Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Crowley has been staring at the screen of his laptop in disbelief for the past several minutes. There was a single picture of a dilapidated cottage with its rotten windows and cracked stonework, slipped tiles and wonky roof. But no amount of disbelief was going to change the fact that it was, very clearly, a listed building in the countryside.

Listed building. Why of all the godforsaken projects Anathema had to send him a listed building in the middle of the fucking Cotswolds!? With the eyes of his imagination, he can already see the inevitable mould growing under insulated walls that had been incorrectly applied in the sixties, the impossible to repair cracked and drafty windows, smoking chimneys, wonky floors… Fuck, it could even have asbestos on the ceiling for all he knows! The list goes on and on. It's a never ending bottomless pit of problems. 

The more he stares at it the more convinced he is that it's a pointless job. No matter how much time and effort Anthony J. Crowley—the talented architect (between jobs, temporarily )—puts into it, it will never get the approvals it needs to bring it up to standard. He knows, mainly from Ana's complaints, how difficult it is to get anything changed in a listed building, even a simple window replacement can end up being a real battle, no matter how rotten the existing frame is. Conservation officers have it really in their head about preserving the existing matter of the building. 

All nostalgic bullshit really. 

But, while the project might not be viable… Crowley does need money and quickly. Technically as long as he prepares the planning and listed building application, submits it to the relevant council and tells the client sorry it didn't work afterwards, he'll do his job. He'll get that paycheck he so desperately needs, which should last him a while until he finds some proper work. Somewhere far away from the slow life of the countryside, where people don't hate each other any less but won't ever tell you that to your face

Sure, he might feel bad about sort of scamming the poor bloke afterwards, for a while anyway, but at least he won't end up starving to death or losing his posh flat, and that has to count for something.

Crowley's phone ringing jolts him from his brooding. Of course, he's been expecting the call as soon as he's read the email. Still he groans, not nearly ready for this conversation, but clicks the green button on the screen all the same. 

"Yeah?"

"Rude much," Anathema's voice chirps on the other side, not put off in the slightest. "Have you seen my email yet?" 

Crowley only groans again, pinching the bridge of his nose as he does so. He knows how this will go but that does not mean he has to be happy about it.

"I'll take it as a yes?" Anathema continues, all too used to Crowley's unintelligible sounds.

"It's the worst job I've ever come across," Crowley says. He's not even joking.

"Good. You're taking it then?" 

Crowley releases a defeated sigh. They both know he doesn't have a choice. "Yeah."

"Perfect, I'll send you the client's details. Let me know when you're in the area, we'll catch up and I can introduce you."

Crowley puts his phone down, resigned. Briefly contemplating if it would be less painful to throw himself off a bridge. He clicks back to Anathema's email and looks up the village. It's just the kind of unassuming place he expected to see. So, alright, on the photos it looks rather idyllic, but what the pictures don't show is the community divided on just about every possible subject, raising up in arms whenever anyone wants to build an extension or make any other tiny change in the village, the endless disputes and petty grudges. People quarreling over the amount of leaves that were cut on their side of the hedge. 

He shudders.

He should know, he's from far up north, from the wettest, darkest corner of England, where you can't drive through a village without sheep jumping on the road. He ran away from it all as far as he could, worked hard on his degree that took bloody forever and slaved his way up in the most prestigious architectural studios only to be kicked out when recession hit. He even got rid of his accent and now he's being asked to go back to all of that. Life has a sense of irony.

Anathema chose a different path. She met this Newt bloke and moved out into the countryside in the Cotswolds pretty much straight out of university, started her own business there. She did alright for herself, even in such a God forgotten place. And still, she stayed in touch, which is more than he could say for the rest of his friends who only call him when they need something. Like a lift, or plans for renovating their flat.

As if on a cue his phone beeps again. He looks down to see Bee's name. Coming today? - is Bee's short message. He stretches in his chair. There's not really anything else to do, he's been spending his days mostly trying to forget that he has bills to pay, a job to find and a life to sort out. Yep, he types back. 

Bee was an old friend. They met ages ago in one of those big architectural studios where they make whole teams redundant if they need to cut spendings. Bee managed to find another job on short notice, Crowley wasn't so lucky. 

He takes shower in a hurry and puts a tight black henley over equally tight jeans even though he's not expecting to take anyone home tonight. Style is the last thing he has though and he's not giving that one up without a fight. He picks up his jacket, dons his designer sunglasses and leaves the flat, bumping into a small package in the doorway that the postman must have left without even knocking.

He knows who it is from even before he sees the familiar handwriting. He knows what's inside—the same stuff as usual—catholic brochures, silver crosses and other Christian paraphernalia. No letter. No explanation whatsoever. He sighs and tosses it away without opening. His father never bothers so he won't either.

Moments later he's running down the staircase of his flat in Mayfair, one of the most expensive districts in London, and hops inside his vintage car. They're only his on paper, the flat has an extortionate mortgage on it, that he will be paying for the rest of his life, and the car is on lease.

Crowley turns on the ignition just as that nagging question that's been boring into his skull for the past weeks makes it all the way to his consciousness and he drops his forehead onto the steering wheel. Is he happy? He has everything he ever wanted—a posh flat, a vintage car, and his plants. He should be happy. As if he fucking owed it to anyone to be. One more demand to add to his anxieties. Without further delay he drives off into the town.

The club is too loud and too dark, Crowley immediately hates it. Sipping his beer at the bar  he observes the rest of his group twich and dangle awkwardly on the dancefloor. He doesn't even like the music that's blasting out the speakers. Briefly, he wonders why he even keeps coming here. He's forty-two, unemployed and well over putting any effort into even the most casual of hookups. The empty messed up sheets brought less comfort with every passing morning, chipping away at his heart, until finally Crowley settled for empty tidy ones. Less heartbreak this way.

But that of course is the answer—with no other human interaction to fill this gap, he turned to whomever still responded to his texts, however briefly. Even though Bee's group tolerated him at best, they quickly became the only company he had in this lonely city and Crowley accepted whatever he was given. The good thing about Bee's group was that they never asked Crowley if he found a job yet, what he was going to do with his life, or if he was happy . 

Bee slinks off the dancefloor, snatches Crowley's beer and leans on the bartop like they have no care in the world. Hastur, Ligur and Dagon follow suit as if they were Bee's demons to command. Crowley tries to say something, to protest at least but the four of them barely even hear him, continuing the conversation from the dancefloor. Crowley pretends that being ignored doesn't bother him. It doesn't. Losing something you never had shouldn't hurt, right? 

"...leave the bloke's drink," Dagon pries it out of Bee's fingers and pushes back towards Crowley over the bar top. "I'm not carrying you home again like last week."

"I'll buy him another one."

"Last week?" Crowley chimes in, trying very hard to keep the disappointment out of his voice. He spent his last week at home. Alpne. "What was last week?" 

"Oh you know, the usual. I posted the invite on our Messenger group chat, haven't you seen it?" Bee responds airily.

"I don't have Facebook." If he had to deal with one more social media he'd explode. "And I can't drink another one, I'm driving, remember?" 

"Duh," they say tapping their head as if to blame their memory.

Crowley gives up. He picks the now nearly empty pint and finishes whatever's left of it. He lives just round the corner, he doesn't have to be driving at all tonight but he promised to give them a lift. He sighs. Unexpectedly his mind gravitates towards the cottage he's going to see on the weekend, the long drive to the small town in the middle of nowhere and the weather forecast that's predicting heavy rain.

If nothing else, it will at least take his mind off his problems.

"Shit, shit, shit!" Crowley slams the steering wheel repeatedly as the Bentley makes unhappy noises braving the narrow country lanes. The motorway to Tadfield was closed, ob-fucking-vioisly ! like every fucking summer! Exactly on the day he had to drive somewhere. You would think the English Highways would finally learn how to lay the tarmac properly, but nooo . Every year it was the same old song.

Crowley follows the diversion for a while before stopping to update his sat-nav. It takes forever to decide on a course, but once it does, it ends up directing him through the most narrow, winding and single-carriageway roads that have more potholes than he has freckles. Someone above there must hate him with passion.

The sun is the same in a relative way but you're older. Shorter of breath and one day closer to death. The radio chimes in helpfully. He loves Pink Floyd, he really does. Nothing like listening to music that matches your mood but today it's just not helping.

When he finally arrives on site, late by only an hour, his back hurts, his head hurts, Anathema called at least three times, finally leaving him a message that something important came up, and she couldn't make the meeting so Crowley had to go alone. 

Great .

Well. It could have been worse, Crowley tells himself looking from his expensive watch to the dilapidated honey-coloured, stone cottage. At the vines wound around window sills and reaching to the tip of the roof, digging mercilessly into the structure. It could have been worse, it could have been a more complicated building, a farmhouse for example, or a grade one, instead of grade two listed building or, or… well, there really are not that many things that could have been worse than this, honestly. But for now Crowley's just here to assess the structure, listen to the bloke's ideas (likely impossible to achieve) and possibly also the story of the man's life—the kind of people who owned old buildings loved talking about themselves.

Crowley walks through the overgrown arched pergola gateway and onto the front garden blooming with flowers of all imaginable colours, overhanging leaves brushing his head as he passes. There is a sign on the building that reads Thyme Cottage, Fennel Street . How quaint. 

He fixes his jacket, checks his sunglasses that he takes off really only around friends, and runs his hand through his already ruined hair. Brave and prepared, he knocks on the little blue door. 

No response.

"Hello?" He says unsure, swears, fumbling with his phone to see if he got any messages in the meantime, checks the address again. If he's just made this fucking journey for nothing he's going to—

"Mr Anthony Crowley?"

Crowley raises his eyes and feels his stomach tying into a knot. He was not prepared for this. In front of him, in a beige dated coat stands a middle-aged blond man, nervously fiddling with his hands. His smile is polite, but somehow also sincere, shining into the depths of Crowley's soul. 

Crowley nods, that's all he can do in the face of this angel's manifesting in front of him, evening sun illuminating the man's hair like a halo. All the words have long left him and he can only manage a couple of unintelligible noises. It's a crime to be this good looking. He immediately wants to take the angel out for a dinner or a drink. Fuck, he'd do anything the man asked him to. 

"Aziraphale Fell," the angel introduces himself, extending his hand and Crowley squeezes it automatically. There's a faintest blush colouring the man's cheeks as they touch, or maybe it's just the sunny day playing with his poor eyesight. "I apologize, Anathema called and said she couldn't make it and that you would be late. I am afraid I lost the sense of time reading on the bench in the garden at the rear."

Crowley just nods again and then it comes to his attention how fucking rude he is. He fixes his sunglasses back up on his nose like a shield he needs now more than ever. "Yes. I mean quite, er. Anthony J. Crowley, but of course you know that already." He bumbles through the words.

Aziraphale lets out the most adorable giggle. "Anathema did say you are a little bit, um, eccentric."

Crowley lets out a forced laugh at that, at least it does remove some of the tension from his limbs. Pot calling the kettle black, he thinks and makes a mental note to get back at Anathema for that. He still feels out of his depth somewhat, but then Aziraphale invites him into the cottage and Crowley finally has something concrete to talk about.

Aziraphale shows him around every room, adding a line or two of a passing comment, but not saying anything about himself or his personal life, curiously enough. That's probably for the best though, he really is just here to do the job. There's the living room with cracked flagstones and an inglenook fireplace that takes up most of the wall in a small kitchen. Some windows are cracked and have rotted away in places, all single glazed obviously. There are cobwebs in every corner and some butterfly wings on the cill, which makes bats' presence almost an inevitability. They're a protected species in the UK, he explains to Aziraphale, he  won't get away without the expensive bat survey.

The floors on the first floor are so wonky that Crowley is afraid to walk on it. They will need to be replaced, that is, if the conservation officer allows it. Floorboards could likely be reused so that's something. At the very end of the tour Aziraphale opens the door to a small bedroom and Crowley notices with surprise that it looks… lived in. Full of books and beige clothes. 

"I apologise for the mess, I am still unpacking."

"You live here?" Crowley blurts out because he cannot stop himself. In this state? 

