Chapter Text
Crowley ascended the stairs as if in a dream, barely feeling the wooden steps beneath his feet, barely feeling his own body. He was floating, a being of air and light. The only physical sensation that mattered was Aziraphale’s warm hand clasping his own, through which that staggering flood of love had not ceased pouring. And not only love, apparently, but also the myriad other emotions that flavored it, like joy and excitement.
Demons could sense emotions too, after a fashion: hatred and pain and rage and fear, all par for the demonic course and very useful for temptations. Knowing the worst of someone made it very easy to prod their weak spots and manipulate them. It had always manifested as a cold, sour churning in his upper stomach, tucked right under the scorch of the hellfire, and had dogged him every time he was in public. He’d spent inordinate amounts of energy trying to block it out, and had become pretty good at it over the years.
But this…this was a kind of music. Warm instead of burning, a kiss upon his soul; like Aziraphale’s smile distilled into physical form. It sank right through his chest like sunlight through snow. He had no defense against it, and didn’t want one. He could feel this in a way that was both intimately familiar and defied simple description, and it stole his voice as thoroughly as it penetrated his heart. He could only stand there, dumbly, as his husband shut the bedroom door and faced him.
“First things first.”
Aziraphale reached out and gently lifted the grey tie over his head, then laid it over the back of the nearby armchair- one of the only pieces of furniture in the room. He stepped around behind him and carefully eased off his black jacket, folding it once before setting it aside. He unbuttoned the black vest one by one, then his shirt, that quiet smile still lingering about his mouth, and Crowley was struck by the symmetry. They had enacted a scene very much like this, last summer, the very first night they had ever spent together- except then it had been him doing the undressing.
The blond angel flicked him a playful glance as he worked, and from the sudden pulse of affection Crowley could tell that he was remembering the exact same thing.
They had come such a long, long way.
Soon all but his jeans had been removed and carefully stacked on the chair, and Aziraphale smoothed both hands down his bare chest. The steady flow of emotion he had been feeling for the past couple hours abruptly increased tenfold at the skin-to-skin contact; Crowley gasped and felt his knees go weak. He had to clutch at the velvet waistcoat to steady himself.
“It’s alright, my dear.” Aziraphale rose up on his toes to kiss his lips, and framed his face between his hands. “Can I see them? Will you show me your wings?” The question was accompanied by a surge of excited happiness.
Crowley swallowed hard, unable to look away. He had not dared to open his wings downstairs. It would have ruined his favourite jacket, to start...but moreso because he was almost frightened of what he would see. It was the final proof, wasn’t it? Some tiny part of him believed that despite the other changes he could feel raging through him, the alien eyes and this new strangeness under his skin- that there had been a mistake. That he was still Fallen. That revealing his celestial form would prove it, show that nothing had changed after all.
Or, far worse...what if they were different, and he didn’t look like himself anymore? What if he was more irrevocably changed than he realized, and when Aziraphale looked at him next he saw a stranger? He didn’t know if he could bear that.
It was a final leap of faith that he simply had not been ready for. But now, standing in their bedroom and holding his angel, filled to overflowing with his love and reassurance- he could face anything.
It was fitting to do it here in their most private of places, for their wings were a terribly private thing.
He slid his arms around his husband, and leapt.
With a sigh he released his wings, the way he had so many times before, felt them unfurl from his shoulders. Behind his closed eyelids, a burst of golden light.
There was a slow indrawn breath, and the steady hum of love and happiness peaked sharply into joy. “Darling, look.” Aziraphale spoke in barely a whisper.
Crowley opened his eyes and turned his head to see.
His wings were stretched out to either side of him, spanning the entire width of the little room, and they were no longer soot-black.
They were pure, dazzling white.
But not only white. There was a striation in the feathers, veins of gold running throughout, connecting and intersecting into a larger pattern. A pattern almost like...cracks. As he watched in breathless astonishment a soft glow ran down the wing, a shifting hint of fire deep within the gold, moving and breathing like live coals. Mesmerising. Like candlelight catching bits of metallic foil, except there were no candles here.
Aziraphale’s upturned face was full of pure wonder. “They’re so beautiful,” he breathed, voice hushed. “You’re so beautiful.” He raised his hand to touch, and hesitated. “May I?”
“Of course,” Crowley managed huskily. “Of course you can. Always.”
Aziraphale gently laid his hand on the feathers, and wherever he touched that soft fire rippled around his fingers like water. He gave a delighted laugh and moved his hand to the top of the wing, stroking down the limb, watching wide-eyed as the gold light responded again. "I've never seen anything like this. It's remarkable." He ran his fingers through the feathers and laughed again, face aglow with such incredible awe and joy, a joy Crowley could now feel as well as see.
His worries fell away, and all at once he no longer cared about his wings. He had eyes only for Aziraphale, still enfolded in his arms.
