Chapter Text
Spring
The sunlight is that special sort of golden, heavy on the back of Aziraphale's neck as he locks up the clinic. The air is warmer every day as spring gains strength and steam, and as he starts down the road towards the farm, the trees are so frothy with blossom they look like they're going to overflow.
He's always found living right above the clinic terribly convenient, but he's discovered he also rather loves this walk to the farm. Everything is soft and bright at once, the trees and the bushes giving off a sense of accomplishment after a hard day's growing. The verges are a riot of flowers, and the grass is shooting skywards like it's going out of style, filling the air with the scent of green things.
If he's honest, though, the very best part is the moment when he comes around the corner of the lane and sees the gate and the house beyond it, and his heart swells with a kind of quiet joy he's never felt so readily before.
He pauses just inside the gate to look over the farm. The scrubby trees and weeds have been pushed right back to the edges of the land now, and the space is full of carefully demarcated plots and paths between them. Even so, there's a kind of artless chaos to it, a wonderful freeform design that's a world away from the stark, regimented fields of commercial farms. Most of the plots are overflowing with flowers - Aziraphale loves the sight of the tulips swaying in the breeze even more than he loves them in a vase on the kitchen table - and the newly-installed beehives are buzzing with activity.
On the far side of the farm is the beginnings of the apple orchard, saplings planted in a double row with a charming rustic cobble walkway laid between them; Crowley has finally found a use for all the rocks. The saplings are much bigger than Aziraphale thought they would be. It won't be long before they're covered in blossom, and there will probably even be a few apples in the autumn.
He has to edge past Freddie, who has taken to dozing on the steps up to the front door in the evenings. Freddie half-opens one eye with a typical feline disregard for the inconvenience he's causing, and Aziraphale pauses to scritch him between the ears. He's probably fully grown by now, Aziraphale thinks; he's never going to be a very large cat, but it's hard to believe he was once so tiny he could fit into the palm of Crowley's hand.
When he opens the farm door - he doesn't bother to knock these days - he's surprised to find Crowley sitting at the kitchen table instead of lounging on the sofa with his phone. Crowley glances up with just a dash of guilt.
"Oh, is it that late already—?"
Aziraphale blinks at the papers spread out on the table, recognising the letterhead on several of them.
"Is that my case file?"
He's been wrestling with it again these past few weeks, grimly struggling through the anxiety that always accompanies re-reading the details, and it seemed easiest just to bring the paperwork over here to study in the evenings. He doesn't exactly mind that Crowley is looking through it, but...
"Just, uh. Just thought I'd check something." Crowley shifts in the chair and starts gathering up the papers haphazardly. "Sorry. Didn't mean to— wasn't going to say anything in case I was wrong—"
"Wrong about what?"
Crowley hums reluctantly. Aziraphale crosses the room to stand behind his chair, letting his hands rest lightly on Crowley's shoulders. He feels them relax at once.
"Look, I'm not promising anything," Crowley says after a moment. "Maybe I'm reading it wrong. But I reckon your lawyer's missed a trick. I mean, can't blame her, her caseload's probably nuts, and that Gabriel fellow's done his best to muddy the waters, but if I'm not mistaken there's a honking big hole in his argument that ought to put the whole thing to rest in your favour."
"Oh," Aziraphale says, tightening his hands on Crowley's shoulders, leaning in to try and see what he's seeing in the papers. He deliberately hasn't asked for Crowley's advice on the case. He doesn't want to take advantage of their personal relationship, especially when Crowley chose to leave that world behind. "Do you— do you really think so?"
"Not promising anything," Crowley repeats quickly. "Don't get your hopes up, okay? Not until I'm sure."
"Of course." Aziraphale leans in to wrap his arms properly around Crowley's chest; Crowley relaxes back into him with a sigh of pleasure. Aziraphale presses a soft kiss to the top of his head. "But thank you, dearest. Even if it comes to nothing."
Crowley makes one of those noises he makes whenever Aziraphale showers him with affection, like he can't stand it and wants more at the same time. He tilts his head back hopefully. Aziraphale can't quite kiss him properly from this angle, but he lays a small smooch on the tip of Crowley's nose, and laughs as Crowley goes cross-eyed as a result.