"Yes, I was hoping I might be able to renovate the cottage while staying here. You… don't think that's possible?" Aziraphale gives him a wary look and Crowley feels himself folding on himself. Well, he's not going to lie.

"That might be… challenging."

"Ah," Aziraphale's face falls for a split second but the smile is quickly back again. "I will keep that in mind. Thank you."

Having finished the tour of the house they go downstairs. Crowley makes an action plan in his head and a list of all the reports and surveys that will be needed—measured building survey, bat survey, structural survey… There's so many reports that are going to be needed that Crowley isn't sure the cottage is even worth keeping at this point. Selling it off for half a million would be the no-brainer option. And yet the angel clearly wants to stay here.

"You must think me daft for wanting to live here, but it belonged to our family for generations, it would be a shame to sell it now. Plus I really like living out in the country. I grew up here, you see. The views, the pace of life, the little village shops…" Aziraphale says as if reading Crowley's mind. 

"I bet," Crowley murmurs. Aziraphale fits with the scenery like a glove, by comparison making Crowley stand out like a sore thumb. Like a stain on the background of the perfect tranquility.

But he does like the garden. If there's one thing he misses in London is the greenery and the plants. Sure there are public gardens, St. James Park and the like, but he can only ever grow plants in pots in his flat. While here… there are roses and fuchsias, Japanese maple and foxglove and hollyhocks with bumblebees flying around it.

"Could I tempt you to a coffee perhaps?"

"What?" Crowley's brain short-circuits at the sudden question, his heart thumping in his chest. Is the man really implying what Crowley thinks is in fact being inferred? 

"From the village cafe?" Aziraphale continues, "so we could discuss the next steps? It's my first project like this, you see."

Oh, of course. What else did Crowley think this was going to be? He's your client, you idiot. But why does his stomach keep doing those flips over and over? There is nothing to get excited about, just some old chap renovating his cottage. A passing project for Crowley, nothing to get attached to. Afterwards he'll go back to London and they won't ever see each other again. 

"Yes please, lead the way."

Aziraphale beams and a moment later they're walking down the road side by side through the picturesque village. Some cottages have thatched roofs, others clay tiles but all of them are consistently built in the same type of golden stone. It also doesn't escape Crowley's attention that in the whole place there are merely two pubs, a church and a primary school. That's it, that's all there is. It makes his skin crawl. But Aziraphale seems to be enjoying it well enough, telling him all about the quirks of the place and the people that live in it. [1]

When Aziraphale cuts his path towards what looks like an old chapel, Crowley makes a double take but then they enter and it turns out to be converted into a small shop and cafe. As far as Crowley's experiences with little towns go, this blows his mind. Aziraphale orders him a coffee, tea for himself and a piece of cake for them both. 

They move through the tastefully converted space towards a timber extension at the back with a glass gable. The sun filters through the window and falls on their table. It's just so… peaceful, so very different to the rush of London. No one's shouting or running anywhere, just a few old ladies sitting in the corner and chatting about books. 

"Isn't it lovely, this place?" Aziraphale smiles again at no one in particular. 

"Yes, look, um—"

"Aziraphale," The man smiles. "Don't worry, I know it is a mouthful."

"Right. Aziraphale. Look." Crowley thinks he's going to regret it even more than playing along, but what the hell? He can be a decent human being for once. "I want to be upfront with you about this. It's going to be costly. And I don't even mean the renovation. The whole planning process is… " he's not going to say he doesn't know the local council and hasn't done a project like this in ages, isn't going to say his experience is lacking, that would be too much. "Complicated. It's a listed building in the Area of Outstanding Natural Beauty [2] with strong potential for bats. Those reports are not cheap, so you really need to know..."

"I'm prepared for the costs," Aziraphale moves his hand forward and Crowley thinks, no, hopes, it might land on his, but it stops just short. Crowley can't help but notice that the only ring Aziraphale wears is resting on his pinky finger. "My aunt left me a little bit of inheritance for the renovation when she passed away. She was always very conscious about these things." Aziraphale's words are honest, perhaps a tad too honest for his own good.

Crowley doesn't know how to react. Most people hearing this would take note of it and ramp up their prices. "I'm sorry for your loss."

"It's alright, she had a happy life. My family lived in the area for quite some time, this is a lovely opportunity to finally move back." Aziraphale sips his tea in contemplation. "May I ask where you are from?"

"Just… London." Crowley leans on his elbow, looking over the countryside that suddenly doesn't look so terrible. It's green and alive and airy. He isn't going to admit he's from up north, he hates when people try to place his origins.

"Ah, London. Many fun gay bars, especially in Soho. Have you visited?"

It's so unexpected that Crowley almost spits out his coffee. He looks up and sees that glint in Aziraphale's eye, the little mischievous grin that hides behind all that politeness. 

Fucking bastard .

"Um, yeah. A couple." Crowley mutters, hand brushing through his hair, which he does when he's nervous. He was not prepared for this. Crowley isn't a fan of clubs, though some more camp and obscure ones fit his mood and sense of style just fine. He tries to imagine Aziraphale in any of them and fails, but the question bubbles up to his lips all the same. "Have you…?"

He doesn't know if it's real or just his imagination, because he can so easily misinterpret every little thing. But his heart has already got a hold on this beautiful blond man and he knows it's not going to let go of him easily. 

"I used to live in Soho, had a little bookshop just on the corner there. That was ages ago though. My lifestyle didn't really agree with London's rush." Aziraphale dodges the question expertly.

"Mhm," Crowley mutters, finishing his coffee and setting the empty mug on the table, feeling that he's given all his cards away without getting anything in return. "Right then. I'll be in touch with my scope of work. If you can sign and scan them back to me, I can start organising things."

"Of course. As I said, whatever you think is needed. Anathema spoke very highly of you and I'm sure you'll do a splendid job." Aziraphale stands up and offers Crowley his hand one more time. It's warm and reassuring and once again he feels like his mind malfunctions from the touch alone.

"Ngk." He intones and moves towards the exit before he's going to combust on the spot.

"Oh, and Crowley? Any chance you could send the documents in the post? I don't actually… own a scanner."

Crowley's lips curl in a smile. That does fit the man so very well. "Of course, angel."

"I'm so sorry Crowley! I got a flat tyre, the AA took forever to get to me. How did your meeting go?" Anathema opens the door to a cute little cottage, rose bushes growing on each side. It's a little bit cramped inside, but it's alright for two, he supposes. It's all open space on the ground floor—kitchen, dining and living, with a staircase tucked in the corner. Anathema and Newt moved into Jasmine Cottage in the last few months, Crowley hadn't had the chance to properly visit yet. 

At the mention of Aziraphale Crowley shrivels inside. He called the man angel , he doesn't know how he's going to live with himself after such an embarrassment. 

"It was…" Crowley stops for words, knowing that Anathema is reading him with her sixth sense. "Fine," he hisses finally.

"Was it really," she says sneakily, raising one brow, her grin growing wider as she sets the groceries on the rustic wooden worktop of her kitchen. "Well?"

"Well what?" Crowley says exasperated, making sure the glasses are firmly perched on his nose, which is a tell-tale sign on its own, body folded into an origami on the small armchair.

"Well tell me all about it, since you don't seem to be even remotely hating the project."

Crowley raises his eyebrows. "That's what gives me away in the end? How do you two even know each other?" Anathema mentioned he was a friend, didn't she?

"Book club."

"Oh, of course." He says, pulling a pillow over his face as he's folding on himself even more.

"Look, I know you're worried, but it's going to be fine. Newt will help you with the planning side of it, he is very good at his job. You just need to take care of the drawings. And the," she waves a hand in the air, "the vision."

"Mhm," Crowley mutters because he's not going to admit it's not about the building at all. Not anymore. He suddenly wants to do the best fucking job of his life for the angelic man he's literally just met. 

"You can crash over here, there's a spare bedroom upstairs. Stay however long you need."

"Thanks. I need to get back to London though, take care of the, uh, things ."

Anathema rolls her eyes. "You've only just got here. At least stay for dinner. Newt is cooking today," her smile brightens as she waves to somebody over the dining window.

"Hullo," Newt appears in the doorway. "Look what I got at the butchers." He proudly shows off a very generous lamb shank that makes Crowley's mouth water. 

"Just the dinner then." Crowley agrees and covers his face back with a pillow.

This cannot be real, it rarely ever happens that he's attracted to people, let alone this much. But he is, can't deny it, wants to get to know Aziraphale, spend all his free time with him, learn every little secret and see him happy, and sad, and excited. Well, he just might, just not in the context he wants to. And what did he even have to offer in return anyway? Crowley isn't interesting whatsoever. He doesn't have anything to say to keep the conversation going, which always has been his problem. 

It's alright, Aziraphale is a client and that means off limits. This whole countryside gig is still only temporary. 

It's time to dust off his old T's & C's and set out the plan of attack. Building survey, that one's going to be commissioned out, after seeing the building Crowley is definitely not surveying it himself. Structural survey, because it could technically fall down any time. Bat survey, they're not getting away with it. Bloody flying rats, what kind of protected species is even that? 

There's going to be a lot of work involved, but it's suddenly not such a daunting task as it seemed to be this very morning. 

Chapter Text

It takes Crowley two weeks to model Aziraphale's bloody cottage in 3d. There was not a single straight wall in the whole building. In some places Crowley couldn't even believe they were still standing. Even the floor was wonky. And that lunatic was already living in it. Crowley is pondering getting a structural engineer to assess the foundations and Aziraphale is living in it! 

It would be ten times easier to raze the cottage to the ground and rebuild it from scratch. Alas, he could do none of that, so he grits his teeth and dutifully models up all the beams and trusses, nooks and crannies, and all the other unnecessary, complicated features that need preserving.

Having finished that, Crowley leans back in his very expensive leather chair to admire the result. The euphoria is short lived because now he has to figure out how to sell an update to his client in which there was no real progress to report. All the money went to the surveyors who actually dragged their asses on site to measure the building because he couldn't be bothered. And his savings are running dangerously low.

Not that bullshitting about progress was anything unusual, Crowley could talk about his outlandish ideas for hours, weave in his creative vision and leave clients impressed and satisfied at the end of the project. Because really Crowley might be a pathetic sod in just about every other area of his life, but in front of his 3d software he transforms into something else, unfolds in surprising ways to create something bigger than himself. All he needs to do is stop overthinking and let his intuition do the magic. His hand moves on its own, clicking on the computer mouse and the walls magically rearrange themselves on the computer screen.

It is perhaps less impressive than drawing by hand, Crowley is aware of that. He stopped drawing once he got out of uni, didn't have time for it nor excuse to do so. These days he doesn't have a passion for it either. Maybe one day he's going to buy himself one of those fancy tablets and see what the fuss is all about. 

He decides to present the survey to Aziraphale in person, more room for hand-wavy ideas and promises that way. The one hour drive doesn't bother him as much anymore now that the motorway is open again plus it gives him an excuse to spend some time with Ana and Newt which is a bonus. Yeah, it just makes sense that way. 

So he does. He travels half the world away and into the countryside, where he shows the model to Aziraphale, focusing on the possibilities rather than shortcomings. He doesn't know what Aziraphale has done to the place but it somehow feels warmer and even homey. Books are now lying everywhere, little curiosities covering every possible shelf. There are even picture frames and Crowley notes that none of them depicts a wedding of any sort. Not that it would confirm anything. 

"Wow, you've created a copy of my house on your computer?" Aziraphale eyes are shining with marvel and Crowley is sitting there frozen. "It's amazing what these things can do these days!" 

"Y-yeah. Amazing, um."

Crowley was not prepared for this, for how Aziraphale's eyes are truly smiling at him, how happy he seems to be with what little Crowley has done, how encouraging. He feels weak in the knees and hot all over his body. 

He doesn't remember the last time he received praise for his work. For the longest time he convinced himself he's just doing it for himself, for his own satisfaction and for the future in which he will be his own boss. But this now… it sets him completely off balance. He gets so inspired that he goes on and on about all of the possible potential improvements, even though he's literally making things harder for himself. 