He wrapped the fire-touched wings around him like a gold-threaded cloak, and pulled him in to kiss him.
In response the shorter angel threw his arms around his neck and knocked him back onto the bed.
Then suddenly all was uncontrolled magic and shifting glimmering wings and soaring emotion, fabric vanishing and melting away under their hands faster than they could remove it. Aziraphale trailed burning kisses down his chest as he grasped desperately, eagerly, finally crawling into his aching-hard lap to wrap his arms and legs around him.
The shock of bare skin was nothing compared to the shock of absolutely raw feeling that accompanied the full-body touch. It roared through Crowley like a hurricane, dazzling, overwhelming, as Aziraphale put his hands on him and spread his own white wings with a snap and rush of air.
And then…
And then.
He had already been convinced that nothing in the world could beat sex with his angel. But, as it turned out, he’d only been experiencing it halfway, like viewing a picture of the ocean versus seeing the real thing. He had been listening to a single melody all this time, only to abruptly have it swell into a symphony.
He had never dreamed sex could be like this.
This was making love with that enchanting river of emotion running through it, giving new dimension to the physical pleasure, blending with the unique magic of human touch to create something utterly exquisite. Kneeling in their bed with Aziraphale astride him, skin clasped to skin, clutching at his soft waist and thighs. Wings wrapped tight around each other like a second pair of arms, trading gasps and crying out as they moved together in the perfect warmth. Feeling their love reach for each other, mingling until he could not tell where Aziraphale ended and he began. Feeling his own joy caught and reflected back at him like light off a mirror, ricocheting and amplifying back and forth between them until it felt as if the entire bed, the entire house would surely burst into radiant flame like the sun itself.
It didn’t, but as the rapture quickly hit its zenith he felt that power spill glittering out of their skin. In his mind’s eye he saw the small fern sitting on the open windowsill across the room burst wildly into flower, stretching towards the moonlit sky and pouring out of its little ceramic pot. The ceiling lamp sparked and shorted out, plunging them into darkness, but he barely noticed any of it. He was busy focusing on the glorious crescendo of Aziraphale’s love and happiness as he shuddered and came in his arms for the first time, fingers buried in each other’s feathers. Crowley held him tight and sobbed unrestrainedly at the beauty of it. He cried from sheer overwhelming joy, from relief, from catharsis, from six thousand years of doubts put to rest beyond all question. He cried harder than he had ever allowed himself to cry before, and for once in his life he felt no shame. It would have been incredibly embarrassing, if there had been room for any emotion but happiness, but his cup was filled to brimming. He hadn’t known it was possible to feel quite this much joy.
Aziraphale held him while they both caught their breath, soft hands stroking his back. Murmuring things that barely registered among all the raw affection still pouring through his heart and mind.
“Anthony.” The name was just another whisper through the dark, but it caught his attention. Aziraphale took his hand and pressed it to his thundering chest, possessively, cupping his fingers over it to hold him there. “I want you to know that I would have Fallen for you. I would have thrown myself off that cliff without hesitation if it came to it.”
And Crowley could tell, from the bell tone of absolute, shining love, that it was nothing but the truth.
“My beautiful angel,” he whispered against his throat, and kissed the racing pulse there. The skin was wet and salty from his tears; he licked it away and bit gently. “My angel. My star.” He lifted himself up on his knees a little, testing his new angelic strength, amazed at how effortless it was. “I would never let you Fall.” He tipped Aziraphale slowly back, down to lay on the bed without easing apart, careful not to hurt his wings.
With a snap of his fingers he performed his second miracle of the night, the one that they had discovered so recently, the one that eliminated the need to wait. He assumed he could do it, and thus he could, simple as that. He knew it had worked from the resulting deep moan, and the way Aziraphale’s hands tightened on him with fresh ardor, quickly confirmed by the newly rigid feeling between them.
He loved him again, slowly this time, like a priest at worship, every thrust and caress a tribute. Even with the constant glimmer of his new wings it was darker than he had ever experienced before, darker than his demonic vision had ever let it be. That wasn’t a problem. He didn’t need to see, not with the sounds his husband was making, not with the love flowing from him in peaks and waves, more clearly pointing the way than any other senses. He would have known Aziraphale by touch alone; his hands knew him more intimately than his eyes possibly could, knew the soft give of his body and the brush of his curls under his fingers. The perfect curve of his spine as he arched taut beneath him, moaning out each orgasm. He knew the taste of his sweat and pound of his heart under his teeth and tongue; the smell of him, of his cologne, of his sweet breath as he gripped him tight in return and sighed his longing into his mouth. The way his wings entwined with his own, until they were one. He knew it all the way he knew his own skin.
Crowley didn’t stop until he had wrung several more gasping releases from him, one after another after another.
