, the easy gush of fluids, the clench in his belly, the stench of him, lusty and unsatisfied and needy. His alpha shifted behind him, tapping gently on the wing joints, saying, "Put those away for us, Love."

Aziraphale would do anything.

Crowley's cock slid home as Aziraphale's bare back nestled into the warmth of the Demon's sweaty chest. A hand slipped over his belly, tucking under the smooth underparts. A nuzzle in his neck, a vibration against his shoulder blades. Alpha was speaking.

"I did that," Crowley purred, thick and low and sweet. "I filled you with my seed, knocked you up, made you mine." 

His possessiveness was off the charts. So was the filth.

Aziraphale turned his head to feel those sensual lips against his cheek. "Yours," he repeated, riding so high he was in danger of falling.

Crowley held him closer, snugging their pelvises together, tilting Aziraphale forward and fucking as deep as he could go.

"I've half a mind to do it again, you know. Once the demon spawn is born. Put another one in you, keep you heavy and pregnant and lactating, all for my pleasure. For my pleasure –"

He trailed off, burying his face into Aziraphale's neck and pushing inside harder.

"Angel spawn," he corrected, the top of his head clunking against the wall. Crowley heard it and moved his hand to Aziraphale's shoulder, pushing down as he thrust upward. Spooning in the loosest sense of the word. Taking his omega from behind.

"Do it again," Aziraphale begged after a particularly powerful thrust. Crowley growled and granted his wish. Then again. And again.

The Demon was painstakingly aware of just how hard he could thrust, how far they could go, absolutely controlled. There was still that underlying desperate recklessness, but Crowley was wielding it as his own weapon.

They didn't last long; they never did. Crowley bore down with the strength and speed of a man possessed. He shouted as he came, entire body tensing with rigidity, until his knot took hold, and he softened his grip. Settling back against the bed with Aziraphale in his lap.

The Angel gave him time to catch his breath, wincing as the exploded knot pressed hard against his bladder. There was little room to begin with, what with baby dropped so low. But Aziraphale would endure anything, the most painful kind of torture, to please his mate. His bonded mate.

Crowley caught on to Aziraphale's discomfort, pushing up on his elbow and shifting his pelvis to the side. The Angel followed to a less stressful angle, finally able to look into those amber eyes. He was startled by what he saw.

Fondness. Peace. Love. All at once. And yet underneath, still a trail of lust, of desire, unsatisfied.

Quite suddenly, Aziraphale knew why. He knew why and he knew what was required. He slipped the lace away from one teat and began to tease the glands there.

"What are you doing?" Crowley asked, sounding horrified. He really did think the Angel had no milk to spare. 

"Shh," Aziraphale shushed him. Beads of milk collected on the nipple's tip. Crowley watched wide-eyed.

"I know what you need," the Angel cooed, pulling the Demon's head to his breast. "Come. Feed. Take all you need."

With relief, Crowley dove in, mouth wide around his teat. Sucking hard, sucking long and deeply until the milk began to drop and fill his hungry mouth.

And then, the Demon purred.

Alpha knot tight in his cunt, warm Demon hand over his navel, Aziraphale closed his eyes to relax. He didn't need orgasmic release. He needed this; happy, content, proud Crowley.

Quite suddenly, the sharp knife of his alpha's extended canines pierced the soft flesh of his breast. Crowley hadn't even noticed he'd done it, so Aziraphale ignored it. The nourishment flowing from his glands would heal the incision, fight germs and seal it up tight. There was no need to alarm his partner. It would only complicate things.

Crowley emptied him, nuzzling and fussing when he couldn't get any more. The angle was too sharp for him to be able to suckle from the other, so Aziraphale began to hand express.

The liquid dripped slowly at first, then more quickly, then sprayed a fine stream, quite off target. It poked Crowley in the eye, in the ear, then finally, in his open mouth. Milk drizzled down his chin as he swallowed, falling onto Aziraphale's chest, mingling with the blood from the bite.

Too late, the Angel watched as Crowley slammed into the realization that he was the one who caused that. Aziraphale dropped his breast and pressed his whole hand into that gorgeous mouth. 

"Stop. No talking."

The Demon whimpered, eyebrows damn near touching. The Angel released his mouth and thumbed a drop of milk off Crowley's chin. He rubbed it gently into the wound until the bleeding stopped, until his alpha's brow softened, and he finally relaxed.

Then, without deciding to, without any preparation at all, Aziraphale collected Crowley's chin in his fist. He turned that thin face to the side, kissed the gland on his jaw, just under his sideburn. And when he grazed his own incisors against the skin, broke through and tasted blood, Crowley grunted in surprise.

"Angel –" he began, but ceased as Aziraphale stroked the back of his neck. Omegas were absolutely in their right to bite their alphas in return. He'd read quite a lot about it, actually. It strengthened the bond if reciprocated, especially for expecting pairs. It was healthy, released hormones and happy chemicals, easing the birthing –

The tensing roll across Aziraphale's belly was insane. Very unlike the ones he'd experienced over the past few weeks. He knew his body needed to prepare for delivery. But this was ridiculous.

It happened again.

"Oh!"

"What," Crowley pulled back, alarmed. "What is it?"

The sensation hadn't subsided yet; it held Aziraphale in its grasp. His body had revolted against him, seized hold of his individual will. It was almost as if he was –

And then, regretfully, gut-clenchingly, Crowley's knot deflated. Not a second later, the warm gush of too much fluid escaped between Aziraphale's thighs.

Something new came between them, a smell full of richly pungent body chemicals. Aziraphale noticed. Crowley noticed, too. They held very, very still.

"What was that?"

Aziraphale knew. 

Fuck!

"I'm – I'm in labor, dear. My water just broke."

"Your wot?!"

Crowley jerked, braced to move quickly, to take action. But Aziraphale clutched his forearm to keep him there a second longer.

"It's OK. We have time. Your clinic is just a few blocks away."

Crowley was beginning to panic. "But I haven't anything prepared. The lab isn't sterilized, and there aren't enough towels –"

Aziraphale snapped his fingers as another contraction rolled over him. He clenched his teeth and smiled, hoping Crowley hadn't noticed.

"All done."

Crowley's eyes flitted between the Angel's, unsure what to do. Through the tightness of his frozen muscles, Aziraphale recognized how adorable.

The anxiety on his face increased, however, and he turned his torso frantically toward the clock.

"Holy shit. That second contraction was much too close to the first!"

Aziraphale's heart sank. "You felt that?"

Crowley's concerned expression intensified. "How could I not? You're hard as a rock, Angel."

He was. Wasn't that wonderful?

"'Lo, 'Ziraphale," that dark chocolate voice, thick with morning sludge, even deeper than normal. "Sleep OK?"

Aziraphale had slept like garbage. "Yes, I did. You?"

"Not a drop. Say? Since it's a holiday and all —" Crowley paused, leaving Aziraphale hanging by a thread. "Maybe we shouldn't go out —"

Disappointment sank heavy in his gut. Crowley didn't want to see him after all.

"— Maybe I should bring the party to you? Cook you breakfast?"

The downward swoop of his stomach immediately changed course, shooting skyward. "Oh! Oh! Yes, that would be lovely!"

Crowley's voice morphed into a smile. "Any requests? Or shall I surprise you?"

Aziraphale's heart was trying to kill him. He couldn't catch his breath. "Surprise me, by all means."

Desperate. It sounded desperate.

"By all means," Crowley repeated. "Fantastic. Gimme an hour, hour and a half?"

It was too long, much too long. "Yes. Yes, fine."

"Great! See you soon!"

Aziraphale didn't even hesitate. "Hurry!"

They disconnected and he tried to get control of his breathing. It had to be the lack of exercise lately; he should probably get back into walking through the park. Even if it was close to zero outside.