"Now, what about dinner?" Aziraphale says, and he's trying to imply that he'll have a go at putting something together if Crowley wants, but they both know that it's going to be Crowley doing the cooking. He's starting to develop something of a knack for it even outside baking. "I could—"
"Nuh uh. I've got plans." Crowley twists around in his seat, kisses Aziraphale soundly, then leaps up and yanks open the fridge door. "Look."
Aziraphale dutifully sticks his head in, and encounters a large paper-wrapped package that smells of the sea.
"And that is—?"
"Fish," Crowley says triumphantly. "Willy dropped it off earlier." He pivots to point at the counter, where a number of home-grown potatoes are sitting in a basket. "Aaaand... chips."
Aziraphale takes in for the first time the presence of a deep fat fryer on the hob. He doesn't know when Crowley bought it, or where he's been hiding it, or how long he's been plotting this, but he absolutely cannot contain his delight.
"Are you really going to—"
"Found a great recipe for batter, easy as anything to whip up, thought you'd like— mmph!"
It's not like Aziraphale could not kiss him, after that. Crowley blindly pushes the fridge door shut and Aziraphale crowds him up against it, dislodging one of the novelty magnets that seem to spontaneously come into existence whenever they're not looking. Crowley's hands wind into his hair and Aziraphale just loves the way he's ever-so-slightly clinging, as always a little off-balance and amazed, like he still doesn't quite understand how Aziraphale can love him so very much. Aziraphale knows the feeling. It's the way he feels when Crowley so casually goes out of his way to find just the thing Aziraphale will enjoy for dinner tonight, or exactly the right lamp for that corner of the sofa where Aziraphale likes to sit and read, or takes the time to go over his casefile to see if he can help...
"I adore you," Aziraphale murmurs, breaking the kiss only to nuzzle helplessly against Crowley's jaw, bury his face in his neck and breath in the scent of him.
"Angel," Crowley breathes in response, wrapping his arms tightly around him and crushing him close. After a moment, he mutters, "I didn't even get to dessert..."
"There's dessert?"
"Mmhmm. Raspberry pavlova. Fresh cream from Marnie's cows."
"You are a miracle," Aziraphale says fervently. "Do you need any help?"
There is a pause as they both contemplate Aziraphale's last attempt to cook anything more complicated than pasta. Aziraphale can't see the scorch mark on the counter, with his face pressed to Crowley's shoulder, but he can feel it there, accusing and still smelling faintly of burnt garlic and despair.
"You could choose the wine?" Crowley suggests.
"Yes, excellent, I'll get right to it." Aziraphale doesn't release Crowley, doesn't lift his head. There's no hurry. There's no reason to let go until he wants to, although he's not sure, at this rate, that he's ever going to want to. "Perhaps that white we picked up in the city last weekend."
"Sounds good." Crowley's not making any move to separate them either. His hands are warm on Aziraphale's back, thumbs stroking absentminded circles between his shoulderblades. "It's all good."
It is, Aziraphale thinks happily. It really is.
Summer
Crowley is, in all honesty, not particularly enthused about going for a picnic on the beach. It's one of those ideas that sounds nice in theory, but then you have to confront the fact that the summer sun is an angry, vengeful god with a particular vendetta against Crowley's pasty skin, that sand has no business being anywhere near either foodstuffs or his smartphone, and that there will always be children (and occasionally adults) shrieking and throwing water about.
Not to mention crabs. Crowley doesn't like to think about crabs. Definitely doesn't like to think about a traumatic childhood memory involving a pinched toe and being chased up the beach by an enraged crustacean of unusual size.
His pleas for mercy have fallen on deaf ears, a large tube of sunscreen has been purchased, a picnic basket has been prepared, and so he finds himself trudging in grim defeat down the path towards the too-bright water while Aziraphale hums happily to himself. Along with his big straw hat, he's wearing sandals and has rolled up his sleeves, though he hasn't gone so far as to put on a pair of shorts. The fact that Crowley has seen him naked quite a lot at this point does nothing to stop the sight of his pink toes and bare forearms feeling positively scandalous.
He's distracted enough not to notice where they're headed until he finds himself suddenly in the shade. He looks up, startled. Aziraphale has led them over to a pair of comfortable chairs underneath a sturdy beach umbrella. There's a coolbox for drinks, and a decent-sized table, and a good big rug spread under it all to keep the sand at bay.