When he finally paused to catch his breath, Aziraphale grabbed him round the waist and with a groan of effort rolled them insistently over. He pinned him to the bed by his wings, pressing them gently but firmly down, and firelit radiance shifted and brightened eagerly all about his hands. Golden light sparkled off the sweat on his body and glinted in his eyes as he stared intently down at him.
"My turn, darling," he said breathlessly.
The rest of that long, long night, there were no more tears.
Come the next morning, one extremely shell-shocked former demon could be found at the dining table, sitting in his husband’s plush lap, wearing only his dressing gown. Aziraphale’s soft, comforting arm was wrapped around his waist with hand interlaced tightly through his own. They had a cup of tea apiece and a plate of fresh scones with butter and jam set out in front of them, and were simply enjoying each other’s company, enjoying the normalcy of breakfast at home and the everyday little things that reminded them life was good.
Crowley had yet to touch the food. He held his teacup in his free hand and was still working up the presence of mind to take a sip. Aziraphale was working his way through the scones for the both of them, sipping freely at his own sweetened tea with a quiet smile and an air of complete satisfaction. His steady, calm, unmistakably smug presence grounded him, which was good because Crowley had never been in more need of grounding. A kind of pleasant shock and disbelief still gallivanted through him and lent the world a surreal cast.
His current mood could be accurately summarized as Holy shit.
Adding to the surreal feeling were the alabaster white wings that he still had out, at Aziraphale’s request, tucked close against his back so as not to knock anything over. Menace had been sitting by his food bowl and staring at him for most of the morning, clearly fascinated as well. The end of one wing dragged on the floor a bit, a single large feather sticking out, and the little black cat was tracking its movements with wide eyes and the tip of his tail twitching.
In daylight the veins of fiery gold were more subtle, though light still gleamed along the feathers even when completely still and in shadow. The clear sunlight had revealed that in addition to the gold, they also had flecks of iridescent shimmer scattered through them. Exactly like Aziraphale’s. The implications of that were still something of a mystery to him, but a mystery he could happily accept. And as beautiful and remarkable as they were…the wings were not what held his rapt attention.
Crowley finally took a sip of his cooled black tea (coffee would’ve been a bad idea) with a slightly trembling hand and closed his eyes, soaking in the quiet between them – a quiet that was now full in a way it had never been before. A soft warmth like a burning coal was emanating from his husband and triggering echoing flares in his own chest. He still felt it constantly, had felt it ever since that moment last night after…after…
He felt it every time Aziraphale looked at him, doubly so when he smiled and triply so when he touched him, and it was enough to keep him constantly breathless and fighting a happy pricking sensation behind his eyes. He couldn’t seem to get used to it, at all. Deeper than a mere physical heat, unmistakably love and somehow distinctly Aziraphale, that feeling was as recognizable and ancient-familiar as his voice or smell. Familiar, unmistakable, and positively the most beautiful thing he had ever experienced. More dazzling than the sun, more majestic than Everest; more awe inspiring than the turn of the galaxies in space as stars were born. He had seen all of those things, and none compared to this, this alchemy of human and angelic power. It made him feel like a man come frozen and shaking in from the cold, desperate to move closer to the fire and submerge himself in that warmth.
If there had been even the slightest sliver of doubt about his choice, the first five seconds of that first embrace would have laid it to rest.
He set down his barely-touched tea and wrapped both arms around Aziraphale, pressing his face into the blond curls, inhaling the wonderful mingled scents of cologne and citrus shampoo. Like himself the angel also only wore a dressing gown, albeit a much fancier and more embroidered version than his own, and his body was delightfully huggable beneath the ivory silk. He couldn’t help but notice the way the garment split had ridden up on his leg, baring one plump thigh and revealing a couple very interesting bruises. The same crescent-shaped bruises that marked both of their necks and shoulders. And backs...and stomachs...
Crowley fought off another wave of pleasant dizziness and slid a hand beneath the silk neckline to touch his husband’s chest for the hundredth time that day, stroking the soft down growing there. He just couldn’t resist.
Aziraphale put his own hand over his, holding it there against his heart, and looked up at him with a sunny smile that could be felt like a summer breeze. He tilted his head and placed a soft kiss upon the side of his throat, mouth warm. Crowley’s entire body thrilled in response, and he swayed in his seat. Ngk. He had to take a moment, and breathe, and take a sip of tea, and get his heightened reactions under control. It felt as if his normal emotional barriers had all been sandpapered off last night, during that staggering, unbelievable stretch of time when his entire understanding of the word “incredible” had been torn apart and redefined.
Neither of them had slept a wink, that was for damn certain, and for once he couldn’t consider it a loss. Their newfound, er, lack of physical limitations had been put to excellent use. Nearly excessive use.