"I— er." He points to the line on the screen. "See here you don't have too much headheight for… well, anything really. The purlin is running right across the building quite low, but! With very careful interior design I think we should be able to fit in a modest bathroom there, even a shower. You could bolt glass to the timber, it's all uh, conservation officer permitting, but it's gotta be worth a shot. Maybe even add a skylight. What do you think?"

"A skylight?" Aziraphale's eyes go wide. "Oh my dear, this is all so much more than I expected!"

Crowley's grin grows wider. "Yes. It would let in so much light into this place, your roof is ideally positioned for this kind of feature."

God, why is this so easy? He keeps wondering, looking at Aziraphale’s hands, hoping that he's gay. He must be. Please God, if you exist at all, let this man be gay. There's no wedding ring on any of his fingers, only a golden signet on his pinky, so that has to count for something. Crowley cannot stop staring at it. How can anyone have such well groomed hands? Instinctively he pulls the sleeves of his jacket over his own, chewed up nails. 

But Aziraphale's hands, oh , they look so thick and soft, he wonders how they would feel running through his hair, gently massaging his scalp, maybe once Crowley would be on his knees and—

"What about an extension?" Crowley blurts out, trying to push those thoughts away, but still wanting more of this light, he wants to bask in it forever. "I mean it might be a harder sell, but it's not out of the question. Depending on which conservation officer you'll get assigned really and your kitchen is rather small, maybe you could even get an additional bedroom above…"

"Oh no, I don't need any more space. One bedroom and a study is more than ample for me."

Crowley feels a flood of relief at this and he hates how his thoughts are already running away from him, making assumptions on their own. So the man lives alone, like that would change anything. He lives here, in the bloody middle of nowhere. Ugh, Crowley should really go out more, go to a club perhaps, meet some people. Call Bee and get totally wasted together, get it out of his system.

"Alright," Crowley says finally. "That makes it all the easier for me."

"Oh, thank you Crowley. Anathema was so right about you. You truly have a vision! Small wonder you're an architect in London."

"Ngk," is all Crowley is able to choke up. He doesn't say that he barely ever gets noticed in London (which has more than eight million people for fuck's sake, so why would he?). Even if he stays over hours to finish projects. He doesn't say that on one memorable occasion he started work at seven in the morning and didn't finish until five… the next morning. And that all he got was one lousy day off and not even a thank you. But he always got paid the additional hours, the exploit of employees had its limits after all. 

"Alright. I'll uh… draw it up, send you the initial draft when ready, along with some 3d visuals. And an, um, mid-term invoice if that's alright with you?"

"Oh, of course! Anything you need," Aziraphale says and Crowley feels his mouth is dry. Did he mean something by it or is Crowley that desperate to think anyone who shows him any amount of kindness wants to get him into bed? He really should do something about it, preferably sooner rather than later. 

He closes his laptop, pushes his sunglasses higher up on his nose and tries very hard to act normal as he's leaving Aziraphale's cottage.

Designing a stupid house renovation really had no business being this exciting. He suddenly catches himself considering taking Anathema's invitation to move into her cottage for a while just to be on site, of course. That's a sensible reason, right?

It took no effort at all on Crowley's part to install himself in Anathema's guest bedroom. It was small and far from comfortable but more than Crowley needed, really, he was here to work after all—to cut off all the distractions he would have in the city. Quick job turnaround, just like the old times.

It paid off. Aziraphale's plans were coming together nicely. Still slower than he wished them to, but that was life. And it's not like he wasn't used to working late. What else was he supposed to be doing with his free time anyway? The clock was ticking. It was ticking so fucking loud that Crowley could hear the lazy tick-tock travelling all the way up the staircase and bouncing off his bedroom walls. It reminds him that the time is slipping through his fingers, that he's not really doing anything with his life. At his age he should have had all of this sorted, right? He is a fucking middle aged adult after all. 

Crowley's phone buzzes suddenly, he picks it up to see Bee's name on the notification preview. It's surprising enough, they don't usually reach out first. Crowley has some friends, or people he calls friends, but everyone eventually leaves him behind, stops writing if he doesn't initiate the contact. Maybe he is just a shit friend.

They exchange a few messages, Crowley cheers Bee up, he always does. This is the one thing he seems to be good for. The crises are broadly speaking the same, some new hookup or such not responding or ghosting them or something.

Don't worry, she'll come around. She's lucky to have you, he texts back, sighing. He means it, he does. But he also feels terribly lonely in his little corner of the world.

Afterwards Crowley goes on social media to torture himself that little bit more, flicking through photo after photo on Bee's Instagram. He reads the tags and comments underneath that mention just about each and every one of their mutual friends, except for Crowley. It's as if Crowley had never existed.

He wonders for one hundredth time if he should just cut that friendship off. It's not healthy for him and he knows it, so it shouldn't be this hard. But then he wouldn't have anyone else back in London and he needs London. Needs connections in the industry if he is going to make a grand come back, which he will. Soon.

Anathema knocks on the open door to the small bedroom in that precise moment. It takes her one glance to read everything Crowley's going through within seconds. It's her superpower, it always has been. Maybe that's why she's Crowley's only real friend. If only she didn't live this far away.

"You know you don't have to work this insanely hard on a small project like this, right?" 

"Yeah, I just. I need to finish something."

"Crowley, it's nine for heaven's sake! Whatever you were going to finish should have been let go two hours ago. Tomorrow's another day, you know?"

"Whatever," he responds, but shuts his laptop all the same. There was no point arguing with Anathema and definitely not when he was in such a shit mood.

"I came here to say that me and Newt are going for a pub quiz. Come join us."

Crowley rubs his face in exasperation. At uni she was his emotional support extrovert, introducing him to people and dragging to parties, which worked just fine. Now, he doesn't have nearly as much energy for this.

"Ana, I'm really not in the mood for socialising."

"That wasn't a question! Besides, it will just be us on the team and the theme is movies! You must have seen just about all of them, possibly multiple times, so I'm taking you."

Crowley groans, he knows that if he keeps protesting Ana would just let it go but, maybe it will make him feel better? Allow him to unwind a little. "Fine, but just this one time."

"Splendid! We'll wait for you downstairs then."

Crowley sighs. He's not sure if staying with Ana was such a great idea after all. Countryside life really wasn't for Crowley, it was so much harder to hide among the friendly faces where everyone knows each other, wanted to chat with you, offered you their homemade smoked cheese… he prefers the anonymity that comes with loud clubs where talking really doesn't matter. 

But, he puts on his favourite jacket all the same (being out in the country didn't mean he's going to ditch his style) and dutifully follows Ana downstairs and out onto the narrow pavement among the little honey-coloured cottages. 

As soon as the three of them enter the pub—the white and black building with low ceiling and even lower timber beams—Crowley freezes at the sight of a beige coat and blond curly hair. Aziraphale is here . Of course he would be, Crowley doesn’t know why that thought hadn't occurred to him before. The man looks like the very epitome of a cottage life, he could be on magazine covers. He might have only moved back here but he already seems to know everyone and everyone seems to know him. 

"You alright? You suddenly look pale," Newt stands right across his vision, blocking the view of Aziraphale laughing with a couple of middle aged women, one of which had a dress so colourful even Crowley envied her the choice.

"Yes, I, er, it's rather hot in here."

Anathema rolls her eyes. "You truly are a reptile. Cottage is too cold, the pub is too hot. Do you not have any sense of self body temperature regulation?" 

Crowley has no chance to respond, because Anathema is already pulling him towards an empty table that Newt has managed to snatch. Pub quiz night was quite a popular event as it transpired. To their credit the table was by a window which Ana promptly opened to let some of the fresh air in. 

"Better now?" 

Crowley nods, surveying the booth Aziraphale and his friends have claimed out of the corner of his eye.

"I didn't realise he'd be here too," Crowley blurts out finally.

"Who? Oh, Aziraphale? He rarely misses any chances to socialise since he moved back over here. I would ask him to join our team, but I thought you might find it awkward since he's your client. Besides, you don't like people, do you," she says pointedly, sipping her dark lager. 

"Um, yeah, that would be— yeah," he mumbles, not knowing what to say. He would have loved to be at the same table as Aziraphale, but Ana is right—it would be awkward, especially with his people skills (or the lack thereof) and his, now quite developed, crush. 

"Oh my god!" Anathema suddenly leans back, covering her face. She's staring straight at Crowley.

"What!?" He nearly jumps up, waiting for the revelation. Hoping there is no spider in his hair because he might start screaming.

"You fancy him!" Anathema squeaks the sudden discovery and Crowley freezes for the second time that night. If there was one thing worse than having a crush on his client, it was Anathema finding out about it.

"I didn't say that," Crowley tries to protest, putting his sunglasses higher on his nose and hiding behind his kiwi-lime cider, which is tell-tale enough. He already knows he's fighting a lost battle. 

"You do! But of course you do!" She facepalms herself. "It makes so much sense! I can't believe I haven't seen it before! What kind of witch am I even!?"

"A brilliant one, honey, you put them in touch, yourself, after all." Newt chimes in and Anathema squeals.

"Shit, you're right. I take it back, I am good." Anathema turns to Newt who grins at her and for a while they seem to be in their own little world with their own secret language Crowley isn't privy to. He rolls his eyes.

"Uh, guys? Before you start throwing confetti around—I'm not asking him out."

"Why not? It's a perfect match, the stars say so."

"The stars forgot I'm the least lucky person to ever exist. He's still my client. Can you imagine me asking him out and him saying no? Or worse, him saying yes and then us breaking up? I'm not losing this job over it. I can't."

Anathema seems to consider this but then she nods solemnly, which feels even worse. Part of Crowley desperately wants to be talked into at least trying, even though it's a completely mad idea. 

Crowley sighs, defeated but it's for the best probably. Aziraphale will get his approval and then they will never see each other again. He can't imagine it going any other way. 

Thank someone the quiz finally starts then and Crowley doesn't have to answer any more of the awkward questions about his love life. Getting all the movie quotes from all of the romantic comedies is more than a little embarrassing but he would be lying if he said it wasn't also incredibly satisfying.

They didn't win, although they scored quite high all things considered. Anathema was right, Crowley must have seen most, if not all, of those movies at least a couple of times. But honestly who wouldn't? Four Weddings and a Funeral? Notting Hill? Music and Lyrics? So okay, he might have a mild crush on Hugh Grant but he's British so that's allowed. 

After the quiz the three of them hit the bar and Crowley is on a good path to get himself drunk on some pretty average wine, when Newt disappears in the bathroom and Anathema comes across a friend she just has to talk to and Crowley finds himself sitting at the bar alone. Which by itself isn't anything new. He's good at sulking too, someone should give him a medal.

"Hello Crowley, I didn't expect to see you here tonight," a warm and all too familiar voice says behind him, giving Crowley chills.

"Ah well, even a city rat like me needs to go out sometimes," he smirks his lopsided grin as he turns around, putting all of his energy into staying cool. It's way too difficult to hide how happy he is being approached by Aziraphale, especially now he's under the influence.

"Of course. The questions were dreadfully difficult tonight, your team seemed to be doing well though." Aziraphale notes, setting his own wine glass next to Crowley's and climbing onto the free barstool, thighs straining under the material of his beige trousers. Crowley can feel his cheeks heating up, probably turning a brighter shade of red too, as he's very definitely not staring.

"Ah, my carefully guarded secret gets exposed." Crowley jests. "Yes I might have seen a romantic comedy or two." Aziraphale gives him a truly bright and warm smile in response. It's no wonder everyone here loves Aziraphale, who wouldn't? "'S nice to see someone's dream come true in a truly impossibly romantic way." Crowley adds as a sort of weak explanation.

"Is romance impossible?" Aziraphale picks up on this bit of Crowley's bitter throwaway line. It catches Crowley somewhat off guard. Both the fact that he now has to come up with an answer and that Aziraphale is actually paying attention to what Crowley has to say.