"Wait, where did all this come from?"
"Oh, Willy has a side business setting up deckchairs and so on in the summer," Aziraphale says casually. "Didn't you know?"
Crowley sputters and stares indignantly as Aziraphale settles himself into one of the chairs. Aziraphale looks up at him innocently, but can't quite suppress the mischievous sparkle in his eyes.
"Wha— you let me think we'd be burning to a crisp on a bit of blanket all afternoon—"
"Did I? I can't say I remember suggesting any such thing—"
"This is practically civilised," Crowley whines, offended on a level he can't even quantify. "This is... this isn't a picnic, it's— it's al fresco dining!"
Aziraphale raises one eyebrow with the smuggest, sweetest smile.
"Well, if you'd rather sit on the sand, there's plenty of it. I can toss you a sandwich now and again."
Crowley dumps the basket on the table and collapses into the other chair in a cloud of grumpy surrender. He's spent days - days! - building up to this sulk, and he'll be damned if he's going to let it go to waste. Aziraphale simply beams at him and leans forward to start unpacking the food.
"Might as well get Robin to build you a bloody cabana down here," Crowley mutters. "Put in a couple of hammocks and a fridge—"
"Oh, what a lovely idea!" Aziraphale exclaims with absolute delight. "Do you think we could persuade Lewis—"
"Angel—" Crowley can't do it, he can't hold onto the sulk in the face of Aziraphale's beaming enthusiasm and smug satisfaction. He laughs, and leans back in the chair. It's nice here, shaded from the direct sun, just enough of a breeze off the sea. There aren't even any shrieking children, and not a crab in sight. "Ugh. Fine. Pass me a pork pie."
Aziraphale rummages around, puts a pie on a plate - one of Crowley's plates, incidentally, and not a paper one - and then adds a few more nibbles Crowley didn't ask for, but will very much enjoy, including some hot chilli chutney Shane gave them. Aziraphale hands Crowley the plate, along with a knife and fork wrapped neatly in a napkin. Then, to Crowley's mingled disbelief and amusement, he reaches back into the basket, and two of Crowley's wineglasses make an appearance.
"You ever heard of plastic cups, angel?"
"Terrible for the environment. And so uncouth." Aziraphale shakes his head as if Crowley has suggested drinking straight from the bottle. "No, we're doing this properly, thank you very much."
Another laugh bursts out of Crowley without so much as a by-your-leave. Aziraphale retrieves a pair of tea cups - those are definitely not Crowley's, though they've been hanging around in his cupboard for a while now - and a tartan-patterned thermos which Crowley just knows will be full of perfectly brewed Earl Grey. There's probably a goddamn lemon slice in that basket somewhere.
"You've got half the kitchen in there," Crowley protests, still laughing. "No wonder it was so bloody heavy!"
"You're such a dear for carrying it," Aziraphale replies sweetly. The flattery is transparent but still effective. "Don't worry, I'll do the washing up when we get home."
"No, you won't," Crowley replies knowingly. "You'll dump it all in the sink to 'soak' and forget about it."
Aziraphale shoots him a wounded look that does nothing to dampen Crowley's smirk. He sets about the pork pie, leaving Aziraphale to pout into his cucumber sandwiches.
It's only then that it hits him: when we get home.
Technically, Aziraphale hasn't moved in with Crowley. Technically. But Crowley can't actually remember the last time Aziraphale spent the night elsewhere. Half his belongings seem to have made their way over to the farmhouse, including more books than should have been able to fit in the flat. Crowley's closet contains a lot more tartan and beige than it used to, as well as some indecently fluffy jumpers that he might, just occasionally, steal when it's chilly in the evenings.
Home. Is that how Aziraphale thinks of the farmhouse now? Wasn't there supposed to be some sort of announcement? Or at least a conversation about it? Not that Crowley minds - not that Crowley feels anything but brilliant, burning joy at the thought - but after so long worrying about going too fast, he's blindsided by the way this seems to have crept up on him.
"Everything all right, dear?" Aziraphale asks.
Crowley realises he's been holding a piece of pork pie and staring at it for over a minute.