They had finally tired themselves out sometime around dawn. Then they had simply lain there holding each other, watching the sun rise from their window and listening to the birdsong. That window had been newly adorned with an entire garden's-worth of little crimson flowers, snaking up over all four sides of the frame and covering both shutters...which made no real sense at all because it hadn't even been a vine in the first place- only a poor, plain fern. Apparently, untrammeled angelic power did strange things to other living things.
They had spent the rest of the morning just curled up under the tartan sheets, exchanging sleepy kisses and murmuring half-awake things to each other that they forgot nearly as quickly as they said them. The physical way the words had felt, though...that he still remembered.
If that was what Aziraphale had been getting all this time…it was a twofold wonder that he ever pried himself out of bed.
“Here, darling.” Aziraphale interrupted his thoughts, dragging him back to the present to offer him a bite of scone. Love, deep and abiding, suddenly radiated from him afresh, filling the air like a cloud and pouring down the arm against his chest like water from a spigot. Crowley just sat there gazing into those blue eyes, struck dumb. Was this what had been going on under the surface, all this time? All that, right there, just beyond his perception? He set his trembling jaw and gave himself an internal shake. At this rate, the next time he kissed him he was liable to simply keel over and lie senseless on the floor. For Someone’s sake. Pull it together.
He cleared his throat and allowed himself to be fed the rest of the scone. Cinnamon and sugar and vanilla burst on his tongue, one after another, far more vividly than usual and quite possibly the most delicious thing he had ever tasted. He was enjoying everything more than usual. Even food had a sweeter flavor.
It took him a few more hand-fed bites to realise that it wasn’t just his mood- it literally did taste sweeter. He took another bracing slurp of his tea and sniffed at the air. “Do you smell sulfur?” he asked.
Aziraphale sniffed too, and looked quizzically at him. “No. Do you?”
“No. That’s just it, I don’t at all. I just realized, I think I could always smell it a bit, before. Kind of at the back of my throat, you know?” He gestured and sipped at his tea again. Now that he was looking for it, the difference was unmistakable. “Huh. I thought that’s just what earth smelled like.” The idea was astounding.
“Wait.” Aziraphale was staring at him in something akin to horror. He blinked quickly a few times, as if he could barely comprehend what he was about to say. “You mean to say that...all this time, all these years, you’ve been constantly smelling that horrid rotten egg smell? Even when you eat?” He could hardly have looked more horrified if he had revealed that he was eating raw sewage with each bite. “You never said a word!”
“I didn’t even realize that’s what it was. It was just normal for me.” He inhaled deeply through his nose, and let it out slowly. “Yeah. Just a faint undertone. At first I thought there was just some really good smell in the air today, but no. It's just the lack of sulfur.” He took another bite of scone, and chewed experimentally. “Stuff tastes better without it too.” It was as if a very thin layer of grime had been wiped away from his tongue, from everything really, a grime that he had never even realized was there.
“Good Lord. I should think so!” Aziraphale exclaimed, sounding scandalized. He stared into appalled space for a few seconds longer. “We are going to have to taste everything all over again, now that you don’t have that to contend with.” His expression brightened, and he smiled excitedly up at him. “Ooh! This will be such fun. Let’s go to sushi for dinner tonight, and ice cream after that. Oh, and tomorrow we can go to the farmer’s market and try everything!”
“Sure. Sounds fun.” Crowley cupped his face in his hands and kissed him, taking his time. “Mmmm.” He kissed him again, even slower. A smile welled up inside, and he let it spread across his face without a fight. “Anything you want, my darling angel.”
The wave of emotion that blasted from Aziraphale made him gasp. He pulled slightly away and raised an eyebrow at him.
“Oh. Sorry.” Aziraphale had flushed pink. “I suppose I’m just not used to that yet.”
Crowley grinned, feeling a mad giddiness run through him. “Used to what, my darling?”
Aziraphale only rolled his eyes, but the emotion that pulsed from him was unmistakable. Crowley grinned wider. “Ah ha. You can’t hide from me anymore. I can tell exactly what you feel about…about…everything…” He trailed off as he realized what he was saying, and his jaw dropped open. “Oh. Oh Satan.” He stared into space, comprehension dawning, running last night over in his head. “All this time. This whole year. That’s how you did it.”
“Did what?”
“Always knew what- what- you know, what I liked!”
“Ah. Ahem. Well…yes.” Aziraphale blushed furiously red, and tried to cover it with an overly-casual sip of his tea. He didn’t seem to notice that the cup was empty. “It did make it rather easy, I suppose.”
“You sneaky little…you…you were cheating.” Crowley’s eyes widened, and he looked at his husband in wicked delight. “You, an angel, were cheating! All this time!”