"Mmm, yeah. I mean there's always a happy ending, you always know the main couple is going to end up together. It's comforting to watch, but if you're expecting that in real life, you're setting yourself up for disappointment." He's ranting now and he knows it, playing with the edge of his wine glass. Too afraid to look back at Aziraphale and see what is his reaction to Crowley's uncompromising opinions. 

"I see you found yourself some charming company, dear," a woman's voice says behind Crowley and he turns around to see the same middle aged redhead woman that was sitting with Aziraphale in the booth earlier that evening.

Aziraphale beams at her and there's a pang of jealousy blooming in his chest, which he has no business feeling, really.

"Madam Tracy, this is Crowley, my…" Crowley's waiting with a beating heart for the reveal. How is Aziraphale regarding him truly? It almost feels as if the time has stopped, stretching impossibly, holding all of his hopes and dreams. "—architect."

Right.

She looks between the two of them as if there was some sort of secret going on, but then she quickly turns to Crowley and shakes his hand. "Nice to meet you, Crowley. Aziraphale, we'll be leaving now, are you going or do you have… other plans?"

Aziraphale pretends to check his watch, well at least he's that polite (Crowley can't believe the man has an actual pocket watch). "Oh dear! It's getting quite late now, I'd better come with you." And then he turns to Crowley. "Thank you for the very pleasant chat, no doubt I will see you around."

And just like that, they are gone.

Taking with them all of Crowley's hopes and dreams. 

Crowley does throw himself into work afterwards, trying not to think how embarrassing the whole encounter at the pub was (or how painful the hangover afterwards). Which works well really—he wants to finish this project sooner rather than later, to go back to the life he had back in London. Living with Anathema isn't bad. But it isn't London. It isn't shops open past midnight and music on the street all through the night. It isn't clubs and cafes and easily accessible fast food. There’s just so much to keep you distracted, unlike here.

Crowley has to do a lot of research to figure out the right materials for Aziraphale’s cottage, particularly insulating ones. And that means a lot . He vaguely remembered from his uni days the principles of renovating an old building, how carefully it had to be done not to trap the moisture within it and seal it off completely. Old buildings were designed with different principles in mind, they needed to breathe . 

Anathema sends him some examples of her own work and he finally comes across wood chip based internal insulation that would allow for the air exchange. It was thicker than your usual polystyrene, and therefore taking more space from your interior, but it should be acceptable to the conservation officer. 

He doesn't even get as far as figuring out the floor insulation (that needed some weird clay aggregates) when his phone chimes unexpectedly. He picks it up to see Aziraphale's name flicking on the screen. At first he feels his stomach dropping, is he going to chase? He didn't seem the type but of course he is living in truly unlivable conditions. Crowley literally cannot work any faster though. He picks up the phone before his mind can make any more horrible assumptions.

"Anthony J. Crowley."

"Crowley? Oh, thank god. Do you have a moment?" Aziraphale's voice is distressed and shaky. Like he wants to be angry but he cannot possibly allow himself such luxury. "This very… rude man just appeared on my doorstep demanding that I show him the listed building consent and I really don't understand—"

"Calm down Aziraphale. Is this a conservation officer? Have you been doing any… improvements to the cottage in the meantime?"

"Well I… but I, I've done everything correctly! I used the proper mix and um—"

Crowley is putting on his jacket before Aziraphale even responds. "Don't move, I'll be there in ten minutes, ok? Tell the guy to wait for me."

It doesn't take Crowley long to walk to the cottage. It's all uphill of course, just Crowley's luck but it looks positively idyllic on top of the hill in the middle of summer. It's just as charming as when Crowley saw it the first time, if only it wasn't a listed building it would really be perfect.

He ducks through the gate where the vine is still dropping over his head, Aziraphale decided not to trim it apparently, and then he sees it. The offending piece of mortar replacement, not bigger than half a square meter and the conservation officer looming over it ominously. Crowley hates the man at first sight—his self assured smirk, his stupid perfectly ironed suit, his patronising look. Crowley can already tell that he is an utter twat.

Unfortunately, he can also see what seems to be the problem as well—Aziraphale has just started dredging the existing mortar to replace it before they submitted the application. It doesn't matter that Aziraphale knew better than to use a concrete mortar, that he really has done his research to use lime one instead. Quite honestly Crowley is impressed, barely anyone would even think about that, but he also knows enough about the listed building consent process to know that these sorts of things were a big no no. Still, the conservation officer didn't have to be such a jerk.

A whole other matter was how would the council know about it? There is only one possible explanation—someone, a mean neighbour, must have grassed Aziraphale out. Crowley couldn’t understand it. You'd have to be soulless to be this mean to the sweetest, most friendly man in the village.

"Anthony J. Crowley, Aziraphale's architect." He introduces himself to the twat in the light purple suit. 

The man squints his eyes at Crowley, he's nearly a head taller than him, evaluating Crowley by some very subjective standards apparently and Crowley is sure that if hate at first sight existed, this would be it. 

"Gabriel Archer, district council conservation officer." He recites. Ah, so it's going to be this sort of twat. "And I note that your client has been illegally removing existing fabric from a grade two listed building. Damage to a heritage asset is often irreversible, not to mention the plain sense of connection with the past through the age of the materials that already got lost."

"I just wanted to repair it…" Aziraphale's starts but trails off once he notices that Gabriel doesn't even turn to look back at him. 

"I came to serve an enforcement notice and to remind any relevant parties that altering a listed building without appropriate consent is a criminal offence for which the maximum penalty is jail." He says pointedly to Crowley but loud enough to make sure Aziraphale hears it too.

Crowley withstands Gabriel's stare of doom. "Which is why I'm preparing the application as we speak." He says even though in his mind he thinks as if you had resources to persecute for a pissy bit of mortar. 

Gabriel puts a very polite and very fake smile on his face, still squinting like his life depended on it. Crowley bites his tongue not to tell him to buy sunglasses like a normal person. "I will be awaiting your application on my desk. Until then, I strongly suggest the work should be halted. I will be keeping an eye on it."

Then he looks at Aziraphale, nods and walks away..

"All the work started," Crowley mocks, it's literally just Aziraphale with a trowel. "Sheesh, what an absolute snob," Crowley says casually once he is sure Gabriel is out of the earshot. Aziraphale looks terrified. Pale and shaken to the core.

"Is that…is what he said true? Can I go to jail for this?"

Crowley tilts his head. "Of course you won't go to jail, an— Aziraphale. He just wanted to scare you. The absolute worst case scenario you won't get the improvements you wanted and you'll have to revert the cottage to its original state." He points towards the place Aziraphale was trying to repair. And I will have to draw a lot more stupid complicated details to show which stone exactly needs repairing , Crowley adds in his mind. He is livid but not at Aziraphale. Not  at all.

"I just thought… it was a little bit drafty and there was this crack here…" Aziraphale starts explaining, wringing his hands.

He looks defeated, like a little boy that got caught red handed and it breaks Crowley's heart to see him that way. Makes him want to hug him and protect him. But that image doesn't last long as Aziraphale takes a steadying breath and pieces himself back together within minutes.

"I'm sorry. You came all the way… let me make you a cup of tea at least." 

Crowley sighs. Oh, he is tempted, he is very tempted in fact which is precisely why he shouldn't. "I'm… very nearly done with your application. Let's have a meeting soon to discuss the proposed draft, shall we? And don't worry, everything is going to be fine, just… better leave the mortar as it is for now."

Aziraphale nods wordlessly, glancing at the even bigger hole in between stones now. This system truly lacks common sense, Crowley notes. If it isn't a health and safety issue, the council wouldn't make an exception, particularly not someone like Gabriel Archer.

"Look, everything is going to be fine! Trust me. I'm the best architect on this side of the globe and I will not rest until I obtain all of the necessary permissions, you have my word!" Crowley takes off his sunglasses on an impulse and winks. 

The mask of politeness seems to slip off Aziraphale's face then and he looks back at Crowley in a genuine surprise, mouth open, before smiling with so much kindness that warms Crowley's weary bones like a fireplace on a cold winter day. "Thank you, Crowley. I know you will."

Chapter Text

Crowley finishes drafting the proposed plans as the sun appears on the horizon. He hadn't meant to stay up so late, he just felt that if he could work a little longer, rearrange just a couple more things, the project would be completed. Finished. Done and dusted. But that line kept moving away from him all through the night until he found himself here. Staring at the brilliant red ball in the morning sky.

Well, at least the first draft is realised now, safely waiting for Crowley to email it out, which is just the beginning really. Even if Aziraphale approves the drawings, it will still land on that twat's desk. Newt has already told Crowley some horror stories of how heavy-handed Gabriel can be as a conservation officer. Like the one where he demanded the position of every single flagstone in a building to be precisely recorded, so it can be relaid in the exact same pattern later on. Or that a whole new application is submitted to the council once a builder patched mortar on a slightly bigger part of elevation than shown in the original submission. All works halted until the determination of the new application.

Despite Crowley feeling that his submission is bulletproof, he is sure that Gabriel will find something to complain about, and will ask for a myriad of additional unnecessary details if he only so wishes and… ugh. It's going to be never ending. Crowley just knows it.

But even then, at least he should be able to look at the product of his work and admire it for a second. Logically he knows he's done a fucking great job, if he can say so himself. There's a small but neat kitchen extension—only a single story as Aziraphale had wanted. A shower room on the first floor that Crowley had managed to tuck in the space under a purlin, a couple of conservation skylights adding light to the bedrooms. Then there's the whole stupid diagram of which parts of the elevation need repointing. Sections and details of insulation method, of rooflights, doors and windows. Even a method statement detailing how each part of work is going to be undertaken. 

He should be happy and proud but instead he just feels tired and empty. Drained of the last bits of energy he's ever possessed and wanting to smash his laptop on the floor and throw it out of the window. He's so tired that he completely misses the sound of footsteps on the landing, as well as the fact they stop just outside of his bedroom.

"Crowley?"

Crowley jolts, nearly hitting his head on the lowered ceiling, laptop falling to the floor. Ugh, great. He was due for another lecture from Ana on how he's ruining his life working nights.

He sighs, resigned to the fact. "Yeah, yeah. I'm awake. Come in."

She carefully opens the door, her gaze sliding from his tired face to the laptop he's now gathering from the floor. At that she gives him a sad but understanding sort of smile. Crowley supposes she's having flashbacks from the uni days at the very sight.

"You never did know when to stop."

"We have something in common then."

Ana snorts a quick laugh which makes Crowley smile in turn. It's… nice, being able to trade mean jokes back and forth like this, knowing there's nothing but fondness behind them. He missed it. He misses it dearly. 

"So, are you at least done?" She asks.

"I think so, for now anyway." Crowley yawns, clicking the send button and putting his laptop away. He can finally rest. 

Ana tilts her head. "I don't want to say it—"

"Then don't say it."

"But we worry about you."

"Ah, there it is. The terrifying truth."

"I know uni was hard and we had to push ourselves, and it's easy to apply that same culture to your work, especially in London—"

"It's the only way to get somewhere in London." Crowley says, exasperated. "I don’t make the rules."

"...but London doesn't have to be the only option."

"Easy for you to say."

Ana falls silent for a while afterwards. "It wasn't, at the beginning," she adds quietly.

Crowley sighs. "Look, I know. I get it. No one's more worried about me than me, believe me. But I just have to do it on my own terms."

Ana nods. "You're right. I just wanted you to know that I'm here if you need me."

"Thank you. I appreciate it, really but I'll be fine. I just need some time. You'll have to trust me on this."

For what it's worth Ana doesn't argue. Crowley knows he's not giving her a lot to go on but it will have to do. In a way it's nice to know that someone cares, but to Crowley it also feels suffocating. He's been living his life on his own for a long time and for most of it, it worked out for him. He's just in a rough spot right now but he will come out of it. Eventually.

"Alright now go to sleep before you pass out. I'll wake you up for dinner."

Crowley grins, happy they have reached an understanding. "Thanks, Ana."

If Aziraphale noted the time on Crowley's email, he didn't say anything. What he did say however was how he absolutely loved everything Crowley had proposed for the cottage refurbishment. He would not stop praising Crowley to the Heavens, amazed at Crowley's creativity and imagination. His determination and quick turnaround.