"Was just thinking," he says slowly, which is a lie: whatever is about to come out of his mouth has had absolutely no pre-planning applied to it. "Robin's got some ideas about extending the house a bit more. Couple more rooms upstairs, some more space in the living room. Could go for it. Get you some proper bookshelves. Bring your armchair over from the flat. And the rest of your stuff."
He risks a glance over the table. Aziraphale has gone lightly pink, but he doesn't look in any way surprised or taken aback.
"That would... that would be lovely," Aziraphale says softly after a moment. "Perhaps I... could even think about renting out the flat, what do you think? Though I suppose it's a bit small for most people coming out from the city—"
"Penny needs a place of her own," Crowley says instantly. He finally bites into the pork pie. It's delicious, and he feels so perfectly happy in this moment, he almost doesn't know what to do with himself. "She's been saving up from her online tutoring. Bet she'd take you up on it."
"Oh, what a good idea," Aziraphale replies, with a smile so warm and soft that Crowley can't look directly at it.
"Full of good ideas, me."
Aziraphale reaches across the table and captures Crowley's spare hand.
"You're the best idea I've ever had," he says, completely straight-faced.
The moment lasts for about half a second before Crowley breaks, laughing so hard he has to wipe at his eyes.
"Yoba's sake, angel, you want some crackers with that cheese?"
Aziraphale smiles contentedly.
"I rather think I've already got everything I need, my dear."
Fall
It's a wet and blustery day, perfect for spending indoors with a good book and a cup of tea. Particularly perfect for sitting in the cosy corner of the new upstairs study, where everything still smells of new wood and paint, but the books lining the shelves are comfortingly familiar. The rain hits the window under the eaves in pattering droves, and Aziraphale is just exactly the right temperature under his tartan blanket, especially with Freddie acting as a rumbly little hot water bottle in his lap. The teapot is the lovely glass one Crowley found for him, with the extra insulation to keep the tea warm, and the biscuits are those little shortbreads that Aziraphale loves. There's always another box of them in the cupboard, somehow. He could stay here forever quite contentedly, especially since he's in no danger of running out of books. His latest order has just turned up, in a box large enough to make Crowley tease him for a week.
At least, until he got distracted by whatever it is that's making him slink skittishly around like a tightly-coiled spring. Aziraphale has been observing this process with mild interest for the last few days. Crowley can barely sit still and keeps sneaking what he probably thinks are very subtle glances in Aziraphale's direction and periodically gets this look on his face like he's staring over the edge of a very tall cliff and doesn't quite know whether jumping is a good idea.
He's quite obviously planning something, probably something ridiculously extravagant for Aziraphale's benefit, and Aziraphale loves him so much it almost hurts. He doesn't normally get this antsy about theatre bookings or desserts or flowers, though. Aziraphale almost wonders if he ought to say something, ask about it point-blank to put Crowley out of his anticipatory misery.
But he has the tiniest suspicion, fluttery and thrilling and electric, of what Crowley might have in mind this time, and he wouldn't want to spoil it for the world.
He loses himself in his book for a while, and is drawn back to reality by Crowley charging up the stairs at a speed that suggests some urgent announcement, but which Aziraphale has learned is just how Crowley climbs stairs.
"Angel!" Crowley bursts into the room; perhaps he really does have something to say? Aziraphale's heart starts to race. "The rain's stopped!"
Aziraphale blinks. It's true, he hasn't heard that patter of drops on the glass for a while. In fact, the sun has come out. He can see a lovely lazy golden beam striking through the trees. He's not quite sure it deserves this amount of fanfare.
"And...?" he tries.
"Let's go for a walk."
"I'm actually right in the middle of this chapter—"
"It could start up again at any minute," Crowley says urgently. "Come on, we've got to seize the moment!"
Aziraphale stares at him, and at the way he's shifting from foot to foot, hands in pockets and then out of them again, eyes darting everywhere but Aziraphale's face.
"Well, all right," Aziraphale says, closing his book and gently nudging Freddie off his lap. His heart rate has picked up again, but he's a lot better than Crowley at hiding it. "You do look like you need to burn off some energy."