“Excuse me, I wasn’t cheating! I couldn’t help feeling it!” Aziraphale protested indignantly. The rounded cheeks had surpassed red and moved on to bright scarlet, and his expression of alarmed guilt may have been the cutest thing Crowley had ever seen.
“Yeah, but you never said a word, you sneaky little bastard. You just let me think you were naturally talented, or perceptive, or…” With a gleeful laugh Crowley pulled him into his arms, tipped him over parallel to the floor and kissed him before he could say anything more. Aziraphale squeaked in surprise and flailed, dropping his teacup onto the floor, but with Crowley sitting on his lap there was nowhere for him to go. Crowley only dipped him lower and kissed him harder. There was a tiny bit of jam on the corner of Aziraphale’s mouth; he licked it away and kept kissing him while the mortified angel spluttered and kicked his legs and tried to push his face away.
Crowley found he was now strong enough to easily carry both their weights without falling off the chair. The realization only made him giggle.
He finally pulled him back up and let him go, and by then Aziraphale was nearly purple with embarrassment and indignation. He smoothed his hair and straightened his incredibly askew dressing gown with wounded dignity, and repaired the shattered teacup, while Crowley cackled uncontrollably.
“For heavens sake. You- you ridiculous serpent,” Aziraphale muttered, delicately blotting his mouth with a napkin. He wouldn’t look at him, but he had the deliberately purse-lipped expression that meant he was fighting a smile. His cheeks were still pink.
“Aw, c’mon, angel, don’t be like that. I think it’s brilliant.” Still grinning, Crowley kissed his hand, a conciliatory gesture. He finally felt a bit more on solid footing; flustering his husband was such a fun and familiar activity. And Aziraphale was just impossibly cute when he was irritated. “I definitely married the right person.” He shifted on his lap and pressed his lips to his cheek, making sure to focus on exactly how much he loved him. Now that he knew he could feel it, two could play that game.
It must have worked. The severe expression wavered, then finally melted into a smug smile. “Well, yes, of course.” Aziraphale slid an arm back around his waist, relenting, and reached for another scone. His voice turned sly. “So, my dear. Am I going to have to start calling you ‘angel’ now?”
It was Crowley’s turn to look at him in alarm. “Oh, you- ugh, don’t you dare.” He draped an arm around his shoulders and closed his eyes, pressing his nose into his hair. ”Mmm. On that note, I don’t know if I actually...feel like an angel, really. I don't feel much different, in most ways that matter. What the hell is an angel supposed to feel like nowadays?”
Aziraphale opened his mouth, paused, then closed it. He thought for a moment. “I...I honestly don’t know,” he said quietly, and gave him a wry, gentle smile. “When you figure that out, be sure to tell me, will you?”
“You know, that’s oddly comforting.” Crowley put his hand down the neck of the dressing gown again, drumming his fingers against his chest. “I guess I’ll have to settle for feeling this, hm?”
“Yes.” This time Aziraphale met him gaze for gaze and did not blush, but put a hand on his knee and slid it up his inner thigh. Allll the way up. “And this.” It was his turn to grin as Crowley gasped, and he kept his hand there. “We can at least know for sure what it feels like to be human.” He moved his hand again, and the gasp turned into a whimper.
They were feeling extremely human a minute or two later, when they were rudely interrupted by a feline yowl. Menace had apparently grown bored of the entire situation and was standing by the back door, the one that led to the garden.
“Shut up,” Crowley mumbled against Aziraphale’s mouth, and tightened his arms.
Menace meowed again, scratched at the door, and kept yowling.
Aziraphale sighed, and reluctantly withdrew his hand. “Might as well let him out, love. He’s not going to stop making that noise until you do.”
“Nnnnnngggh...” Crowley stood up with a growl and strode across the room, untied dressing gown swinging around his legs, muttering under his breath. He opened the door – to reveal the Archangel Fucking Gabriel standing right there, hand raised in a fist to knock.
"Holy bloody fuck!” Crowley flinched violently back and slammed the door in Gabriel’s face. Menace recoiled in alarm, spitting, and sprinted off somewhere into the depths of the house, knocking over a small potted plant with a crash. Crowley resisted the mad urge to do the same; his already-frayed emotions were still firing up and down and every which way. He whirled back to Aziraphale, wings askew, feathers fluffed up almost vertically on end. “It’s that wanker Gabriel again!” he hissed in a panic. A moment later confusion smote him as he remembered that now, technically, they were not enemies. Ugh. Technically. Forget that. No amount of technicality was going to stop him hating the smug prick.
After a frozen second Aziraphale very deliberately got to his feet, and straightened his dressing gown. “Well. The sooner we see what he wants, the sooner he’ll leave.” He came to stand beside him, fidgeting nervously. “It should be fine. We’re exonerated, remember?” Words notwithstanding, he took a casual step towards the sword leaning next to the desk, putting it within easy grabbing reach.