Then he remembered he'd gotten plenty of exercise the night before. 

Well, then, it was sleep he was lacking. If he didn't put more hours under his belt, his heart was going to give out. Especially if he continued making first moves.

What was wrong with him?

There was a time not long ago when he'd been repulsed by the man. When the Californian's voice grated on frazzled nerves. Where his touch made skin crawl and they'd argued about the Arts and classism. And then there were those infuriating glasses —

Well.

Aziraphale set the phone on the side table and caught sight of his messenger bag, strap mended with the skillful fingers of an artist.

He undressed and made his way to the bathroom.

Under the relentless steaming pressure of his shower, Aziraphale thought about what Anathema had said at Christmas.

"He's in there with the champ of taking it slow."

A week ago, he'd sat in his favorite chair in the library, fantasizing about having Crowley over for dinner. And now?

He wondered when he'd gotten so bold.

Wrapped in a towel, Aziraphale sat on the toilet lid and thought of Crowley's dead mum.

"She'd have liked you."

Aziraphale looked down at the overlapping bulge of his stomach. It hid from his view the disappointment of a penis that had let him down the night prior. Just when he'd gathered enough bravery to kiss the stuffing out of Crowley, the not-so-young piece of equipment inside his trousers had refused to cooperate.

"Traitor," he scolded, smoothing down the wet curls on his chest and trying very hard not to feel sorry for himself. That second kiss had been – well, it had been perfectly exciting, and –

But that wasn't fair. Arousal wasn't stored in the flesh. It was born and raised and set free in the brain. It was Aziraphale who had gotten into his own head and disrupted a process he'd rather enjoyed as a younger man.

(And it wasn't like he had a problem when he was by himself.)

Aziraphale stood in the middle of his bedroom and thought about how Crowley had said he wasn't a morning person. It was 7:05. It cheered him immensely.

He dressed for going out. His usual staying-in attire of threadbare pajama pants that showed his plaid boxers underneath and oversized sleep shirt that similarly showed his nipples was hardly the attire that fit the situation. The goal was to seduce, not to distract.

He made the bed and tidied the bathroom. He descended the stairs and loaded the dishwasher. He began to wipe down the counters and thought about Crowley's blue handkerchief.

"Oh my."

Perhaps Rogering was a possibility.

The doorbell rang at 7:39, and Aziraphale tried to imagine Crowley screaming in ten minutes late for other events. He smiled and opened the door.

It had been less than an hour.

And then, there he was, looking slightly worn out but insanely happy, an overstuffed brown paper bag in each arm. He kicked out of his boots and waited to be asked inside, leaning down to peck the apple of Aziraphale's cheek as he offered to take one of the bags.

"You're sweet," he said, blushing furiously.

"Nah," Crowley argued. He set the second bag on the counter as Aziraphale closed the door. "You've just made me that way."

The man was dressed in what appeared to be gray drawstring joggers with big, fluffy pink socks pulled over the cuffed legs. He wrestled from his overstuffed parka, revealing a black t-shirt with the words Butthole Surfers on the front.

Aziraphale stared open-mouthed, still holding the bag.

"What? They were a crazy band! It was a phase I went through!"

Crowley hefted the bag from him with a wink and set it on the counter to remove the items. Aziraphale watched and felt overdressed.

The man's excitement was off the charts. He bubbled on about how glad he was he'd stopped at the Co-op the day prior and what great selection they had and how he'd purchased a membership and planned to shop there for everything from batteries to bananas to baked beans.

Aziraphale smiled and nodded quietly, watching as the counter filled with a smorgasbord of food items.

"Here," Crowley said, pushing a bottle of champagne into his hand. "Tuck that in the fridge, will you?"

His enthusiasm was contagious.

Aziraphale turned away and thought about returning to his bedroom to change back into his comfies, but Crowley had a surprise for him when he swiveled back.

Long, strong arms slid around his shoulders, pulling him in for the world's most genuine hug. Aziraphale closed his own arms around Crowley's waist, well above that pert, narrow ass, and lifted his chin over the man's shoulder. 

"Hi," he said, inhaling deeply and loving the freshly-showered scent of him.

"Hi, back," Crowley answered and hugged him even more tightly.

Several moments passed as they clung to each other, until Crowley swung him around and crowded him against the sink. Aziraphale gasped, unprepared. He'd at least thought they'd make it through breakfast before –

But Crowley merely continued to hug him with one arm. With the other, he began unloading his purchases. "Don't mind me. Just go about your business and pay me no attention."

Aziraphale laughed and a whole lot of tension escaped. He clasped his hands together behind Crowley and took the man's weight; the countertop pushed uncomfortably into his lower back. He didn't care.

"So. I've got bagels and lox," Crowley named everything as he pushed it around on the counter, "and eggs and spinach and muffins and coffee and orange juice – I thought we could make mimosas – and –"

He went on and on and on, and Aziraphale grew even fonder of him.

Eventually Crowley had to give up his arm to be able to prepare omelets, and Aziraphale moved to find him pans, utensils, and bowls. He bent over to collect the hotpads from inside a bottom drawer and caught Crowley staring straight at his backside, eyebrows stitched together in an unreadable expression.

"Right –" Crowley cleared his throat, and Aziraphale's nervousness disappeared and he felt that much more empowered.

They ate right there, standing at the kitchen table, right off the same plate, Crowley forking morsels directly into Aziraphale's mouth. The room felt comfortably warm, and the conversation was intelligently rich. And if Aziraphale didn't know any better, he'd have thought they'd been like this for months.

Crowley measured out orange juice and bubbly when they'd finished and pulled Aziraphale bodily into the library. He set both flutes on the oversized ottoman and gave Aziraphale a gentle push onto the sofa, then sank heavily at his side, leaning forward to retrieve their drinks.

"Ah, I ate too much," Crowley sighed as he crossed one leg over the other. The pink-stockinged foot rested against Aziraphale's shin, rubbing gently back and forth as he slipped an arm over the back of the couch. Aziraphale eased into him, shoulder fitting nicely inside the man's armpit, the perfect height to nudge up under that bony chin.

"Me too," he agreed. "Although it was extremely delicious."

Crowley tilted his head to be able to look down into Aziraphale's eyes. His amber ones were so very attractive. They may have also been – fond? "Mm? You think so?"

Aziraphale nodded swiftly. Enthralled. "You can cook for me any time you like. Make a list, and I'll stock the kitchen with everything you need."

It was meant to make the man smile, to brush his ego, but it did the opposite instead. Crowley's face fell and his gaze flicked away. He sipped from his glass as he stared at the flames inside the fireplace before them.

"N-not that I'm suggesting we don't go out," Aziraphale backtracked, hoping to save the mood. "But this is nice, too. Don't you think?"

Crowley swirled the contents of his glass before taking another sip, swallowing audibly and smacking his lips. He didn't look down when he answered. "Indeed."

They drank their beverages in silence. Aziraphale refused to move away, and Crowley didn't seem bothered either way. He continued to run his toe up and down Aziraphale's leg, almost absentmindedly. And when he had finished his drink, he leaned forward to deposit the empty on the table.

His arm came off the couch.

“Listen. ‘Ziraphale.”

Aziraphale's palate went bone dry. Drier than the exquisitely expensive champagne on his tongue.

"Yes?" It came out with a squeak. A very unsure squeak.

Crowley's mouth had devolved into a very thin line. He twined his fingers together. "I had a nice time last night."

Aziraphale was so very confused. "So did I?" It came out like a question. Why did it have to come out as a question?

But Crowley didn't seem to notice. He stood and turned, calves bumping into the ottoman as he faced Aziraphale.

A hundred things raced through his mind, all of them bad. Aziraphale watched with heart in his throat as Crowley opened his mouth to say one or possibly more of them.

Aziraphale beat him to it.