Aziraphale's eyes were shining with gratitude and suddenly Crowley felt that he had never been more proud of his work, despite it being just a measly extension with minor internal alterations. Crowley helped design skyscrapers and fancy shopping malls in the centre of London and yet—

This felt like so much more.

Not only that but everything suddenly felt very worth it, every minute spent on research and haggling with consultants and engineers over every inch of space, every little detail. The battle to appease the bat gods (the environmental consultants), meticulously carving out space for the bat roosts. The research for the perfect, breathable insulation that would keep the house warm but wouldn't trap the moisture in.

Crowley possibly hasn't designed another building with so much care and attention in his lifetime.

As soon as Aziraphale expresses his satisfaction, Crowley presses the button on his laptop and that's that. The application is submitted. To be exact Crowley submits two applications—one planning and one listed building consent and both will have to be approved for the works to legally start on site. The planning permission wouldn't be needed if nothing on the outside shell of the building was changing but of course Crowley had to suggest the extension and rooflights because he couldn't just make his life easier for himself. 

Well, the applications still have to be registered and assessed, it's likely going to be at least a couple of weeks, up to four, before it will even get allocated onto the conservation and planning officers. In London they frequently waited seven-eight weeks before they got any feedback. The statutory eight weeks to get a decision be damned.

Crowley is still hoping he might end up with a different conservation officer than the twat he met those few weeks ago, although at this point he's not holding his breath.

One thing Crowley did not consider during the mad rush to get the application submitted is that now… There's no real reason for Crowley to keep in touch with Aziraphale whatsoever. Not unless he wants to be lurking in the village shops and cafes. Which he doesn't. Which is fine because he's not really that interested. 

…except there's not much else to do here, really, and it's been too fucking very long weeks already.

Just as he's contemplating driving back to his flat in London (surely his plants must have missed him even if his ‘friends’ haven’t), a new email lands in his mailbox. The header informs him it's from planning technicians, meaning the group responsible for registering applications. He clicks it open, skimming over it and immediately feels like he's going to pop a vessel.

… the following documents need to be submitted for the application to be registered: Tranquility Statement. This is to be able to adequately consider the proposed schemes potential effects on the Tranquility of the Cotswolds AONB…

"You've got to be fucking kidding me," he says into the air but loudly enough that both Ana and Newt who are bustling around the bathroom can hear. "What the hell is a Tranquility Assessment?"

He patiently waited two fucking weeks for this nonsense!? Of course he knows it's common to ask for additional information, that also gives councils more time to determine an application as the clock only starts ticking once it gets registered but this Tranquility Statement sounds like something unnecessary, and frankly, made up.

Newt, still in his pyjamas, peeks out of the bathroom and shrugs. Toothbrush still firmly in his mouth.

"'anning ish 'ore ar 'an ience," he mumbles around the toothbrush.

"What?"

Newt finally spits out all the foam into the sink. "Planning is more art than science. You never know what curveball you're going to get. You've just been unlucky."

"Great. When is that ever going to change."

"I'm sure between the three of us we can come up with something. In fact, do you know what? Why don't we take a break and go for a hike?" Ana cheerfully cuts into the conversion.

"What? Are you kidding me?"

"Well you know, see a bit of that countryside tranquility yourself?" She elbows Newt which is not suspicious at all.

"Ooh, good idea! And then I can help you write something up afterwards." Newt catches her gaze and joins in with the wheedling.

"Yes, exactly! In fact we were just planning to go with our friends today if you're up for it?"

"You drive a hard bargain." Crowley says but once there's no reaction he waves his hand in the air in defeat. "Ugh, yes okay. Whatever. Let's just not pick anything difficult, my condition is crap."

Anathema smiles, squeezing Newt's shoulder. "Brilliant. Let me just confirm with them." 

She disappears with her phone downstairs, excited as if she just uncovered a new conspiracy theory. Newt shrugs, going back to the bathroom and Crowley slinks back to his room to choose the least inappropriate clothes he has for a hike. 

Crowley is standing at the bottom of the public footpath, alone, checking his phone nervously and wondering whether everyone else is running late all at once, or if it's him who messed something up. 

At least someone should be here, Crowley reasons. He is aware that Anathema also invited Tracy and Aziraphale for this one too, which he is not freaking out about in the slightest. 

It's going to be fine, really. He'll trail after the group at the back and that will be that. He can keep his distance. Easy enough. 

He writes another frantic message to Anathema, when he hears a familiar voice behind him that makes his stomach flip. 

"Good morning dear. Wonderful day for a hike, isn't it?" Aziraphale chirps, happy as always. "Tracy couldn't come, I'm afraid, had to take care of her neighbour's kids at the last minute."

Crowley raises his eyes and this is the precise moment a text from Anathema pings on his phone. He reads it with the corner of his eye: Sorry, but something came up and we won't be able to make it. Have a great time with Aziraphale!

"Wait…" he feels the blood running cold in his veins. His mind is already looking for an excuse to just skip it and go home, make a storm, slash big deal, slash yell at Anathema for tricking him like this. 

But Crowley doesn't, because… as hard as it is to admit, he wants to go on this hike. Wants to have Aziraphale all to himself and talk about something other than work. He had a glimpse of that at the pub and now he wants more, even though he knows it's never going to be enough. 

"Are Anathema and Newt coming? It's not like them to be late." Aziraphale points out, checking on his pocket watch. Dear lord, this man truly is something else. 

"No, er, I've just got a text from Ana. They couldn't come in the end. It's, uh, it's just us I think…"

"Oh, oh ." Aziraphale says, realisation falling on his face.

"Yeah," Crowley rubs his neck as if in an apology. He can't expect Aziraphale to be thrilled about it.

Aziraphale's consternation is brief. He composes himself momentarily, turning towards the track. "A pity. It is a rather wonderful route. Shall we get a wiggle-on?" Aziraphale asks cheerfully and Crowley bites his tongue not to groan. He can't believe he has a crush on someone who uses the words wiggle-on . This couldn't have been any more embarrassing.

"You've walked it before?" Crowley follows Aziraphale through a small timber gate that leads to a grassy field. He rushes behind, glad there is a topic at hand he can latch onto.

"Partially but never all the way. I cycle through those fields over there—" Aziraphale points at the fields of little yellow flowers. Even Crowley has to admit that there is something magical about the view. "...to the bookshop in a nearby village, most days."

"What? But that's like, ten miles or so?"

"Eight."

"You cycle to the bookshop that's eight miles away one way, every day."

"Most days, but that's quite right, my dear."

Crowley cannot believe this. He looks at Aziraphale's thighs forgetting the whole world, not able to comprehend how full, how strong they have to be from all the exercise. He's all too aware that he's staring but he just cannot tear his eyes away.

Aziraphale is a sight.

Dressed in hiking shoes, a green fishing hat, some sort of beige hiking trousers with reinforcements at the knees. His vest has at least a thousand pockets. A checkered blue and cream shirt peeking from underneath, sleeves rolled up his forearms. Crowley has never seen him dressed so casually. He can tell that when it comes to hiking the man means business. Unlike Crowley who settled on a band's t-shirt, his usual skinny jeans and maroon sneakers, which was the only other footwear he had apart from his designer snakeskin shoes.

Well, if he dies, he might as well go down with style.

"You don't hike?" Aziraphale asks gently and isn't that an understatement of the year?

"Well, I… it's not like I have anyone to go with." Shit, did he really say that? "I mean, uh, you know, constantly busy and all that." Lousy save, he thinks. But Aziraphale doesn't look at him like he's the least desirable person on the planet and that has to count for something. "You, uh, have a map or something, right?" Crowley says to distract himself from his thoughts.

"A map? Oh I have something so much better!" Aziraphale beams and takes out… a book. Great British walks: 100 unique walks through our most stunning countryside ."It's a circular walk, shouldn't take us more than three hours…."

Crowley rubs his eyes. Aziraphale has to be kidding him. But no, he flips through the pages to find the description of their walk based on landmarks and legends and stories. Crowley rolls his eyes so much he's risking them falling out of his skull. 

He puts his hands in his tiny pockets, too small to house his phone, which he's thrown into the classy, black designer backpack. He finds comfort in the knowledge that he has his own google maps on the latest model of his iPhone, and he won't hesitate to use it when needed. He doesn't trust the book in the least.

They walk through the fields and woodlands, crossing streams and gates, following the public pathways. All the while Aziraphale holds tightly to his guide book. He sets a torturous pace and Crowley scrambles to keep up but he'll be damned if he admits that. His condition is predictably… shit. Sitting in the office the whole day didn't exactly help. Losing his job didn't help with his motivation either. He is always driving everywhere and hasn't walked more than half a mile in literal years. In London he doesn't have to, everything is either close by or you have to drive there anyway. 

So he trails behind Aziraphale, doing his best not to stare at the way the trousers hug his thighs or his arse. Crowley sighs, exhausted from climbing the tiniest of hilltops and getting hornier by the minute. The worst possible combination. An exasperated whimper escapes his mouth.

"What was that, dear?" Aziraphale says, sitting down on the nearest trunk at the edge of woodland to wait for Crowley.

"Nothing," he huffs, barely able to catch his breath. Steering his mind away from this very simple endearment that Aziraphale calls nearly everyone for fucks sake.

He drags his useless arse up to where Aziraphale is sitting and nearly collapses next to him on the trunk.

"Alright?" Aziraphale offers him his own bottle of water which Crowley latches onto without a second thought. He’s definitely not focusing on the fact that drinking from the same bottle is only one step removed from kissing.

"Peachy," he responds.

Of course he didn't think to take water for a walk, or anything else really. This is why he also silently accepts the protein bar that Aziraphale offers him.

"What are you staring at your book for? Instructions not clear?" He teases.

"It says here to descend along a cobbled path after passing a huge oak tree. Does this oak look big enough to you?" Aziraphale asks, undeterred.

"Oh god, we're lost." Crowley is afraid to think how much extra distance they walked but he's sure it's the extra distance his condition cannot afford. They've been walking for nearly two hours now. If this means they will have to go back…

"We're not lost, we just have to follow the instructions… Crowley? What are you doing?" Aziraphale asks as Crowley starts fiddling with his phone. 

"Checking google maps. Seems to be the only thing that can save us now." He flicks through the apps, enduring Aziraphale rolling his eyes at him. Well, fine . At least they won't die here. He unlocks his screen and then he feels blood draining out of his face. "There's…no signal." He announces, mortified. 

"Of course there's no signal, we're in the middle of nowhere here. Have some faith, this book has never failed me before."

"Right, sure." There's literally nothing he can do now.

"Shall I take your backpack?" Aziraphale offers casually. As if he wasn't carrying his own, as if it wasn't too much to bear his burden too.

"Don't be silly, Aziraphale. I can manage." Crowley forces on a laugh, even though he wants to spit his lungs out at every step. What kind of stupid idea it was to go hiking!?

Aziraphale nods, but once they stand up to move on, he wordlessly picks up Crowley's backpack and it's the smallest gesture but Crowley is grateful. 

They walk in silence for a while after that, at a slower pace. Aziraphale stopping to inspect a tree every now and then. It's a bit easier to walk now though, and he finds that his eyes are wandering over the landscape around him, the river beds and granite stones. He seems to recall a picture of a waterfall in Aziraphale's book that he is excited to see. 

It really is… not so bad once he can proceed at his own pace. The gravel crunching under his sneakers, birds chirping, squirrels jumping between trees. It's strange to think that there's this whole world outside London to which his whole existence has narrowed down as of late.

"That one!" Crowley's enthusiastic shout surprises even him.

Aziraphale giggles happily. "That is not an oak!" 

"No? Well, it certainly looks big enough." Crowley huffs, unhappy that he got caught red handed on his lack of knowledge and what's worse—sudden enthusiasm. Very uncool. But Aziraphale doesn't look the least bit annoyed or disappointed. He picks up a leaf and shows it to Crowley patiently, their hands brushing.

"There, this is an oak leaf. It has a very particular shape."