Aziraphale makes sure to take an umbrella with them, even though it's probably too windy to use one and Crowley insists the break in the clouds will last. Everything's wet outside, wet leaves shuffling around in the wind, wet grass shivering with each gust of air, wet trees sending little miniature rain showers down with every twitch of their leaves. It would be thoroughly damp and unpleasant, except that the lazy evening sun is at just the perfect angle to catch every drop of water, every glistening leaf, and turn it to sparkling crystal. Aziraphale will admit that it's worth the cost of shivering a bit and shoving his hands deeper into his coat pockets. Especially when Crowley reacts by linking their arms together and pulling him in close to his side.
Crowley obviously has a destination in mind, and Aziraphale wonders briefly if in fact he's about to be proudly shown some new concoction Crowley has come up with in the brewing shed. Their first attempts at mead were... less than successful, but they've plenty of honey to experiment with. The latest obsession has been blackberry jam. Crowley's bought an enormous pot that Aziraphale is privately convinced was intended as a child's bathtub rather than a cooking implement. Some important lessons have also been learned about boiling sugar, although Aziraphale hasn't had to dab burn ointment onto any part of Crowley for almost a week now, so hopefully he's got the hang of it.
But no, Crowley bypasses the shed and leads Aziraphale along the path towards the orchard. The saplings have grown so fast this year that they're already more like small trees, and as they approach, Aziraphale catches his first glimpse of red peeking out from between the leaves.
"Oh!" he exclaims. "Are they ready?"
"Not all of them," Crowley replies, and that nervous tension is intensifying, almost vibrating through their linked arms. "Just a few for now. But I wanted you to see..."
They turn into the avenue of trees, and Aziraphale understands at once. The leafy, lovely path stretches before them, and on both sides the apple trees sway and rustle, and even the unripe fruits are glimmering wonderfully with their coat of raindrops. The sun-shadows dance across the ground and the light is honey-heavy and it makes something in Aziraphale ache to look at it. It's almost like a pathway to another world.
"It's just," Crowley says abruptly, stopping mid-step, almost clinging to Aziraphale now. "It's just, this is what I imagined, you know? When I decided to buy the farm - it's Eden Farm, right? - and I thought - I know farming's s'posed to be all fields and stuff but I just— I thought about trees. Just like this."
"Oh," Aziraphale barely breathes, afraid to say a single thing that might interrupt Crowley's rambling confession.
"But, you know, I didn't— I didn't really think it would ever— when I came out here, I think I just, I expected to fail, really, I thought— I dunno— I wanted..."
Crowley gulps. Aziraphale leans into him. They're both still looking down the path, not at each other.
"Never thought I'd be—" Crowley's voice has dropped so low it's like a prayer. "Never thought I'd really do it. Or— or have someone to— share it with."
"Crowley, darling," Aziraphale murmurs, unable to help himself then, turning to pull Crowley fully into his arms. "I—"
"No, wait, listen, I'm not— I need to—" Crowley makes a frustrated noise at his own ineloquence, wraps his arms tightly around Aziraphale, buries his face in Aziraphale's shoulder. "I mean..."
He takes a deep breath. Maybe something about being in Aziraphale's arms gives him confidence, or soothes away his nerves. Maybe the time's just right, as Aziraphale holds him close and holds his breath and hopes.
"Will you marry me?"
Aziraphale makes a tiny, involuntary sound that is in no way sufficient to convey the magnitude of his joy.
"Yes, of course, of course I—"
He doesn't get any further because then Crowley is kissing him, and they're both half-laughing into it, breathless and giddy and perfect.
"Got you a thing," Crowley says after a while, pressing his face into Aziraphale's hair. "Some sort of shell on a string, I dunno—"
"A mermaid's pendant? Really?" Aziraphale pulls back to give him an astonished look. "Those are so hard to get hold of these days—"
"Got some tips. From people." Crowley's blushing and grinning at the same time, as delighted as ever to be the cause of Aziraphale's delight. He fumbles in his jacket pocket and pulls out a small box, longer than it is wide. "Here."
Aziraphale takes the box and opens it with shaking hands. They're exquisite little things, the mermaid's pendants, crafted from a particular rare shell using closely-guarded techniques. There are dozens of superstitions attached to them, centuries of meaning behind the gesture. Aziraphale doesn't care a whit for any of them just now. What he cares about is what Crowley is saying without words: that he doesn't just want to spend his life with Aziraphale, but that he wants to do it here, in this place where they've so unexpectedly found everything they never thought they would have.
"It's beautiful," Aziraphale says, choking a little and blinking to clear his suddenly misty eyes. "Oh, Crowley."