"I'm sorry, my dear, for being so forward last night."

Crowley finally looked up. "You wot?"

"I-I shouldn't have assumed your intentions were anything but friendly."

The depth of emotion in Crowley's was unfathomable. It hurt to see it.

"I shouldn't have kissed you like that—"

Crowley's mouth opened and closed. The adorable underbite of his jaw flexed, and he made a sound in his throat.

"Ngk."

And then?

And then he was on the sofa. He was on the sofa with a knee on either side of Aziraphale's, and he had Aziraphale's face between his hands, and the drink was spilled on the floor, and the sofa was sliding backward as he pressed their mouths together, and he was kissing him in a way that was in no way 'friendly.'

"Mm?" Aziraphale tried to say as his lips were crushed and his cheeks, caressed. Crowley's thumbs were gently firm, his chin newly shaved. Aziraphale's mind whirled, his stomach boiled. And he did absolutely nothing to stop his shirt from being lifted over his head.

He helped, actually. Got tangled in those talented hands of Crowley's. Felt the brush of long fingers on the sensitive skin over his ribs, heard the excited rush of the man's exhale as he broke the kiss. He found the smooth skin of Crowley's forearm, gripped it tightly and thought it the most erotic thing ever.

"'Ziraphale," Crowley moaned as the shirt dropped over the back of the couch. He was sitting back, staring quite unabashedly at Aziraphale's broad, hairy chest. Cold and exposed, shy now that it had come down to it, Aziraphale closed his eyes so he didn't have to look at himself.

The slightest of warm touches graced his jaw, running delicately down the stretch of his neck. A pause, then further exploration over the curve of his shoulder.

"Gorgeous," Crowley whispered, rapturous. "You're gorgeous."

Something warm pooled in Aziraphale's gut, spreading upward and flushing his skin hot. He was acutely aware of how close they were, now that he knew what Crowley's hands could do.

"Oh, that's — that's —"

Aziraphale didn't know what it was, Crowley's fingers tracing bicep, circling the elbow and pulling his arm away from his body. He opened his eyes, finding Crowley staring at his fingers, holding his wrist very close to warm lips.

Crowley kissed the back of his hand, then turned it palm up and pressed it to his own smooth cheek. The man closed his eyes and inhaled deeply, held it for a long moment, before blowing out and allowing the hand to fall once more.

Crowley's weight rested on Aziraphale's knees, the heat of his backside a fiery flame. His gaze dragged the width of Aziraphale's chest, adoringly, indulgently. He lifted his hand to stroke the point of the other shoulder, pausing at the bulge of the muscle. He exhaled softly; it trembled.

Aziraphale's skin tingled with gooseflesh under Crowley's focused touch, under the hungry stare that lingered over the spanse of his chest. He was being devoured, worshipped. Time had suddenly stopped and it was just the two of them, on the edge of something beautiful.

He was beautiful.

Crowley shifted, then pushed himself to his feet. He leaned forward, reaching out with a hand to each of Aziraphale's knees. With quickened breath, Aziraphale guessed what was wanted, what was needed. And he put up zero resistance as his thighs were pushed apart.

"Oh."

Crowley knelt between them, easing in so that his firm stomach rested tightly against Aziraphale's crotch. The heated gesture most definitely triggered mutual arousal. He found himself rueing the thick fabric of his everyday trousers, wishing for more skin contact while simultaneously wanting to stay just as they were right then.

Hands took his own, twining their fingers together, squeezing and doing mad promising things to Aziraphale's heart. Crowley ran both hands lovingly along forearms, over elbows, biceps, shoulders. He turned his head from side to side, still watching, still worshipping. He didn't say much out loud, but the care he took spoke volumes.

As Crowley rounded the plump curve of Aziraphale's shoulders, his mouth fell open and his eyelids drooped heavily. As if he were drugged, as if he were affected by a substance so pleasant, he may as well be in heaven. His palms flattened and he crossed over collarbones onto the meat of what Aziraphale woefully accepted as breasts. And when Crowley's thumbnails raked punishingly over both peaked nipples, Aziraphale arched his back and clamped his thighs closed, and cried out in a manner unbefitting any decent gentleman.

"Oh, fuck!"

The electricity surging through Aziraphale's body was intense, yearning building much more quickly now. It appeared to be affecting Crowley similarly; he had begun to knead greedy fingers into the sag of Aziraphale's breasts. And then, he stopped.

A whine ripped from Crowley's throat, and he crumpled back on his heels. He fell back against the ottoman, and he rested his cheek on Aziraphale's knee.

"Angel," he said, hoarse and almost ashamed. "There's something I have to tell you."

It was a confession, on his knees like that. Like he was asking for forgiveness for his sins.

Confusion returned like storm clouds. It was clear something tortured Crowley. Whatever it was, it had to be bad. Something that stopped them from continuing onward, from being together.

Aziraphale summoned bravery and reached up to bury his fingers in Crowley's hair. It was soft and fine, the curls fighting against his combing. He didn't know if he could give this up, now that it was so very close.

"Then tell me," he hoarsed right back.

Crowley turned his face against Aziraphale's leg, rubbed his nose back and forth against his trousers. He sighed heavily, then rested his cheek once more. "I bought your book."

Aziraphale blinked. He did what? "You did what?"

Crowley nodded, embarrassed. "I bought your poetry book. Before I came to live here."

It was a puzzled frown that Aziraphale's face made. He didn't understand. "OK?"

His friend – no, his lover – sniffed. "And –" he paused, sighed again. "And I researched you. Found out where you worked. What you taught. Things you'd done."

Something fizzled in the back of Aziraphale's brain. "You – looked me up?"

Again, Crowley nodded against his thigh. "Proper stalker stuff, you know."

Aziraphale thought back to their beginning interactions. Their first outing for drinks. The subsequent lunches and dinners.

"My friend – Shax, we call her – my friend told me about you," he continued, his breath hot on the inner part of Aziraphale's other leg. "She said – she said you were just my type. So I bought the book, and I creeped on your privacy. And I'll completely understand if you never want to see me again."

A light bulb went on, glaringly bright, sparkling clear. Crowley thought, because his friend had suggested they might get along, that he was doing something untoward by pursuing him. His conscience had gotten to him, and he'd confessed to something he thought Aziraphale would be offended by. And he thought that would be the end of 'them.'

But there was more. Crowley had sacrificed his life in California to move to this town. He'd taken a chance, jumped off the dock without knowing how to swim. He had no idea what waited for him when he arrived. But he'd done it anyway, knowing full well he might fail. Aziraphale's heart did a strange dance in his chest.

Aziraphale dug his fingers deep into Crowley's scalp, tugging with so much fondness that it could hardly be contained. This man – this wonderfully stupid man – had given up everything for the chance he might find a compatible partner. And that right there was simply wonderful.

"Look at me," Aziraphale whispered, slipping his hand to the base of Crowley's neck. 

He did, if cautiously, as if fully expecting rejection. Those striking eyes looked up at him with such hope that it hurt. And who was Aziraphale to grant anything but forgiveness?

Aziraphale smiled as softly as he could muster. He moistened his lips and made a decision. "Your friend was right. It appears I am just your type. Now, how about we abandon the sofa for something a little softer?"

"Great," he said, wondering if things could get any worse.

Joey worked his way to the back of the store, stopping in front of the wall of refrigerated coolers. As Crowley watched, he searched for the aforementioned beverage, making a sound very much like an 'aha' when he found it. He opened the door and cradled it in his t-shirt like a long-sought treasure.

"Want one?" he asked with too much bounce in his voice. He was wiping the condensation on his shirt.

"Sure. Why not."

A bottle was pressed into Crowley's hand. It had a bright pink label, featuring two hands holding a flaming heart, and the words PASSION in purple neon. The liquid inside was a nasty shade of puce, but he was game to try anything at that point.