"Mhmmm," Crowley hums, staring at the leaf like an idiot. Like he's just been handed the sense of his life. 

He walks the rest of the way clutching said stupid leaf, is the first one to notice the notorious giant oak, which he announces proudly and Aziraphale praises him in a way that makes this whole exertion worth it. 

Their very last stop on their way back is the Lamb's Inn. A very enthusiastic owner greets Aziraphale from the entrance, and offers them the best table by the front window. Once they're seated a minute cannot go by before someone waves at Aziraphale or greets him, stops to chat or ask about his cottage. And Crowley feels so fucking alone. He's never had so many friends in his life, hell he doesn't think he even knows so many people.

Once they leave and walk maybe hundred yards back towards the village, he feels raindrops pattering on his face. Great, now it's raining too. Aziraphale takes out some small plastic yellow cloak from his backpack while Crowley stands there like an idiot. He doesn't have a raincoat.

"No raincoat? What do you even have in your fancy backpack?"

"Uh, phone and keys mostly. One apple."

"Ok, well then…" Aziraphale unbuttons the cloak one button at a time and Crowley can feel each and every one of them winding his heartbeat higher. "We should more or less be able to fit here together," he says, opening it wide in an offering.

"You've got to be kidding me," Crowley quips, not able to hide his outrage. Did Anathema order rain for today as well!? This…this is just too much.

Aziraphale frowns, clearly taking Crowley’s words in the wrong way. "I know it's far from ideal but would you rather get rained on?"

Crowley is too tired to object. If there's one thing he hates, it's the feeling of rain tapping on his head, ruining his hair. Although he’s nearly certain at this point that his hair cannot get any worse. The wind gives him chills, bringing back all the miserable memories of the moors and his childhood. "No, I suppose not." 

He huddles closer to Aziraphale, feeling the warmth of his body, his  breath just next to Crowley's ear, his strong forearm pressing Crowley closer. In different circumstances Crowley would be excited about it but here he feels like an inconvenience, trying to shrink himself as much as possible, trying not to take any space at all. 

They brave the rain together for the next mile or so until they reach Aziraphale's cottage—one of the first buildings at the edge of the village, and Aziraphale steers them inside. Crowley doesn't even protest at this point—his hands are numb, his body is shaking, and he's aching all over. It's crazy how chilly and unpredictable the English summer can be, how quickly the weather can change. 

"Are you okay, dear?" Aziraphale asks, as Crowley’s shakes like a leaf in his porch. There is so much worry in his eyes it would be enough to bestow it upon the whole village.

"I can literally feel every single muscle in my body." Crowley says, trying very hard to stop his teeth from clattering. "But I'll be fine." 

He will be. He'll just wait out the rain, or maybe borrow Aziraphale's raincoat and then continue on his way, Anathema's cottage is not even that far at this point. Though the weather is definitely taking a turn for the worse. 

"A hot bath should fix that."

"What?" Crowley turns around to look Aziraphale in the eyes. "That's not— an— Aziraphale."

"I can't have you getting pneumonia now, can I? Not in this weather! I would never forgive myself. Go on, take off these wet clothes, I'll get them dry in the meantime."

Next thing Crowley knows, Aziraphale is ushering him towards the bathroom, gets the hot water running and prepares a bath. And Crowley lets him because he doesn't really want to go home, not after practically cuddling together for the past fifteen minutes. Plus knowing his poor immune system he probably would get pneumonia. So he peels off the terrible wet tshirt that clings to his skin uncomfortably and throws it to the tiled floor. Aziraphale gives him one very surprised look, eyes going round and cheeks flushing.

"Oh dear Lord!" It seems to escape his lips as he's trying to fix his gaze at literally anything else. "Sorry, I— I'll give you some space." He exits the bathroom in a haste.

Crowley doesn't even have time to fully process what happened, too desperate to take off the remainder of his cold, wet clothes and sink into the salvific embrace of the hot water. Only then he has the chance to contemplate how idiotic all of his actions has been all through the day, each and every one of them. 

But it feels… nice to be this cared for, even if it's just because of the bad weather. Is this how it feels to have a loving partner? Crowley doesn’t want to answer because he doesn't think he can bear facing the truth that his whole love life has been one big, terrible mistake. 

He sighs, contemplating the surroundings. Aziraphale had changed it quite a bit since Crowley was here first, it's much more…lived in, much warmer. All of the little curious shampoos and shower gel bottles, possibly as many as Crowley has back in his flat. Just when Crowley settles in, there's a quiet knocking on the door.

"Terribly sorry, I've forgotten to give you a towel. I'll open the door with my eyes closed and leave it on the side."

"Uh, okay."

Aziraphale enters—true to his word with eyes closed—

"I'll just, uh." He leans to the floor, feeling for Crowley's wet clothes. He nearly trips on them, eyes going open for the briefest of moments. "I've seen nothing!" Aziraphale confesses like it was some grand crime.

"S'okay. Just a bit of bare skin, nothing particularly exciting." He responds. It's true. He was always scrawny, small. Flat in all those places that really mattered. All the flash and colour and style left on the floor in a wet puddle of clothes. He is bare as they come, in Aziraphale's bathtub on full display in the artificial light. He is hardly desirable. 

Aziraphale frowns, eyes still shut, his lips forming words as if he wants to say something but then decides against it. He withdraws without another word. Crowley sighs. "Right, that was a thing."

That's it.

That's all there will be.

Crowley knows how this goes, he really does. Aziraphale will get the approval, and then they will never see each other again. He can't imagine it going any other way. The man doesn't respond to Crowley's half-hearted flirting attempts and no wonder. Aziraphale is … well, out of his league, to be frank.

Once Crowley finally leaves the bathtub, he wraps himself in a bathrobe Aziraphale left for him along with the towel. It's the fluffiest and softest thing he's ever seen. He then follows the warmth, the soft music and the smell of cinnamon onto the living room where Aziraphale is sitting in an armchair covered with blankets.

The view is idyllic in ways that don't have a place in Crowley's world. The picture of Aziraphale in front of the crackling fire with a mug of hot cocoa in his hand looks so right, so comfortable. The steam rising to fog the glasses that rest on Aziraphale's nose. The image makes Crowley's heart squeeze in his chest.

"Thank you, Aziraphale." He says from the door in a burst of gratitude.

Aziraphale smiles, all sunshine and crinkles around the eyes. "Of course. Anyone in my place would have done the same." 

And just like that, the spell breaks and it hits Crowley so hard he nearly forgets to breathe.

He has nearly forgotten that was the real reason. Aziraphale is polite to everyone . He would no doubt do the same for the bloke who snitched him to the conservation officer. Which reminds Crowley that he has a Tranquility Assessment to write. That's what he's being paid for, not for lounging here with a mug of cocoa.

He doesn't belong here or deserve the soft fabric that brushes against his skin. Cannot get comfortable here because once he does, he'll be lost forever, and there will be no one to catch him once he falls.

"My clothes should be dry by now." Crowley says dryly, turning around.

"You don't have to rush." Aziraphale says behind him. It's that same concerned voice again. Concerned about everything and everyone.

"No, I have to." He says firmly, stomping away. Not looking back at what he somehow knows would be Aziraphale's disappointed face. 

He's angry. At himself for letting his guard down and showing his weakness to a stranger—worse—to his client like this. At how easily he let himself be tricked. At the fact this will never be anything more, so what's the point in pretending?

He dresses up in haste. Realising that his clothes are now not only dry and warm but faintly smelling of Aziraphale's cologne. Fuck. Crowley probably won't be able to get rid of that smell for days, or worse, will refuse to get rid of it. 

Letting go was never his strong suit. 

But he has to, he will have to learn.

A couple of weeks more, the application will get approved and Crowley will finally be able to go back to London.

Chapter Text

"So, uh, that bad, eh?" Newt finally dares to throw a comment his way. 

They're sitting side by side with Newt at the kitchen table, writing that bloody Tranquility Statement. Steam is rising from the ginger and honey tea Newt prepared for them. Whether it was as a peace offering or just to make sure Crowley doesn't get ill after getting caught in the rain, he's not sure.

Crowley has been in a foul mood ever since he came back from Aziraphale's cottage. He had shut himself in his room and didn't go out until evening the next day. Lucky for them they didn't prod and Crowley wasn't going to share any information on his own either. 

"Ana had good intentions you know…"

"I don't want to talk about it," Crowley shuts down the conversation.

They don't have to know what kind of failure Crowley is. 

He immediately texted Bee afterwards asking if there are any new job openings like he didn't know summer is the slowest period in the industry. No, you twat. I would let you know. And then another ping. We're going out Saturday. Wanna join? Crowley felt warmth flooding his chest despite himself. At least somewhere, someone in some capacity wants his company. He knows that it's crumbs, he doesn't care. Sure, he typed back. 

He needs a break from all this tranquility. He needs people to be annoying and abrasive but honest about it. He cannot stand second-guessing. 

His phone rings that very moment, at the very least saving him from Newt's poor attempts at conversation. He looks at the screen and flinches—it's Aziraphale. Ugh, he probably wants updates on his application and the news is not great. He sighs but answers, slowly walking away from the kitchen table and the ginger tea. 

"Hello, Crowley."

"Uh, hey Aziraphale. I've just been working on your application."

"You have?" There is genuine surprise in Aziraphale's voice and Crowley silently chastises himself for even mentioning it. He could have given himself more time. 

"Um, yeah, we've received some comments to deal with, nothing that cannot be solved though so don't worry. I'll get in touch if I need anything, yeah?"

"Oh. Of course you're busy, I didn't want to be a bother."

Aziraphale's tone of voice sounds so disappointed and Crowley pinches the bridge of his nose, hating himself for what he's about to do because he knows there's a hurt hanging in the air somewhere for him and he's asking for it.

Your life is not a romcom, your life is not a romcom—he repeats like a mantra in his mind.

"Always have time for my favourite client," or the only client, as it were. Which surely also must make him a favourite. Dammit. Newt raises an eyebrow at this and Crowley rolls his eyes and turns away in the doorframe, trying to get even further away. 

"I just wanted to apologise for the unfortunate walk the other day," Aziraphale says in a tone that sounds genuine. It makes everything even worse. 

"It's not your fault that it rained." Crowley briefly looks at Newt from afar who is showing him thumbs up. He shuts the door behind himself and goes out.

"No, but perhaps I've chosen an overambitious walk. I could have planned it better. I thought, perhaps… Can I make it up to you?"

"Make it up to me?" Crowley parrots mindlessly, stunned.

"Would you like to go for a picnic this weekend? I've just picked blueberries from my garden, they would be perfect in a pie."

Oh fucking hell. Crowley puts the phone away, screaming internally and shaking. This is the most perfect example of a man if Crowley ever found one. He's strong, caring and can cook. Crowley is afraid to think what other hidden talents the man might have.

And then he remembers this weekend he was supposed to be in London. Take care of the plants, catch up with Bee, and rest his bruised, stupid, hopeful heart. But of course he's got no self control and hope blooms in his chest against himself. 

How much more mixed signals can you get?

It's torture if Crowley ever was subjected to one.

"Crowley? Are you still there?" Aziraphale's voice can be heard from the receiver, reminding him he's still on call.

"Yes, sorry. I um, I'll let you know, okay?"

"Oh, of course! I wouldn't want to presume. You are, after all, an exceptional architect. Must be very busy. Do let me know. Mind how you go."

Crowley puts his phone back in his pocket and stomps back into the cottage. 

"Alright, whose idea it was and please tell me this time you're joining for real?

Newt blinks at him like he saw a ghost. Anathema cocks her head.

"The picnic?" Crowley explains, gesturing wildly. This time he's going to strangle someone for real. 

"What picnic?" Anathema says dumbfounded and she's either an exceptional actress or… she's telling the truth. Crowley is not yet convinced.

"Aziraphale just invited me for a pity picnic because apparently I can't be trusted with a hike."

"Oh my god, he did!?" Ana squeals. 

Crowley's conviction falters. "That's…  didn't he tell you…?"