Crowley cups his face with one hand, banishes a tear with the pad of his thumb, leans in to kiss the salt away.
It's at that exact moment that the heavens open again; they've been too wrapped up in each other to notice the sun going back behind the increasingly ominous clouds. It's so sudden that Crowley actually yelps aloud, while Aziraphale gasps at the shock of cold, and then starts to laugh at Crowley's look of utter outrage.
"Oh, come on, five more minutes!" Crowley yells at the sky.
Aziraphale quickly tucks the pendant away, and then, with only a little smugness, opens his umbrella and shields Crowley from the rain. The wind tries to catch the umbrella and tear it inside-out, but it's a good, solid old thing, and Aziraphale is strong enough to keep hold of it until they're safe back inside.
"Let's go home," Aziraphale says, and Crowley's scowl softens, even though his hair is already dripping into his eyes.
"Yeah," Crowley replies, letting Aziraphale take his arm again, this time letting himself be led. "Okay."
Winter
It is possible that Crowley is never going to move again, and he's okay with that.
The snow has been falling since last night. Not a full blizzard, just a long, steady fall that's been building up inch upon inch outside. They've been going out to shovel the paths clear every couple of hours throughout the day, so hopefully tomorrow won't be quite such a big job.
Now, though, it's such heavy dusk it's almost fully dark, even though the sun is probably still above the horizon, somewhere behind all those thick grey clouds. Too dark to do any shovelling, and Crowley's shoulders are aching anyway. The fire is crackling merrily away on the hearth. Time to turn the lights on, really, but that would involve moving, and again, that's not included on the agenda at this point.
Aziraphale is the most perfect warm weight against him - half on top of him, in fact, since the sofa isn't all that wide - and he's fast asleep, making little snuffling noises occasionally against Crowley's neck. It's not all that often Crowley gets to be the one awake while Aziraphale sleeps, given that Aziraphale apparently functions quite happily on about four hours a night, and is usually up and about before Crowley's even managed to smack the alarm clock onto the floor.
They only meant to sit down for a cup of tea, but then Aziraphale was leaning against him with such drowsy contentment, and Crowley couldn't quite get his arms enough around him, so it seemed easiest to just topple over and arrange themselves comfortably that way. It was the work of a moment to tug down the knitted blanket that hangs on the back of the couch and toss it over them both, and then the next thing he knew, Aziraphale had gone all pliant and warm in his arms, breathing falling into those little half-snores, hair tickling Crowley's chin, and yeah, Crowley is never moving again. This is his life now. He doesn't even care that he can't reach his phone.
The sitting room is sinking into deeper and deeper shadows, and the leaping, warm light of the fireplace seems to brighten in response. Crowley can see the snow falling outside the window, and it just makes everything feel cosy and snug. It doesn't even matter if the power goes out, now that he's had a backup generator installed. They'll be warm and safe in here even if it snows until the new year.
They're planning the wedding for the end of spring. Well, Aziraphale is planning the wedding: Crowley doesn't have a lot of thoughts on anything past the bit where he gets to be with Aziraphale forever, whereas Aziraphale has complicated opinions about napkins. It'll be just on the cusp of summer, when the apple trees will all be laden with blossom. Aziraphale also has opinions about symbolism and outdoor ceremonies, apparently. It's all fine with Crowley. If Aziraphale wants a four-horse carriage and a full marching band, he's fine with that, too.
It's not like they can't afford to splash out a bit if they want to. The payout from Aziraphale's court case has ended up being quite substantial, although in Crowley's opinion, the real prize was seeing the look on Gabriel's face when it all fell apart around him. Particularly the bit where he was ordered to write to every one of Aziraphale's former patients and take full responsibility for overcharging them. He'll probably drag his feet on that as long as he can, but the verdict made headlines in Zuzu City - which may or may not have been helped along by a quiet word with a court reporter of Crowley's acquaintance - and Aziraphale has already received several letters and cards that have made him quite emotional.
(The clinic is undergoing both internal and external investigations, has by all reports already lost half its patients to other doctors, and actually had the nerve to write to Aziraphale offering him his job back. Crowley has never seen anyone laugh so hard while radiating such incandescent outrage. The letter went straight on the fire.)