What did he have to lose?

"Right? I'm gonna pick up something to nosh on. You want anything?"

Crowley didn't. If he was going to 'nosh' on anything, it wouldn't be from a convenience store, purchased by a guy who just bought his future from under him.

Joey disappeared down a snack aisle while Crowley pondered the human desire for all things quick and easy. Where was the joy in wasting calories on something that was gone in a moment when one could slave and savor something made with one's own hands?

And then he shook that nonsense out of his head. What was he thinking?

He found Joey eyeing the beef sticks, choosing an insanely long one and a fistful of assorted others. Crowley approached, cold bottle of purple in one hand, and was shocked to see the man stuffing several snack sticks into his front trouser pockets. 

"Erm. What are you doing?" The man had just purchased a seaside cottage for cash and several antiques without batting an eye. What was with the stealing of salted, dried flesh?

"Nothing," Joey said, quickly turning and shuffling away. He banged the drink and the long jerky on the counter and pulled out a worn leather wallet from his back pocket, smiling up at the cashier with cherubic innocence. 

"There's two of those drinks, please," he told the lady behind the counter, smiling back over his shoulder, bug-eyed glasses low on his long, Roman nose.

Crowley blinked. Was he seriously going to get away with it?

The cashier took his cash, handed back his change, and wished him a good day, and Crowley felt something rise in his chest.

He picked a bag of crisps off a shelf and reached for his wallet. He read the lady's name tag, 'Sue,' and knew without a doubt she wasn't paid enough to challenge a shady grunge of a character over a few lifted goods. 

But he also knew that jerky wasn't cheap, so he pulled out an Alan Turing and left it on the counter, saying, "Keep the change," and hoping she would do just that.

Meanwhile, Joey was heading for the door, ripping open the beef stick packaging with his teeth.

Uncomfortable with himself and his cowardice, Crowley followed. They walked through the parking lot and across the road, where there happened to be a park with a pond. And, of course, a park bench.

Joey sat down on the right-hand side, sloppy sounds of masticating and all. Crowley thought about saying farewell and getting as far away as possible, but something told him to sit.

And sit he did. On the left.

There were ducks in the pond, dammit.

"So," Joey smacked, swallowing audibly and then taking a giant, gulping swig of his drink. "The house is pretty swell."

'Swell' was not how Crowley would describe the cottage. Historical and well-preserved. 'One-owner,' never lived in. Painstakingly customized by the original builder.

But never 'swell.' 

"Mm." Crowley took a sip. Wine from a bag tasted better.

Joey took another gulp and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. The fingernails were painted navy blue. His knuckles were tattooed, design unknown. "Why'd you sell it?"

Crowley spit out that sip. 

Joey the Petty Thief slapped him so hard on the back that Crowley's teeth rattled in his skull.

"Don't care for the taxes, I'm guessing."

Crowley thought the reason for letting go of the place was mildly none of the man's business.

"I remember when I quit smoking," the man continued, staring off into the distance in his half-baked way. "Hardest three weeks of my life. But when all those flavors came back to me?" He held his hands to the side, bottle in one fist, half-eaten jerky in the other. He gazed up at the sky as if he were about to ascend. "Heaven."

"That's not –"

"Must be divorce then."

This time, Crowley choked on his own spit. "W – what!?"

"The double vanity was a nice touch. Very thoughtful. Did you put those in yourself?"

The world around them was suddenly very quiet. Even the ducks had stopped arguing. "Excuse me?"

Joey looked at him with soft, sad eyes. "Didn't appreciate you, huh? One-sided kind of thing?" 

Crowley couldn't believe the words he was hearing. Although it had most definitely been unrequited, six thousand years could hardly be classified as a 'thing.'

"For what it's worth," he leaned in as if to tell a secret, "I would have dumped the place, too. Dunno if I could wake up every morning and face that view from the kitchen all by myself.

Images Crowley worked so very hard to keep at bay flashed through his mind, stirred his gut and set off his corporeal fight or flight response.

Joey ignored the warning signs (clenched fists, flared nostrils, rapid pulse at the thinnest part of his neck) and reached over to pat Crowley's knee. As if the man were some benevolent aunt offering sympathy. 

"Been there, done that."

Crowley was really very certain Joey Manuel had never been there nor done that. It was possible now that the man had used every lamely unhelpful saying in the book.

Joey stretched his arms high over his head before tucking back into his beef stick. "That's why I am never getting hitched. Married to the cause, that's me."

A rich white man from the United States who didn't have to worry about whether or not he could marry whomever he pleased was an oxymoron in Crowley's book.

"Had my own 'come to Jesus moment. Dealt with my own Judas."

The Demon was going further and further down a dark path. He'd met Judas. Wasn't such a bad lad. Certainly the most devout of the disciples, it actually made sense that he was the one chosen to betray his king. The worst things happened to the best of folks.

And with that, Crowley had had enough. He stood with the intent of walking away from the man and never seeing him again.

"Ah, well. The road to hell is paved with good intentions."

Crowley stopped mid-escape and stared. Was he actually for real?

"You ever surfed at your beach?" Joey continued, ignoring completely the fact that the Demon had dusted off his pants and was walking away. Crowley sighed deeply and paused.

"Yeah. Sure."

His companion leaped to his feet and threw an arm around Crowley's shoulders. "Great! Think you can show me? I can come out on Saturday. Then you can also walk me through that amazing garden. Teach me about the plant life. I've never seen so many weird things in all my life."

Crowley thought he would much rather return to Soho and walk into a particular bookshop than return to the bungalow and all the flora family he'd left behind. But, since he wasn't in the habit of self-torture anymore –

"Sure. Yeah. Whatever you like."

Aziraphale

The Supreme Archangel blinked. Once. Twice. Thrice. 

"The Book of Life is . . ."

Michael rolled their eyes, as if Aziraphale was too dense to keep up. "Is missing, yes."

Aziraphale tried very hard to keep his face neutral. The other Archangels were watching him closely.

"And – how –"

"That's the point!" Uriel interrupted. "Nobody knows how. If we knew how, we'd be able to find out who did it."

Aziraphale thought that Heaven really didn't have that stellar of a record at finding anything.

"So you don't know who –"

"Of course we don't." Saraquel looked ready to throw hands in the air with disgust. "If we knew who, we'd know where it is. But it isn't anywhere in Heaven."

Aziraphale had learned enough about emergency meetings with the Archangels to stop asking questions right then and there. He waited, hands folded at his waist. He'd gotten very good at waiting. After all, he was prepared to live out as many centuries as it took until the opportunity presented itself for a second chance.

"Well?" Sandalphon asked, gold tooth glinting with a smile more enthusiastic than usual. "Are you going to get going and find it? Or are we to stand here all day waiting for a rich man to make it through the eye of a needle?"

Aziraphale frowned. "That's not how it –" And then he remembered himself. Surely, the Archangels knew the parables of Jesus just as well as he did. He needn't go around reminding them –

Uriel scoffed viciously. "Look at him. How we get anything accomplished is a miracle."

The others nodded in agreement, whispering amongst themselves. They couldn't wait for Aziraphale to make a mistake.

The Supreme Archangel cleared his throat and lifted his chin. "Very well. I'll be heading to Earth, then. I trust you'll keep up with your duties while I'm gone."

He half expected to be admonished again for suggesting such a ludicrous thing. The very last place the Book of Life could possibly be was Earth.

"Yes, and best not dawdle," Michael confirmed, pulling out their phone and making a call. The others looked relieved that the meeting had come to a conclusion, and they didn't hang around. Each filed out of the meeting hall with their own agendas in mind, chatting quietly.

"Right."

Aziraphale turned slowly, unbelieving. If he'd known it would be that easy, he'd have descended to Earth a year ago.