Crowley glared at the door. The bastard’s silhouette didn’t even show through the frosted glass pane. Creepy, that. As if light passed straight through him. “What are the odds that if we ignore him he’ll just go away?” he asked.
“Unlikely, I’m afraid.”
“Dammit.” Fine, then. He wasn’t going to let some corporate stiff make him nervous.
Aziraphale squeezed his arm reassuringly, and with the touch there came a very deliberate and pointed pulse of love, like a mental kiss. Crowley felt himself relax. With a sigh he furled away his wings, re-knotted his waist sash with a jerk, then stomped back over and yanked open the door. “What?” he snapped.
There was a long, dismayed silence as Gabriel looked him up and down, pained smile sliding off his face, taking in his state of undress – the disheveled hair, the bruises, the sloppily-tied dressing gown gaping open to below the waist (and barely covering a minimum of what should be covered) – with obvious horror.
The Archangel himself was impeccably dressed in full formal regalia: a crisp, pure ivory suit with pale lavender tie, accented by a gold satin sash affixed with an elaborately filigreed gold sigil pin. His dark hair was parted with ruler-edge precision, patent leather dress shoes polished to a mirror shine. He wore a starched collar so rigid it could probably be used as a weapon, and if his back had been any straighter it might have snapped.
Ugh.
Crowley felt a surge of perverse pleasure in knowing exactly how ragamuffin he looked by comparison. It was clear as crystal what they had been doing. He favoured him with his laziest grin and slouched casually against the doorframe. “Yeeeeeesss?” He drew out the word as insolently as he knew how.
After another moment of awkward silence, Gabriel dredged up his pained smile again and cleared his throat. “Ah. Greetings,” he said with an admirable attempt at pleasant formality. “I have been sent on behalf of Heaven to bid you, officially, welcome.” He held out both hands stiffly before him, as if in benediction.
Crowley eyed him, and let the pause sit for a moment. “Welcome. Right. You tried to kill me two days ago. Cute outfit, though.”
“I was not informed about that particular operation,” Gabriel replied testily. “But yes, welcome. Such an...unprecedented event demands recognition. In my official capacity as Herald, I would like to bid you welcome, and congratulations, angel-”
He stopped, staring at his face, apparently just noticing the snake eyes. “What have you done to yourself?” he demanded.
“What, you don’t like ‘em?” Crowley drawled. Against all the odds, he was enjoying this. He’d been unsure about the eyes, to be honest, but this reaction was more than worth it.
“Anyway,” Gabriel continued in a resigned voice with a weary shake of his head, “I have been sent to bid you welcome. And collect the paperwork."
“I’ll get it,” Aziraphale said behind him. A moment later there was a tap on his shoulder as he handed him the stack of documents.
“Thanks, angel,” Crowley said without looking away. He wasn’t about to turn his back on Gabriel, not for a second, and he wasn’t about to let him near his husband if he could help it.
He handed the still-faintly-glowing pages to Gabriel, who took them without ceremony.
The Archangel squinted down at the document. “Ah. That still leaves the reinstatement of your Name,” he began.
Crowley held up a hand, cutting him off. “I’ve got a Name already, thanks. It’s right there.” He jabbed at the page.
Gabriel attempted a chuckle, then blinked when he didn’t crack a smile. “Come on. You can’t be Angel Crowley. It’s not a proper-”
“I don’t give a shit about proper angel anything. I signed as Crowley. It was accepted. That's still what it says there. You can either accept it too, or go back to your boss-” ("our boss, dear,” Aziraphale murmured gently behind him) “-ugh, fine, our boss, and complain to Her.”
“Fine.” Gabriel exhaled hard through his nose, apparently out of patience. He threw up his hands. “You know what, fine. Whatever. At least now we can put all this unpleasantness behind us! Now that you are…one of us again.”
“Ha.” Crowley folded his arms and regarded him flatly. “Let’s get one thing straight, right now. I am not like you. I might be an- an angel again,” (the word still stuck in his throat) “but if you think that means either of us are suddenly going to dance to your tune, you can think again. I’ll do what’s needed for the humans, fine, but it ends there. And if you ever try to harm Aziraphale again? If you try to control him, or ever so much as lay a finger on him?” He gave him his best demonic smile, baring all his teeth. “Then I swear, I’ll rip your stupid purple tie off your neck and shove-”
“And we’re staying here. Both of us are,” Aziraphale cut in loudly. He was suddenly at his side, sliding a soft arm around his waist and pulling him slightly back. He’d apparently decided to step in before he did something rash. Love poured from him now, warm and supportive and far too concentrated to be anything but deliberate, and Crowley felt his rage melt away. “You leave us be and don’t try to start any more nonsense, and all will be well.”