"Oh my god, Crowley! This man has his own free will, you know? I might have tipped off Tracy last time, but Aziraphale knew as much as you did about the scheme. And no, I didn't order the rain either before you accuse me of that as well. Not that kind of witch."

"....o-okay." He takes his laptop from the kitchen table and runs upstairs to scream into his pillow.

Crowley was plunged into such an emotional chaos following the phone call that he was even happy to hear back from the conservation officer who, predictably, came back with a list of stupid requests. Stupid requests however were better than nothing to occupy his mind.

And they were stupid, okay. Let's just establish that from the beginning. One of the comments asked for the insulation to be moved away from the existing walls to allow the structure to breathe, completely ignoring the fact that the insulation itself is breathable and has to be applied directly onto walls to work. Drawing additional details illustrating and then explaining all of it in an email that took him the best part of the day. 

Then there were also questions Crowley had no answers to such as chimney details. He will have to do his research or commission somebody to do that for him. 

It took Crowley two days to finally decide that he probably owes Aziraphale to show up at that picnic after behaving like an idiot at his cottage. Maybe also bring a bottle of wine as a peace offering—that should help establish his very cool persona back. Maybe even put all that day out behind them. Start anew like bloody normal people. 

He's clutching a bottle of red wine to his chest as he walks towards the agreed place. Oh god, it's not a date, is it? Aziraphale wouldn't. Still he cannot deny the pounding of his heart at the very thought. It would be fucking great if it didn't feel so much like a fucking date. But then Crowley's phone beeps and there's a very short message from Aziraphale: I will be late, sorry. 

Which was strange, firstly because Aziraphale was never late, secondly because he barely texted and thirdly because once he did, his messages were long, thought through and written like a formal letter. Something was very clearly not right.

Sure, not a problem. He texts back and leans on the bench, trying not to worry too much about it. If he gets stood up it won't be the first time anyway. Though being stood up by the nicest and most polite person stung a little bit more. If not even Aziraphale can make time to meet Crowley, how can he expect that anyone else would…?

Aziraphale does show up, eventually. He looks nervous, like his polite persona got deconstructed in the short time they haven't seen each other. They're both wearing their armours today it seems—Aziraphale his beige coat and Crowley his dark blazer, sunglasses firmly on his nose.

"I am…terribly sorry, Crowley. I didn't mean… that is…"

"Hey, don't worry about it. It's alright, yeah? Did… something happen?"

He pats the place next to himself on the bench and Aziraphale nearly collapses on it. He sighs.

"My family paid me an unexpected visit and they can be… a lot. Michael, she's a very successful lawyer, wanted to see how the progress on the cottage is going. She was…disgusted with the state of the place. I was trying to explain that things take time, the applications and then the renovation… but she didn't want to hear any of it. She thinks it's a waste of time and money and that I should just sell the cottage."

Aziraphale says all of that in one breath and Crowley sucks in the air. "Woah, that does sound like a lot." He didn't exactly disagree that selling the cottage would be the obvious thing to do but it was Aziraphale's decision to make and he was outraged that anyone would push him to change his mind.

"What a bunch of wankers," he says eventually.

Aziraphale blinks and looks at him suspiciously. "You…don't think I am making the wrong decision?"

"What? No! There is no right or wrong answer here. You want to live in that cottage, yeah? Want to stay in the village." Aziraphale nods. "Then you should do just that. Fuck what anyone else thinks."

Aziraphale smiles, it's a shy, soft thing creeping on his lips but it's there and it makes all the difference in Crowley's world.

"Look… can I just be honest here for a second?" Aziraphale nods so Crowley continues: "I think you're too nice for your own good. I think you're letting people tell you what you should do instead of following your heart and sometimes it's hard, I understand that, but… in the end of the day it's your life, you're going to have to live with the consequences."

Aziraphale listens intently, then stays silent for a while and finally nods. Crowley lets out the breath he was holding, he wasn't sure if he was overstepping but Aziraphale looks happier now, more relaxed. 

"Thank you, Crowley." He takes out a bottle of wine out of his wicker basket. "Do you have to drive anywhere today? I brought wine…" he says with the faintest blush and bloody hell. No, they cannot just continue like nothing ever happened because it's happening in front of his eyes. 

Crowley then picks up his own wine from when he puts it down next to the bench and then they both end up laughing. "I wanted to apologise," —they say at the same time and end up in another laughing fit. 

Crowley still cannot believe this as he's wiping the tears from his eyes, happy tears. He doesn't remember when was the last time he laughed like that. 

Aziraphale leads him across the bridle path and towards an open meadow with one single oak in the middle. They settle their blankets underneath. 

"It's beautiful," Crowley says truthfully. All his plants are good and lovely but this? This just feels so wild and endless. 

"Isn't it just? I love coming here this time of the year."

"You, er, bring here all your, uhh… architects?" Crowley bites his tongue, he knows he sounds stupid, hopes he doesn't sound too obvious. 

Aziraphale laughs and Crowley is just happy he can provide that for him, bring some joy after the awful meeting with his siblings.

Aziraphale shrugs. "I usually just come here to be alone. To think, to be with nature, that sort of thing."

Crowley thinks this might be even worse because that means he's intruding and Aziraphale is only doing this to make it up for that hike Crowley messed up. "Oh, um, er, should I, uh, go?"

"Oh come on, Crowley, I invited you here! Besides, it's not like it's a private spot. Anyone can come here." He offers Crowley a very delicious looking puff pastry and Crowley's brain short circuits. 

"Thanks but I can't—"

"It's gluten free," Aziraphale says proudly and Crowley looks from his face to the pastry and back up again.

"What? How did you—"

"I asked Anathema since you never seem to eat anything. I figured it must be something like that."

Crowley accepts it, grateful and bites in. It tastes like absolute heaven in his mouth, which is so refreshing after all the rank, dry and flavourless cardboard-like breads and pastries he's had in the past. Crowley just got used to avoiding eating them altogether. But the way Aziraphale's pastry melts in his mouth, he cannot stop the very embarrassing moan that forms in his throat on its own.

"It's delicious! Where did you get it?" Crowley says with his mouth still full.

"I made it." He says, sure and simple, as if it was the most normal thing, as if it was something people did. He takes another bite that bursts with flavour in his mouth and he is reminded of all the things he thought he couldn't have. He hums on the bite, he can’t help it, sees the most pleased expression on Aziraphale's face and, he's pretty sure, turns bright pink. 

"You like it then?"

"S' not bad." Crowley tries to chump on the rest of it in relative silence as Aziraphale tells him all that he knows about the little village, and he turns out to know a lot.

"You like it here I take it?" Crowley asks as he finishes the third pastry Aziraphale offers him. It's hard not to indulge in it in such good company.

"Oh yes! The best place in the world! And what about you? Do you like it?"

"Age does not wither her, nor custom stale her infinite variety." Crowley says, daring to look more at Aziraphale than the meadow in front of him.

"Oh, Shakespeare!" Aziraphale says, delighted. "I wouldn't have pinpointed you as a fan!"

"What can I say? I am full of surprises." Crowley responds quickly, nearly winking. Why is it so easy to flirt with Aziraphale? It shouldn't be, it never is. 

"That I do not doubt." Aziraphale says, pleased. Cheeks reddening from the wine. Surely from the wine.

And it must be the wine too that makes the conversion flow so effortless between them, bantering over the silliest things. Like in those romantic comedies Crowley watches to make himself feel better but not believing it could ever happen to him. 

It doesn't matter.

Aziraphale is a soft, warm presence next to him and Crowley is content. He's happy. He could have just this for the rest of his life and it would have been enough. But of course he cannot stay here. Not forever. All of this - the greenery, the warmth, the summer, Aziraphale's pleased expression is all temporary. And it's all good to be basking in it while it lasts. But it will pass. And Crowley will do good remembering that.

It will pass.

When the sun sets on the horizon and beautiful purple and pink colours start dancing in the sky, Crowley walks Aziraphale back to his cottage. It's on his way and besides he's not in a rush to be anywhere. 

It's a bit awkward at the gate, Aziraphale looks at him with that sunshine smile again and Crowley doesn't know where to hide so he takes a step back and grunts something that sounds vaguely like a ' goodnight' and turns to leave. He is only a few steps away when he turns around to see Aziraphale looking straight back at him. They share a quiet smile and then Crowley is back on his path home again. 

If nothing comes out of this, Crowley thinks, at the very least he has made a friend.

Chapter Text

The day Crowley spent with Aziraphale was the most heartwarming event of his whole week, month, maybe even year. But he knows when too much is too much and he can't stay in the little Cotswold's town forever, no matter how idyllic it feels. Getting used to this life that's not his isn't doing him any good. And besides he owes it to Bee to show his face back in London again. 

He drives back the next day.

Being back in that concrete jungle of London, feels strange, depressing even. There's no space to breathe and unwind. It's so cramped and opressing as if all the walls are closing in on him. Everything is too much. Too loud. Too fast. 

None of this is out of ordinary for Crowley, not really. He remembers feeling that way, once, when he arrived in London for the first time. He just has to get used to it again, get back up to speed. No big deal. The fact that back then it was an opportunity and now it is a necessity doesn't really change anything. 

Crowley's keys rattle in the lock of his door as he pushes them open to look at his minimalistic flat that feels weirdly empty and silent, like an eye of the hurricane. His flat looks like no one lived here, maybe he never has. His sad existence could hardly be called living.

Back in the day Crowley made sure to install triple glazed windows to keep away all the noise from the streets, now it's driving him insane. There is no chirping of birds, no rustling of leaves. Can a person get used to such silly and trivial things so quickly? It seems daft.

For the lack of anything else to do he crosses the much too empty space to look at his plants wilting on the window cill. Nothing that cannot be saved yet with a bit of persistence. He catches himself thinking that he should just take them back to Tadfield, they would bloom perfectly there, except he has no reason to go back. He can easily sort everything remotely from London, visit once or twice if strictly necessary. Anathema doesn't need another hungry mouth hanging over her head at all times. 

Another strictly necessary thing is that he should go back to the dreaded job hunting, or at the very least networking. Remind Bee about his existence. Apologise for not meeting them last weekend. 

Shit. 

He hides his head in his hands. Crowley really has no business feeling as hopeless as he does. Nothing really changed for the worse. It's okay, he can get through this. 

He wraps himself in a blanket, fully prepared to spend the rest of the day this way when his phone chimes. Crowley latches onto his phone straight away with hope he has no right to feel. 

Yo, loser, I've got you a commission. Interior design of a Victorian Villa in London. Interested?

It was Bee and Crowley hated how disappointed he felt. It's a job in London. It's what he wanted. What the hell is wrong with him? Not that he liked designing interiors, in fact it was probably in pair with listed buildings—too many details, diagrams and plans to get right—pattern of floor tiles, lighting fixtures, curtains, paints, colours and so on and so forth. 

You bet, send me the details — he types back. 

At least it's going to keep him busy. 

The new routine is comforting in a way an old stretched jumper feels comforting on a rainy day—sure it has holes and is frayed on the edges but it's familiar.

After exchanging a couple of emails with his new client it becomes painfully obvious why Bee sent the job to Crowley instead of dealing with it themself—the client is an absolute pain in the arse. First he tells Crowley to provide inspirations for him, then he doesn't respond for ages, and when Crowley finally sends over some proposals with his own vision, the client replies with "the design looks rather plain." 

Ah yes, welcome back to London Crowley.

He is about to tear the hair out of his head when his phone beeps. Starving for distraction, he picks it up. 

Good afternoon Crowley, I hope I am not intruding on your weekend. I trust you are well. May I enquire about the status of my project? Aziraphale.

Crowley's initial euphoria at seeing Aziraphale's name quickly turned into disappointment at the mention of his project and then turned to dread even though there was no reason for it. Crowley was an architect and Aziraphale was his client; there was nothing wrong about him wanting to know how his project was going. Crowley makes a mental note to chase the conservation officer yet again. He looks at the date—it is indeed, weekend. After a couple of sleepless nights the days have all blended together.

Hello Aziraphale, I'm well thanks. I'll chase the conservation officer again, they are notorious for not responding. I'll be in touch once I have an update. 