He made the long, lonely walk to the elevator. The empty halls echoed his footsteps back and nobody stopped to talk to him. Nobody even attempted a smile or the shortest of eye contact. He wondered if it had been as easy for Gabriel to leave. Naked as he was.

Aziraphale considered that as he stepped into the lift and pressed the button for the ground floor. The former Supreme Archangel hadn't spent enough time on Earth to understand the politics of going without clothing. For how infuriating it had been once he'd arrived at the bookshop, Aziraphale couldn't help but think that was the catalyst for pushing Crowley to eventually do what he did.

He remembered the Demon's face in the coffee shop when Nina made the comment about his 'naked man friend.' It was the beginning of dozens and dozens of Clues that Aziraphale completely missed because he was too caught up in his own agenda.

The loud tone that indicated he'd reached his destination startled him. He'd been thinking where to go first. Where exactly on Earth did one find a celestial object with the power to erase everyone from existence?

Perhaps he'd begin with a bookshop.

As the doors opened and light spilled out into a very familiar street, Aziraphale found himself unable to move. He hadn't really thought through how going back might feel. How staring across the road at the memory of Crowley standing beside Bentley could wreck him so.

He very nearly took the lift straight back to the top. And then he remembered who he was and why he was there.

The kitchen entrance would be less judgmental, he decided.

It must have been very early. The street was relatively quiet; the only sign of human activity with the delivery trucks and garbage trucks and such. He remembered Crowley saying this was his favorite time of day. The only people out and about were the vitally necessary ones. Aziraphale, however, knew it simply meant the Demon could drive Bently fast and furious with less obstacles to get in their way.

It was debilitating, staring at the cracked wood at the alley entrance, fist clenched in preparation. He didn't have any sort of a plan past knocking on the door. The bookshop wasn't his any longer. It was a sanctuary, something stable and trustworthy. Something unlike him.

A light switched on over the stoop, and there came the hollow clunking sound of the lock sliding out of place. The knob turned. The hinges groaned. But when the door swung wide, nobody greeted him on the other side.

Aziraphale clutched at his vest from the emergent smell. The aroma of brewed coffee. The scent of old wood and even older books. The lingering overtones of snuffed-out candles, even though the highly flammable interior hadn't seen the likes of a burning wick in some time. It was every memory hitting him all at once.

The light in the kitchen switched on without visible movement, and Aziraphale understood. He was being welcomed back, just as he was. Forgiven but not forgotten, and oh – that stung.

"Hello, Bookshop, old girl."

He didn't dare step inside, though. He wasn't entirely sure he could if he tried. He needed an invitation from the current inhabitant.

"Hello? Hello?"

A muffled noise sounded from deep inside the building, and then sharp, quick footsteps. As they approached, Aziraphale smoothed down his lapels and straightened his collar. No matter how frazzled his insides were, he had a reputation to uphold.

The face that greeted him across the kitchen was surprised, to say the least. Big brown eyes widened even more so, and the genuine smile became even more sincere.

"Mr. Aziraphale!" Muriel gasped, then hurriedly covered their mouth. "I mean – Supreme Archangel Aziraphale!"

"Aziraphale is fine," he corrected, waving a hand and assessing the angel's attire. They wore sleep pants with vivid pink pigs and an oversized long-sleeved shirt that didn't look as if it belonged to them.

Muriel padded barefoot across the creaky, well-worn wooden floor. "Oh but, that wouldn't be right –"

"Aziraphale," he repeated more firmly. The new shopkeeper seemed to struggle with it, but extended a hand regardless.

"Come in, Mr. Aziraphale, please!" It was a cringe, like they were blaspheming.

Aziraphale stepped over the threshold and the door closed behind him. He rested a hand on the counter at his right, patting the surface affectionately.

"I apologize," Muriel continued, sweeping away a clutter of mugs and dishes, cutlery and wine glasses from the counter. "If I'd know you were coming, I'd have tidied the place."

Aziraphale smiled, appreciating that the angel didn't use miracles to do so. Perhaps the Metatron had been right in assigning the bookshop to their care. If the state of the untidy kitchen was any indication, it appeared the place was most certainly being lived in. Maybe even well-loved.

"I didn't know I was coming, to be honest," he began. Muriel fetched the coffee pot and turned on the tap, rinsing it out and filling it with water. "I'm here on a quest."

Their face brightened considerably as they hunted down clean mugs, of which there were none. They hurried to wash two from the pile of dirties.

"Ooh! That sounds like –"

Aziraphale never got to hear what it sounded like, for they were interrupted by a third individual.

"Oi, have you seen my –?"

The part of Aziraphale that identified as human squirmed uncomfortably. Joining their little party in the cozy kitchenette was a handsome disposable person wearing one of his flannel bathrobes.

"Uh." Eric the Demon's long-lashed eyes, more smudged than ever and looking hollow from no sleep, flitted between Aziraphale and Muriel rapidly. The two horns of hair on the top of his head bounced jauntily, caught up in huge, pink foam rollers. "Uh."

There was a long moment where the three immortal entities stared ineffably open-mouthed at each other.

Muriel spoke first, having at least the decency to sound embarrassed. "Eric! H - how nice of you to stop by!"

Eric's jaw opened and closed. Opened and closed. Aziraphale tried very hard not to think about the demon in his bathrobe, in his bedroom, in his bed. Doing unthinkable things to the angel tasked with his bookstore.

Of course, he could have it totally wrong, and perhaps it was the angel doing things to the demon –

"Oh! Thanks – thanks, Muriel." Eric looked down at his bare feet and his bare knees and back up and Aziraphale knowing he wasn't fooling anyone. "I was hoping to borrow a cup of – a cup of –"

"A cupperty?" the angel offered, voice gone unnaturally high and eager.

Aziraphale shook his head. Underneath the horrible lying and double-speak ran a fairly strong current of love. It warmed his bitter, bitter heart.

"Don't mind me," he offered, looking over Eric's shoulder at one of the Marly Horses and feeling that familiar twinge in his gut. "I won't be in your hair long. I'm looking for something. Something both of you might be able to help with."

The demon looked relieved while the angel was enthralled. "Both of us?"

Eric flashed Muriel a secret look, one that wasn't lost on Aziraphale (he and Crowley used to have those). The Supreme Archangel didn't know how he felt about being on the outside of anyone's secret conversation. He supposed he wholly deserved it.

Muriel handed a cup of steaming coffee to Aziraphale, and the second to their counterpart. Eric drank long and hard, completely ignoring how it must have seared the inside of his mouth.

"Yes. It seems the Book of Life has gone missing and nobody in Heaven knows what's happened to it."

Eric swallowed with an audible gulp. White clouds of steam emerged from both ears. "That's not a real thing. Book of Life. Is it?"

"Oh, but it is!" Muriel answered. They took the empty mug in one hand, and it refilled itself. "Everyone ever created is in it! Course, nobody's actually seen it before."

The demon took the second cup and stirred it absentmindedly with one long finger. "Well, if nobody has seen it, how can you be so sure it's missing?"

He had a point.

"Have either of you heard anything? You know –" Aziraphale gestured toward the floor. "From down there?"

Eric shook his head and joined Muriel where they leaned against the counter. Their elbows touched. Aziraphale felt it in his bones. "Can't say as I have. Don't really talk with downstairs much anymore. Got tired of being made an example of. Too many unscheduled discorporations."

Aziraphale cringed as he remembered Shax disposing of him in the bookshop not long ago. "Sorry about all that."

The demon saluted him. "Not at all."

"Perhaps I could ask the Book Club."

Aziraphale tipped his head in Muriel's direction. "The Book Club?"

The angel nodded, crossing one leg over the other and leaning heavily on Eric's shoulder. "I guess it's technically not exactly a book club. It's just a few of us who get together here once a week. At the bookshop. Everyone brings a book, and we take turns reading aloud and talking about themes and such. It's great fun."