“Yeah. No more War,” Crowley said firmly. Aziraphale’s arm was a steady, soothing presence around him. He leaned into his bulk and put his own arm around his shoulders, facing the Archangel squarely as one. “Not on Earth. If you’re so keen for a fight you can have it somewhere else. Big old universe out there. Let the humans keep on spinning round and making their choices. The Almighty might not directly intervene, but we will. Again, if needed.”
“We can be very persistent,” Aziraphale agreed.
“And irritating. We're good at that.”
“Yes, quite.”
"Don't make us get involved."
Gabriel just stood there with the papers in his hands, looking more and more irked and baffled by the second.
Crowley couldn’t help but laugh. “You poor smug idiots. All this time thinking you were the players. But you’re actually the pieces, same as us. That’s got to sting, huh?”
A muscle twitched in Gabriel’s jaw.
“Bye,” Crowley said, and slammed the door in his face again with vicious satisfaction. He brushed off his hands with a flourish, and let out a slow breath of relief. He looked down at Aziraphale, who still had his arm around his waist and was watching him with a smile. “How did I do?”
Aziraphale cupped his cheek and kissed him on the lips, and a spark of pleased happiness leapt between them. He was definitely doing that on purpose. “You’re a force of nature, my love. Let's have a drink.”
Aziraphale set out two wine glasses on the sitting room coffee table, then made straight for the wine cabinet and carefully withdrew a bottle of 1961 Chateau Latour. He'd kept it tucked away at the very back for a particularly special occasion, and if telling off Heaven didn’t signify then nothing did. He used a small miracle to remove the red-waxed cork with a pop, not in the mood to bother with the proper tools, and poured them each a generous helping.
They settled onto the sofa, hip to hip, and Crowley scooped an arm around his shoulders and pulled him in against him. Telling off Gabriel certainly seemed to have put him in high spirits, for he grinned lazily and kissed him before tapping their glasses together.
“To being left alone, finally. And to our world, my angel.” He kissed him again, slower. “Mmm. And everything important in it.”
“Indeed. To our world.” Aziraphale beamed and kissed him back. He couldn’t help but gaze at him in a bit of awe. The way he had handled Gabriel like that, like- like an irritating fly, had been a joy to watch. The Archangel always made him feel like a child that stepped out of line, but Crowley...his fearless Crowley was simply not impressed. He was absolutely marvelous. Marvelous, and more handsome in his disheveled dressing gown and morning scruff than any other person alive dressed to the nines.
They both sipped contentedly for a couple of minutes, lapsing back into the peaceful silence of earlier. He was pleased to find that the dark red wine was truly excellent, everything the critics (and price) had promised - rich, velvety, extraordinary depth of flavour. A perfect choice. He wriggled closer to his husband with a happy sigh and lay his head on his shoulder. Crowley's arm around him was still warm, if no longer fever warm, and no less comfortable for it. Oh, but he was so beautiful, and brave. He simply couldn’t get enough of him, even- especially after last night. The urge to drag him back to bed had been tugging at him all day.
"You really didn't want your old name back?" he asked quietly after a while. He was glad, but still curious. Crowley had told him about it early that morning, in the hushed interim between moonlight and dawn as they just lay holding each other. He’d whispered to him, haltingly, about the transformation, and the recovery of part his memory. About his refusal of the last.
Crowley shook his head and set down his empty glass on the coffee table. "Nope. Too many strings. Besides...” He quirked a smiled, and tenderly stroked his cheek with one finger. “Why would I want a name from a life that didn’t include you?”
The question came with a sudden stream of absolutely blinding love, completely overwhelming all thought, and Aziraphale almost dropped his wine. Oh dear. He blushed and stared down at his lap, fighting back a lump in his throat.
He mastered himself and looked up again, to find Crowley just watching him with the faintest of satisfied smirks. Oh, Good Lord. It seemed that his ridiculous, stubborn, painfully attractive husband had finally figured out that he could amplify the effect by focusing on it. This was going to be trouble. In a battle for lack of subtlety, Crowley would win every single time.
All the more so because he knew full well that the emotions couldn’t be feigned, and what he had just felt was genuine.
Crowley’s hand was still touching his face, long fingers pressed to his cheek, still close enough to kiss. His yellow eyes were soft, just looking at him. He did this often, simply trailed off and went quiet, and like now it was usually when his emotions were the loudest. Aziraphale sighed, and put a hand over his wrist. "Oh my love. My wily adversary," he said quietly. All those long years convinced he was being lured by demonic powers, and now, here he was. More tempting than he had ever been. It was enough to make a person feel very foolish. "I don't know how I got so lucky."
"Pfft. You didn’t," Crowley said reasonably, and tightened his arm around his shoulders. "If we're discussing luck, I'm the one who found the only angel in the universe worth both Falling and Rising for. I definitely got the better end of the deal."