Aziraphale finally stirs, though it's mostly to nuzzle closer into Crowley's neck with a little wordless sound of approval. Crowley tightens his arms around him, buries his face in Aziraphale's curls, and considers drifting off into a nap of his own.
But no, Aziraphale does wake up properly at that point, mumbling something incoherent that is immediately interrupted by a large yawn.
"Oh, goodness, did I fall asleep?" he says, raising his head to blink muzzily at Crowley.
"Little bit," Crowley admits, reluctant to let him go. "Was thinking of joining you."
Aziraphale doesn't seem in any hurry to move, at least. He wriggles comfortably against Crowley and then props himself up on one elbow to smile fondly down at him. His hair looks like a thistle that's touched a live wire and his eyes are sleepy and dark in the dim light.
"Best not," Aziraphale says. "You'll get a crick in your neck."
"Could go to bed," Crowley suggests hopefully.
"It's a bit early," Aziraphale protests. "What about dinner?"
His stomach rumbles as if to make the point. Crowley laughs, cups his cheek, and kisses him. They stay like that for a while longer, lazy and contented, exchanging kisses and talking about nothing at all. Eventually, Aziraphale is lured off the sofa by the prospect of more tea. Crowley retrieves his laptop and opens up the financial spreadsheet he keeps for the farm. It's all looking good. It's never going to make him rich, but the artisan goods like honey and jam sell for enough to balance the books, and Crowley's got a pretty solid plan for the next couple of years to make sure the whole place keeps ticking over.
He's got another plan too, one that's still half-formed and full of questions. It's to do with the way he felt when Aziraphale's case wrapped up, how intoxicating it was to get that thrill of winning a legal argument without the taint of corporate greed. It's to do with how Pierre and Lewis have been floating the idea of a town co-op to push back on Morris and Joja Mart, and how Crowley thinks with good legal advice they could make something really special happen in this community. It's to do with Leah confessing, while she worked on the labels Crowley commissioned her to design, that she's afraid of trying to sell her work online because she doesn't know how to defend her copyright.
"Would it be weird," Crowley says abruptly, because apparently the idea has incubated for long enough and needs to be given voice right now, "to run a farm and a part-time legal consultancy?"
Aziraphale looks up from where he's rummaging in the biscuit tin, eyebrows raised and a slightly troubled look on his face.
"It would be fairly strange," he says cautiously, then goes on quickly, "but I don't see why you shouldn't." He hesitates. "Only, the commute to the city—"
"No, no, not in the city," Crowley interrupts urgently. "No way, I'm not getting back into all that. More like, I dunno. Advice. Bit of a hand for people who need to find a full-time lawyer. Drafting contracts for freelancers and so on. I'd set up a website, consult by phone and email, that sort of thing."
Aziraphale's expression has relaxed into something both relieved and desperately affectionate.
"Helping people, you mean?"
Crowley's face burns and he sputters through something that's not quite a denial. Aziraphale brings his tea back over to the sofa and settles himself in next to Crowley like he belongs there. Which he does, of course. Which he does.
"What a lovely idea," Aziraphale murmurs, resting his head on Crowley's shoulder. "Yes, my dearest, I think that would be an excellent use of your skills."
"Mm, well, I'll think about it some more," Crowley says casually, like he hasn't already started coming up with names with awful puns in them. "Got lots to do in the new year. Some sort of wedding or something, I don't know..."
Aziraphale laughs and sips his tea and shoots Crowley a lovely, twinkling glance like they're co-conspirators.
"I love you," Crowley blurts, the words and the feeling tumbling out of him helplessly all at once. "I'm so glad I— that we—"
"Oh, darling." Aziraphale puts the tea aside and turns to cup Crowley's face in his hands. "Yes. I know. So am I. And I love you so very, very much."
Aziraphale tastes of tea when Crowley kisses him, and his hands slide into Crowley's hair in the way Crowley loves, and his breath catches just a little when Crowley slides a hand up his back.
"You know," Aziraphale says breathlessly after a few minutes of that, "maybe it's not too early for bed after all."
"Oh?" Crowley dips his head to start mouthing along Aziraphale's neck. "What about dinner?"
"Sod dinner," Aziraphale mutters, and if Crowley needed another declaration of love, he could hardly have asked for one more sincere. "We can have a late supper instead."