Aziraphale thought about people gathering in his former home to use books as they were intended, and he felt an overwhelming fondness for Muriel. "And who is in this particular club?"

Eric raised his hand. Muriel smiled at him.

"Eric, here. Mrs. Sandwich. Maggie –"

At hearing his friend's name, Aziraphale experienced another pang of regret.

The demon picked up where his angel paused, "– two lesser demons, upstanding Earthly fellows, I can assure you," Eric explained. "Father Ken from the parish down the street –"

"– and a homeless guy. Don't forget him," Muriel offered helpfully.

Aziraphale put together the rag-tag collection of folks inside his mind and felt another surge of pride. It appeared Eric and Muriel were doing what he and Crowley couldn't.

The angel's eyes sparkled and they vibrated slightly with excitement. "Would you like to join us? We're meeting tonight, actually. Once the shops have closed, of course."

Eric rolled his eyes skyward. "As if this place is ever open."

The Supreme Archangel smiled at the pair of them and thought perhaps all hope had not been lost.

"I would love to attend your Book Club. Thank you so very much for inviting me."

“Uh. The blue one,” Aziraphale answered vaguely. The car was running, headlights on and wipers going mad. He suddenly realized that it was Crowley’s vehicle, fetched just before the end of Aziraphale’s class and parked in a convenient location for retrieving his bike.

Crowley pushed open the heavy glass door, and Aziraphale couldn’t let him go out like that.

“Wait! Take my coat!”

But Crowley wouldn’t hear it. He removed his sunglasses and smiled at Aziraphale with something like pride. “Nah, I’ll be alright. We don’t get weather like this in California. All drought, you see? And I love the rain.”

Aziraphale opened his mouth to protest, but the man interrupted him.

“Aren’t you an Angel though, to offer? Wait here.”

He quirked that seductive mouth and clicked his tongue once, thumbing the point of Aziraphale’s chin. 

Aziraphale melted like wax to a flame.

Crowley strode boldly into the downpour, unlocked the bike with Aziraphale’s key. He backed the thing up as if he didn’t have a care in the world, hair gone flat, clothes soaked and dripping, and rolled it over to the black car with a literal spring in his step.

As he watched, Crowley opened a very large, very spacious trunk. He hoisted the bike, carefully slid the back tire in first, then the front, angling the handlebars with a practiced hand. Then he closed the lid and waved to Aziraphale, sloshing through the river of rainwater to the passenger side to let him in.

“Oh, thank you,” Aziraphale called over the drumming of rain on the concrete and asphalt. He ducked his head inside the vehicle, taking in the warm, saddle-brown leather seats and the roomy cockpit. His raincoat spilled water over every surface as he sank into the seat. The door closed softly behind him, shutting out the noise and the rain. And when Crowley entered on the driver’s side, leather jacket beaded with tiny droplets, hair dark and streaming down his face, he was somehow still smiling.

“Whoo!” he whooped, shaking his hair like a dog and wicking water from his face with one cupped hand. “Now that’s what I call refreshing!”

Aziraphale stared. He was possibly more handsome when wet, and he smelled amazing. It was a very, very good look on him.

Crowley leaned into the center console, struggling to reach into a tight pocket of his jeans. He pulled out a navy-blue paisley print handkerchief that caused Aziraphale to sputter, and made an attempt to wipe his face. It did no good, however, causing the man to laugh uproariously. “Oh, would you look at that? Soaked clean through!”

Aziraphale turned his hood down and reached for his own, much drier one.

It was baby blue.

“Oh!” Crowley said as he accepted it. “Well. That’s — that’s – thanks!”

He winked, and Aziraphle went flushed all over.

When his face was fairly dry, hair still dripping onto his soaked shoulders, Crowley offered the handkerchief back.

“Where to?” he asked with that same cocky smile. His lashes were clumped together, and his eyes were filled with soft mischief. And Aziraphale couldn’t think of any place he’d rather be than right there.

“Uh,” he stumbled, and Aziraphale hardly ever stumbled. He folded the damp piece of cloth into a smaller square, thumbing the fabric that had touched his colleague’s mouth. “Macintosh Street. Be – behind the park. On the opposite side, near the duck pond.”

“Oh! Where all those old houses are? The brick ones with gargoyles or some such nonsense gracing the face of them?”

Aziraphale watched Crowley’s mouth as he spoke. The peek-a-boo of very white teeth was turning his resolve to mush. “Not gargoyles, no. They’re angels.”

Crowley slapped a hand to the steering wheel and laughed. “Of course they are.”

The man stretched out his long, graceful legs and gripped the shifter with long, strong fingers. He gave Aziraphale another dazzling smile and popped it into gear. “Macintosh Street,” he repeated, and the car rolled smoothly into the deluge, wipers beating out a rhythm that rivaled Aziraphale’s heartbeat.

“So,” Crowley drawled as they turned onto College Street. “What do you do in the winter when there’s snow on the ground? Ski to work?”

Aziraphale snorted and covered it up by quickly strapping into his seat belt. Crowley wasn’t wearing his. 

“I take the bus.”

Crowley frowned, his mouth turning into a downward arc. “That’s not very convenient. You have to plan your departure and arrival around the city’s schedule. Isn’t that a pain in the ass?”

The rain drilled the roof, and Aziraphale, for whatever reason, noticed Crowley was driving severely under the speed limit. “N-no? I leave home early, and can always find something to do until classes begin.”

Crowley glanced over, gaze drifting from tip to toe. A single drop of rain slid down the side of his cheek, and Aziraphale clamped both hands between his thighs to keep from brushing it away.

“Ah! You’re one of those early birds!”

He said it like it was a bad thing.

“And you’re not?” Aziraphale countered. By this point, they should have been on the main road away from the college. A tiny part of him hoped they were driving so slowly to stretch the time out.

Crowley blew a raspberry. “‘Til the day I die, I’ll be dashing along, screaming into the room just seconds ahead of the clock. I’ve always said it would be nice to stop time; there’s not enough of it to be able to do everything one wants to do.”

For the first time, Aziraphale agreed with the man. “And it goes by so quickly. One moment, you’re thirty and unstoppable. The next, you’re lying in bed wondering what body part will groan and creak as you get up.”

Crowley turned onto the main road and tipped his head thoughtfully at Aziraphale. “Like you have that problem. You ride your bike every day! You’re fitter than I am!”

The steering wheel returned to its original position, sliding slowly between one of Crowley’s closed fists. Aziraphale swallowed and tried not to think of blue handkerchiefs. 

“I’m older than I look,” he offered dryly, and Crowley laughed again.

“You can’t be a day over thirty-five!”

Macintosh Street loomed ahead, and Aziraphale found himself struggling to breathe properly. 

“I’m fifty.”

Crowley’s pretty mouth fell open as he stared at him in shock, one eyebrow lifted to the sky. “You are not!”

“I am.” There was a touch of contempt in his voice, and Aziraphale wasn’t sure if it was because he was proud of his age, or because he was ashamed.

His colleague nodded dumbly, returning his focus to the road. “What a lovely coincidence.”

And suddenly, they were upon his house.

“It’s that one. The one with the row of hedges in the front yard. You can pull into the alley and take it straight through to the next street.”

Crowley slowed and followed the directions, corners of his mouth drawn into a satisfied-looking smirk.

He put the car in park as they reached the kitchen door, the hall light shining warmly through the constant, continuing rain. Crowley turned slightly in his seat, bringing one knee up onto the center console and looking pointedly at Aziraphale’s hands in his lap.

And then, the silence.

“Uh,” Aziraphale cleared his throat uncomfortably. “Would – would you like to come inside?” He couldn’t believe his own ears. “Dry off a bit?”