“Oh, don’t talk nonsense. You have always been worth Falling for.” In a burst of giddiness Aziraphale set down his glass and turned towards him, taking his hand. “Go on, ask me for anything in the whole world. Ask me...ask me to run off with you again," he said, and felt his face crease into a silly smile. "Like you did before Armageddon."
"Okay...if you insist." Crowley grinned, clearly humouring him. He cleared his throat, wrapped both arms around his shoulders and pulled them close together, foreheads touching. He let out a long, slow sigh, and closed his eyes. "Run away with me, angel," he murmured softly. "Please. Come away with me, and be mine forever."
"Yes," Aziraphale replied immediately. He knew it was so absurd, but he found himself fighting happy tears. Perhaps it was just the overwhelming joy of the day. Perhaps it was the raw emotion pouring from Crowley, as if was for real. As if he was still truly asking. "Yes. We can, right now. Anywhere you want to go, my love."
Crowley opened his eyes. "Oh, look." He made a show of glancing around at the sitting room. "And here we are."
"Here we are," Aziraphale agreed, beaming. "Safe at home. After all this time."
"Yeah. Imagine that." Crowley kissed him on the nose, and the sheer ocean of feeling beneath that simple gesture took his breath away.
Crowley leaned back and stretched, long and leisurely, groaning. “Now that that’s settled, do you mind if I sleep for a bit? Being an angel is exhausting work.” He yawned, and offered him a crooked smile. “I need to regain my strength if we're going to go out to dinner tonight.”
And with a leap of his heart, Aziraphale suddenly remembered that he had a gift for him. He managed not to gasp, but just barely. He had been eagerly waiting for this: the first sleep as an angel. There was something that had been on his mind ever since those two infinite days ago, since the possibility of Rising had presented itself; something he had been helplessly aching to do for nearly a year. And now, for the first time, possible.
He quickly tried to reel in his emotions lest he give himself away. “Of course! I’ve got plenty I can read; I wouldn’t mind some quiet time. Especially since we didn't get any sleep last night." He quickly summoned a book to hand with a finger snap, something at random, and swiveled to lie lengthwise along the sofa with back against the armrest. He patted the cushion between his legs and held out his arms, smiling expectantly.
Crowley raised an eyebrow at his enthusiasm, but wasted no time in scooting in. He snuggled up close to him with his back against his chest, wiggling a bit more than absolutely necessary, and laid his head in the crook of his shoulder. "This okay?" he asked.
"Yes. Yes, this is perfect." Aziraphale wrapped his arms around him and kissed the side of his head, beaming. A bony shoulder was digging into his middle, and his own dressing gown had ridden up somewhat alarmingly. "I couldn't be more comfortable."
Crowley tilted his head back and just lay there looking at him for a long moment with those golden eyes, a faint smile on his lips. The kind of relaxed, peaceful smile he had rarely seen on him before last year. The kind of smile he had always deserved. He reached up and put a lanky arm around his neck in a brief hug. "Love you, angel." The words were practically unnecessary given how loudly his emotions were shouting, but Aziraphale felt a warm flush sweep him from head to toe anyway.
"I love you too, my dear." Saying it still mattered.
He sat there carding his fingers through the soft russet hair, watching the familiar gold eyes gradually droop and slide closed. Six thousand years of experiences, and all the miracles of Hell and Heaven at our fingertips...yet none ever held a candle to this, he thought wonderingly.
A peace deeper than anything he had ever known settled over the quiet, sunlit room. Tonight there would be more wine, and sushi, and dessert, and possibly even stars, if he asked nicely...but for now there was only the simple joy of Crowley's body pressing all along his own, the lift and fall of his skinny chest in his arms. The slow buzz of his breathing as he drifted off. Warm and human and perfectly imperfect, and so very alive.
Aziraphale just lay there for a minute or two longer, feeling the soft thrum of Crowley's love and letting his own echo right back. Remembering a night, not so long ago, on a sofa much like this one, when he had acknowledged that thrum for the first time. The night he had finally stopped lying to himself, and started living.
In the tiny back room of a Soho bookshop, they had together found something precious, and powerful, and uniquely human. So very, miraculously human.
He kissed his forehead, took a deep breath, and leaned in to whisper his gift in his ear: “Sleep well, my darling Anthony. And have sweet dreams of whatever you love best.”
“Should be easy,” Crowley mumbled back, only half-awake, and reached one hand up. “Already got it all right here.”
Aziraphale took his hand, and felt it go slack in his grip as Crowley fully succumbed to sleep. The first of many, many sleeps that were now, at long last, guaranteed to be free of nightmares.
Yes. Right here. On earth, together. Exactly where we belong.
He tightened his grip on his husband with a smile, and opened his book.
En Fin