A sneak peek at the driver revealed a different kind of smile. This one was stiff, controlled, almost – disappointed.

“No. No, that’s OK. I’m headed home myself. Don’t have far to go.”

Aziraphale studied the backs of his own hands and tried not to feel rejected. “All right.”

Another uncomfortable silence followed. Crowley broke it by opening his door. “Off we go, then.”

And he was out and the door closed, and Aziraphale was left inside feeling numb.

Crowley had the bike out of the trunk before Aziraphale could find his key. He fumbled around in his shirt pocket, computer bag shifting unhelpfully off his shoulder. His companion wheeled the bike up onto the porch and under the stoop, protected from the rain, while the key was found and slotted into the lock. Turned. Door opened. Deed done.

Aziraphale turned to watch Crowley as he leaned the bike against the railing. His face was tight, rain dripping once again over the stretch of his tanned skin. He looked up with wistful amber eyes, shoulders slumped, blinking at the raindrops and pushing stringy hair off his forehead.

Aziraphale searched in his pocket for the folded handkerchief and offered it once again. And before Crowley could speak, Aziraphale reached out and brushed a brief, dry hand over the man’s damp cheek. “Keep it. And thank you. For everything.”

Something warmed on the man’s face, and that genuine smile returned. He took in a deep breath and drew himself to his full height. The yellow light from the hall spilled onto his handsome face.

“You really are an Angel.”

It was August. The summer was winding down, and the school year gearing up. Staff had returned, faculty soon to follow. His building had scheduled an informational meeting to welcome newcomers and catch up with the old. The department head had oodles of Big Ideas he wanted to share, even though Gabriel didn’t have the greatest track record of follow-through.

Still, the appetizers were always lovely, and the conversation was scintillating.

The glorious smells of freshly ground coffee and sweet, steamed milk welcomed Aziraphale as he entered the eating establishment. It was a venue he’d visited twice before. They offered an eclectic menu, vegan and vegetarian-friendly. If Gabriel did anything right, it was to put on a good show with an inviting atmosphere. And this place met the bill.

Aziraphale waved at Sociology-Anthology. The professors there shared a secretary with the English Department. This meant that whenever anything needed doing, the two departments would cross over, meeting in her office, fighting over territory and who needed what first.

Criminology was there, too, at least two out of the three of them. Though Aziraphale didn’t have an imagination open enough to figure out what curating future police officers had to do with literature and poetry. It was probably just the collapse of resources; more cuts to save the bottom line.

He stopped at the first table for a glass of sparkling something, pausing to sniff its contents before tasting. It proved to be something along the spectrum of apple to pear. Passable, if dry and tart.

He greeted Technical Writing with a handshake, accepting the slap on the back in congratulations for Aziraphale’s newest published work. It was nothing, really, just a spot of poetry he’d been working on for a few years. But sometimes it was nice to be recognized.

“Oi! Professor!”

The sound of that melodic voice, pure and simple and joyous, brought a surge of warmth in Aziraphale’s chest. He’d grown quite fond of the two adjuncts over the past few years. Taken them under his wing, so to speak. They’d both blossomed and flourished and branched out in the fullest way possible, and the radiant smiles on Eric and Muriel’s faces were a sight to behold.

“Hello, Dears,” he crooned, laying a gentle hand on each of their shoulders. Muriel had sprouted patches of freckles over their soft, flat nose, and Eric sported beautiful, long, sparkling lashes. They both looked well-rested and refreshed, eager to begin another year. And eager to spill with the latest gossip.

“Did you hear?” Eric hissed, beckoning Aziraphale to take a seat with them. “They’ve hired a new prof in Cosmology?”

Muriel, too excited to wait for his answer, flapped their hands and picked up where Eric left off. “He’s straight off sabbatical, working on his book. Something about gravity waves, and LIGO?”

Aziraphale sucked in his chin and tilted his head. ”Hm. Cal-Tech. Very impressive. I imagine they’ve brought him on to pick up the pace with retention rates in the scientific fields.”

Eric chortled and shared a look with Muriel. “Oh, he’ll retain ‘em, all right. I have a feeling they’ll be filling his classes like wildfire. The waiting lists will be miles long.”

“Yeah,” Muriel gushed. Their cheeks flushed rosy with excitement. They raised an unhurried hand, fanning themselves daintily. “He’s definitely going to create waves.”

Aziraphale huffed. “I suspect you young people crush on all the older professors.”

Eric looked scandalized. “No! Not on you, not at all!”

Muriel was backtracking faster than Aziraphale’s humility could keep up. “Of course not! You’re more of a father figure.”

Eric nodded enthusiastically. “Right. Father. Where this guy is more of a Daddy.”

The two youngsters giggled, leaning in towards each other, sharing a moment of unbridled glee. Aziraphale smiled, amused, mildly curious. If he read Generation Y’s signs correctly, the newest Physics instructor was handsome.

Aziraphale was decent enough looking. He took care of his skin and his teeth, practiced self-care, and rode his bike daily. If he happened to overindulge a bit on – well, on everything – who in their right conscience could equally judge him?

“How was your summer,” Aziraphale redirected, noting the delightful way Muriel leaned onto Eric’s shoulder. There was something platonic about it, something wholesome, endearing. Two of his favorite people in the world getting on so well warmed his heart.

There was a shared retelling of travels, to the Ozarks, the Upper Peninsula, the ocean. Both spoke with such animation it was like being part of the live-action. Aziraphale nodded and exclaimed and generally felt proud of the quests the two young people had accomplished.

As they spoke, Aziraphale’s mind drifted. Back to the unfinished drawing on his easel. To the rising bread dough on his windowsill. The new sheet music on the piano. He hadn’t traveled, but he still had a lovely summer himself, alone, unbothered. At home. Part of him wished he were back there right now.

But time marched on, and future generations depended on him. Who would guide them through dangling participles and that delicate tipping point between over- and under-describing?

Aziraphale folded his hands in his lap and smiled as his colleagues drew up memories and painted exciting retellings. And when Gabriel entered the building, commanding the attention of all gathered there, Aziraphale considered escaping through the back door on the way to the lavatory.

He didn’t, of course. He stayed. Aziraphale stayed and he listened to the corporate wafflings of a man so far in the bureaucratic shift, he risked falling into the abyss, never to be Humanities again.

Aziraphale humored his boss, greeted him warmly when his speech was done. It wasn’t Gabriel’s fault he was a pompous blowhard; he’d been designed that way.

“So,” Aziraphale posed, taking a step back when Gabriel leaned too far into his space. “We’re to move offices again? I’ve heard?”

Gabriel stared blankly at him for two seconds too long. “Oh! Yes! That’s right! They’re remodeling the offices in Tower to take care of the leaky roof. And that means we all get to be a little bit cozy for the first semester.”

Aziraphale didn’t like the sound of that. He’d only occupied his single office for three years now. After sharing for years before that, constantly shifting office mates, the thought of having another was unbearable.

“Oh? When will we find out where –?”

“All in good time,” the man drawled, rocking back on his heels. “There are still two weeks left until freshman orientation.”

Gabriel patted Aziraphale’s shoulder awkwardly, bouncing with misdirected importance along to Human Resources. He didn’t know. They were weeks from the beginning of the semester, and the department head didn’t know where their offices were.

“Oh, dear.”

Imagine Aziraphale’s surprise when, exactly thirteen days from then, he received an email from the chancellor. 

We appreciate your patience as we work to secure the safety of our faculty, staff and students. Office numbers are now posted on the Campus Portal.

Imagine Aziraphale’s surprise when, upon logging in, he discovered he was to be sharing an office in the science building with the new professor in Cosmology.

Aziraphale pinched the bridge of his nose just below the reading glasses and sighed.

He packed up his bike the very next day, bright and early, intent on claiming the desk with drawers that locked. He parked his bike, looped the chain through the tire, and hefted his bag over one shoulder.

The Science Building lay perpendicular to the English Department, cozying up to the two-story library and campus store next door. It was an older section, much older than Aziraphale’s short tenure. It was notorious for musty smells and loud, echoing halls, and not because of the experiments in two large labs.

The halls were empty, his footsteps falling on dull, worn tiles. He followed the numbers on doors, searching for the assigned seven-seven-seven, armed with a key and a foreboding sense of doom.

Aziraphale needn’t have worried about drawers. The two desks that occupied the space didn’t have any. There were no windows, no bookshelves, no storage space at all. Just aging dark wood paneling on the walls, the two pieces of Ikea furniture pushed together like naughty children forced to hug each other in a timeout.

The heavy plank of a door closed behind him, rattling the ancient hinges and Aziraphale’s composure.

He exhaled heavily, set his bag against the wall, and pushed one of the desks into the far corner. Then he collected his nameplate and desk calendar out of his personal things. He set them on his desk and staked claim to that portion of the room.

With no chair, there was little else he could do. He’d have to wait until Maintenance chased down something suitable and —

The door flew open, banging against the wall with the force of a sledgehammer. A clatter sounded in the hallway, and a talk, dark, gangly someone shoved a chair on rollers through the entryway.

“Oh!” Aziraphale exclaimed, quite taken aback. The chair skidded to a stop as it connected with the desk. And then another chair rocketed into the room, colliding with the other and toppling over.

“Goodness!”

If Aziraphale was shocked and startled by the unannounced entrance of flying furniture, it was nothing compared to his reaction to their pilot.

It wasn’t the dramatic upsweep of burgundy-red coils and the angular frame. It wasn’t the warm, California-brown skin, the completely unnecessary dark glasses worn indoors. And it wasn’t even the hipster black-on-black ensemble that hung off the man’s shoulders in an unfairly attractive way. At any other time, the combination of these characteristics would send Aziraphale’s heart into overdrive. 

But the way the man said his name was unforgivable.

“Hiya, ‘Ziraphale! How’s it going?”

He completely left off the first syllable, negating the importance of his identity, a proverbial thumbing of his nose at any sense of first impressions.

Aziraphale’s disgust caught in his throat. Never mind the positively aristocratic nose, the sensual hint of an underbite. The unmistakable air of confidence, the flirty tease of hair on his chest. It didn’t matter he swaggered inside like he owned the place, bending elegantly to set the chair right, smiling with moviestar quality and impeccable grace. He was a flash bastard, and Aziraphale decided he strongly disliked the man.

The new professor leaned against the desk in the center of the room, crossing one long, thin leg over the other at the ankles. He grinned unabashedly, waiting for Aziraphale’s response, capable-looking fingers spread wide over his knees.

“Oh, excuse my manners,” he exclaimed, abruptly pushing away from the desk and taking two steps in Aziraphale’s direction. “Anthony J. Crowley. Gen R.”

He offered a hand, peering over the sunglasses with wide, striking amber eyes. For a moment, Aziraphale was caught looking, drinking in the animal-like qualities within, like a wolf, or an eagle. But it would take a lot more than a stunning set of peepers to get Aziraphale to shake a man’s hand who couldn’t even get his blessed name right.

“Charmed,” he hummed, lips set firmly against the surface of his teeth, hands clenched at his sides. Mr. Crowley raised one eyebrow quizzically, a feat Aziraphale had attempted and failed many times. He straightened from his forward-inclined state, kicking out one foot and cocking his hip to the outside.

“So, we’re to be ‘mates, eh?” 

Aziraphale didn’t trust the way he drew out the ‘m,’ making it seem dirty, insinuating innuendo in the vilest manner possible. It was crass. It was uncultured. It was – well, it was infuriatingly alluring.

“Appears so.” 

Aziraphale watched as Mr. Crowley’s gaze swept from tip to toe and then back again, ending with a coy smile and the smacking of pink lips.

“Any allergies?”

“What?”

“All-er-gies.” He strung it out as if Aziraphale were stupid. “You know. Rashes, hives, uncontrollable sneezing. That kind of thing.”

Aziraphale huffed, drawing himself to his fullest height as if he were above such trivial chatter. “I heard what you said. I just needed clarification.”

Mr. Crowley’s chin dimpled as he nodded. “I’ve got a carload of plants I’ll be stashing here. Brightens the atmosphere. Cleans the air.”

Aziraphale scoffed, gesturing to the absolute water closet of an office. “There’s hardly room for two people, let alone decorations.”

“Oh, they’re not just for decoration,” the man argued, shifting from one foot to the other, still grinning. “They’re family.”

Before Aziraphale could open his mouth to protest, one such specimen appeared in the doorway, a broad-leafed, pod-bearing monstrosity held securely in the arms of one Muriel the Adjunct.

“Oh!” They startled, allowing the potted leaf-bearing object to be lifted from sturdy hands. “You’re here too! How wonderful!”

Aziraphale bit back the snarl that threatened to vocalize and forced a smile. “You’re helping. That’s – very kind of you.”

Muriel wiped their hands on their cutoff jeans. “Yes. Mr. Crowley needed a hand, seeing as his were full with the two chairs. Isn’t it great that he brought one for you as well?”

Aziraphale shifted his gaze from Muriel to Mr. Crowley, noticing the smugness with which the man slouched once more against the desk. “These are your chairs?” he asked, hoping he sounded appreciative of the gesture, even though he very much intended to procure a chair of his own, with much better lumbar support.

“Yep. One for you. One for me. Figured it was the least I could do, knowing what it can be like sharing an office with me.”

Aziraphale couldn’t determine whether the man was teasing or not. “That was – decent of you.”

“Wasn’t it now?” The strength of Mr. Crowley’s smile was as powerful as two suns. He really did think highly of himself, didn’t he?

Muriel cleared their throat, looked proud and absolutely honored to be carting the man’s things around like a servant. “Right. I’ll just run down and collect the rest of the plants.”

And they were off with the jauntiest of steps.

Aziraphale rounded on Mr. Crowley, intending to scold the man for taking advantage of Muriel’s kind and overzealous nature. But the professor had removed his sunglasses and was peering down that elegant nose, a self-assured grin on the most perfect of mouths.

It was honestly quite stunning.

“It was good to meet you,” the man crooned, voice dripping like the smoothest of honeyed concoctions. “I’m sure we’ll be great friends before the semester is through.”

Aziraphale highly doubted that. They didn’t seem to have anything at all in common.

“You as well,” he offered, never one to be impolite.

Anthony Crowley, with his suave hair and clothing, sun-kissed skin, and frankly unprofessional demeanor for one of such stature, gave a little salute and slunk past Aziraphale and out the door. There, he paused, backed up a step and leaned once more into the room.

“By the way,” he drawled, one hand on the doorframe, sunglasses dangling from long, manicured fingers. He nodded in the direction of Aziraphale’s cornflower blue cardigan. “Nice jumper. I have the same one. Wouldn’t it be wild if we both wore it on the same day?”

His smile widened to gremlin-like proportions, and then he disappeared, leaving Aziraphale wondering how things could possibly go more wrong.

He looked down at the soft cabled material, at the swell of his abdomen over the top of his substantial beltline, running a hand over the faint column of buttons from the shirt underneath. It was one of his favorites, wonderfully soft and incredibly comfortable. He looked over at the potted plant, thought of the youthful, energetic enthusiasm of Anthony J. Crowley. And suddenly, he felt very, very old.

“Well, ol’ boy,” he said to himself, reaching for his bag and pocketing his key. He’d forego moving the rest of his things for another day. He suddenly didn’t feel much like returning to work, anytime soon. “Looks like you’re in for one hell of a semester.”