There, polite enough , he thinks as he clicks send. 

I'm sorry, I shouldn't be asking about work. It's the weekend after all.

Nah, you're good. I work all sorts of weird hours.

Oh, I hope you're not overworking yourself on my account. Really, I am in no rush.

It's nothing but Aziraphale's concern really does make Crowley's heart grow at least three times, even if the man fusses equally over all of his friends. Crowley knows that and still he cannot deny the way his hopeless heart rattles in his ribcage. Pathetic really. 

He does chase the conservation officer though and even gets some response even if it feels like drawing blood from a stone. Just a couple of more changes, which is fine. Crowley sits down to do them straight away, even though Aziraphale had already paid the bulk of his invoice and the remaining amount is not worth slaving over. Crowley knows he will do it as quickly as he can anyway. It does help that the reward for this will be gaining a reason to contact Aziraphale again. 

Hi Aziraphale, just a quick update that the conservation officer asked for more changes, all technical and nothing major, I've sent them all off today. 

Good morning Crowley, that is good news. Sounds like we should get an approval soon? On another topic I was wondering if you could recommend me some romantic comedies to watch? I have heard you are an expert.

Crowley perks up a brow as he reads Aziraphale's message. He's yet again wrapped in a blanket on his bed and snacking on some crisps because he couldn't be bothered to cook and take aways rarely offered anything he could eat anyway.  

Romantic date? 

Crowley types back before he stops himself. He's biting his nails all the time it takes Aziraphale to type back, the little three dots disappearing and reappearing over and over. At least if he gets a clear message that Aziraphale is, in fact, taken, it will finally cut wings to this pathetic crush of his.

Something like that– comes Aziraphale's cryptic response. Two can play in this game, Crowley thinks as he a types back. 

I can think of a couple. What's your date into?

Not sure. I presume happy endings, serendipity, these sort of things. Would the City of Angels be too sad?

Way too sad, Crowley thinks but doesn't type it. Hells, what levels of pain can Aziraphale even tolerate if he suggests the most heart-rending title for a romantic comedy watch party!? 

I mean…. It really is one of the sadder ones. Crowley types back, honest and clear. The answer pings immediately.

Shall we have a trial run and watch it together?

"What!?" Crowley screams at his phone. Where is this conversation even going at this point? It's too much, too fast and way too honest for his liking. 

Crowley loved the movie though, in a way one loves sad songs—through the tears and despite a broken heart. No one could pay him enough money to watch it alone again. But… he wouldn't be alone. 

Sure, if you're into unsolicited live commentary.

Counting on it. Next weekend?

It's a date… Crowley types, stares at it and then backspaces all of it. Presses his phone to his chest, feeling like an idiot he is. It's not a date. Not with Crowley anyway. Who could Aziraphale even be dating? Is it somebody from the village? If it's the conservation twat Crowley swears he is going to eat his hat.

Finally he settled on a very simple and elegant:

Looking forward to it. 

Maybe Aziraphale doesn't have anything better to do on his weekends, maybe Crowley is the man's second choice, but it doesn't matter really. It makes Crowley happy that someone thought of him enough to invite him over. 

"So, City of Angels, eh?" Crowley says as he prepares to play the movie on Aziraphale's old TV. In hindsight Crowley should have known this is the only equipment Aziraphale could have at home but was too preoccupied with freaking over the not-date to care. It's their second not-date in fact… What's more Crowley expected that someone, anyone else would be invited too. At least Tracy, and yet Crowley is the only one here. "Not your typical romantic comedy. "

"Oh isn't it? I've heard good things about it."

"It's a romantic drama. "

"There is a difference?" 

Crowley stops whatever he was doing with the cables and glares at Aziraphale. "Now you're just being obtuse on purpose."

"Why do you like it then? If it's so sad."

Crowley shrugs. "I don't know, it feels real. I still prefer the funny ones though. Why don't we watch Sleepless in Seattle instead? Or French Kiss? They also have Meg Ryan in it."

"French Kiss sounds good. If you'd rather," Aziraphale looks at Crowley as he says that and Crowley feels the blush coming right up the tips of his ears. 

He looks away. "Too late for that." Thank someone at that very precise moment the technology slots into place for once in Crowley's life and the opening titles show up on the screen. Saved by the old TV, who would have guessed. 

Aziraphale seems to have wiggled onto his old leather couch by now, covered with a myriad of colourful blankets. He pats the seat next to himself invitingly so Crowley sheepishly follows.

It feels… strange. Doing a dry run for a watch party, of a romantic film at that. That's not a thing people do, right? Or do they? Not like Crowley would know. If Bee was aware of his peculiar hobby, Crowley would never hear the end of it.

"You don't know how a pear tastes like?" - Meg Ryan says to Nicolas Cage not long after they meet.

"...I don't know how it tastes to you ." Crowley says along Nicolas Cage turning towards Aziraphale just as the actor takes a bite of a pear. Which is the wrong thing to do because Aziraphale is looking back at him, and it makes Crowley's heart stop. He didn't mean it to be such an obvious flirtation. But everything here—the movie, the blankets, the way Aziraphale is looking at him is sending him the wrong message.

Aziraphale's smile only grows wider, which doesn't help Crowley's frayed nerves. "You do know all the lines then?"

Crowley shrugs, "just the cheesy ones." The useful ones , he tells himself even as he never managed to pull anyone on them. "And I don't like pears."

Crowley had a complicated relationship with pears. He didn't exactly hate them but they were too sweet, too grainy. Apples were much more up his alley. 

There are a couple of beats in the movie that Crowley was probably way too excited to show to Aziraphale—the initial meeting, the Heamingway conversations with pears, the fall but perhaps most of all—the ending.

As it transpires, Crowley wipes the lone tear that escapes his eye, even though he was doing everything in his power to keep it all in. Feeling more shattered and vulnerable than he has in a while he promises himself to never watch it again in his life. 

Romantic comedies, much more up his alley. 

"Oh gosh, it really feels that I have chosen the wrong kind of movie, haven't I? It was so sad!"

"Quite."

"Next time we should watch that French Kiss you're so eagerily recommending. You ought to have really warned me if you have seen City of Angels already!"

"Told you, it's a drama. "

"You like it though."

" I would rather have had one breath of her hair, one kiss of her mouth, one touch of her hand, than eternity without it ," Crowley quotes, feeling he rather means it more than he'd wanted too. It rings true in his heart. 

Aziraphale looks at him stunned for a while, then looks down at his own hands, wringing nervously. "That was… it's a very powerful line."

"Yeah," Crowley shrugs, "like I said, I know all the cheesy ones. It used to be my favourite movie but you know, once you have enough of reality in your life you just rather watch something to escape from it. Besides, no angel would have fallen for me in the first place." He snorts and Aziraphale just looks at him. He doesn’t deny it, doesn't comment, just looks. Has Crowley gone too far? Hastily, he clears his throat. "Well anyway, it's late, I should be going."

"Oh, of course, let me see you out."

They walk towards the door when Crowley sees something dark and small and… fuzzy struggling on the sash window. The squeal of horror escapes his mouth on its own.

"Oh my god, you poor thing! How did you get in here?" Aziraphale coos and then turns around to Crowley. "We have to get him out!"

"Oh no, it's got in between the window panes! There must have been a gap… "

Having a closer look (with the heart on his shoulder) Crowley sees that—indeed the terrifying  shape seems to be trapped within the porch sash window. It has weird and ugly flesh-formed wings, nose in the shape of a horseshoe and is looking at Crowley with its big black eyes. "I, er—"

"Quick! Get me a blanket!" 

Crowley is stunned, he really doesn’t want to have anything to do with the thing but Aziraphale gives him an order and it's hard not to follow, which is perfect because Crowley is panicking and has no clue what to do. Thank God Aziraphale apparently turns into a pro in a crisis situation.

So Crowley brings the blanket in which Aziraphale wraps the tiny bat. A moment later Aziraphale is on the phone to RSPC while Crowley sits on the armchair opposite the creature staring at it. He has to admit that this close and without moving its wings it looks kind of… cute. 

"...yes… trapped… might be injured… yes, okay… thank you."

Aziraphale brings in a shoebox, makes holes in the lid and, using gloves, very carefully places the bat inside. Then adds water in a bottle cap and puts the whole thing in the darkest corner of the room.

"There, we can leave it now."

"Are you sure that he's alright" Suddenly Crowley has this very strong need for the bat to survive.

"Yes, don't worry. I called the bat conservation trust and they were very clear in their instructions. They said if the bat isn't injured, which I don't think it is, to keep it throughout the day and release it in the evening. But if it doesn't fly away within fifteen minutes, to take it to the vet." Aziraphale explains with a smile. "I'll take care of it."

Crowley nods, he suddenly wishes he was the little bat in question, but he still must look terrified because Aziraphale continues:

"Crowley, are you… okay?"

"Yes, I just. It came out of nowhere and I didn't expect it… it looked kind of cute actually."

Aziraphale raises a brow, amused. "Have you never seen a bat before?"

"Oh I'm sorry, I didn't know we're all bat experts here." He says with feigned indignation. "I've never seen one up close. Please let me know if the bat is okay?" Crowley says heading towards the door. He feels he overstayed massively this evening. 

"Of course, I will." Aziraphale promises.

Crowley gets into his car pointedly trying not to think how embarrassing this whole encounter has been but what else is new. 

There is only one thing playing on repeat in his head right now. It rings in his ear all the way home— next time.

There will be a next time. 

Chapter Text

Turns out the bat was completely fine, the little shit. It flew away that same night like nothing ever happened; the two of them were worried for nothing. And yet it felt significant somehow, as if the little creature healing, spreading his wings ang going back home, meant that Crowley could too. That from now on everything was going to be okay. 

A simple, silly thing and yet it makes all the difference in the world. 

Crowley doesn’t even dread opening his work inbox anymore (which has recently become the norm). There is that little blue dot informing him new messages are waiting but this time it's not from his client—it's from the Tadfield's conservation officer.

Crowley opens it with only a moderately shaky hand, but to his surprise it's not a request for more stupid information nor changes, but a confirmation that he will be writing up the application for approval in the comic days. 

How much good news can a person get in one day!? He gets so excited he immediately dials Anathema's number. 

"Crowley!" She screams into the receiver. "You've kept me waiting. How did your date go!?" She rushes through in one breath. 

"Er?" It takes him a moment to register what Anathema is even asking about. "Oh, uhm, you know as well as I do that it wasn't a date . "

"Sure, sure, so how did your not date go then?"

Crowley groans. Anathema can be so stubborn and abrasive sometimes, and at the same time having that incredible ability to carve every little piece of information out of him. Crowley loved her for that. 

"It was fine . We watched the City of Angels. Actually, a funny coincidence that—" a realisation suddenly hits him like a ton of bricks, making him cover his face with his hand. "Please tell me you didn't."

"I didn't tell him it's your favourite movie if that's what you're asking, Crowley."

"Good."

"Newt did."

"What!? Ana!"

"We went for the pub quiz!" Ana explains in a rush. "We were on the same team! There was a question about the City of Angels. Newt said it's a shame you weren't there because it's your favourite movie and you would know the answer."

"That's— okay." Crowley stammers feeling completely at loss. Has Aziraphale chosen the movie on purpose then? He wouldn't…would he?

"Crowley? Are you still there?"

"Yeah, uh, sorry. I was actually calling to say—and you're not going to believe this—the conservation officer confirmed that the listed building approval is coming. He just needs to write up the decision. Good, isn't it?"

"I mean ," Ana's tone couldn't sound more skeptical if she tried, Crowley can practically see her rolling her eyes on the other side, "wait until you actually get it because—"

"Ana, Ana, Ana. Aren't you always telling me that I should be more positive about life?"

He has no idea where all of the hope comes from suddenly. When did he start thinking so positively? Was it the security that came with jobs that started coming in? The warmth of the summer months? 

"Yeah, but—"

He sighs, cutting her off. "There's just no pleasing some people."

She chuckles into the phone and Crowley can already tell he won this one. "Yeah okay. When are you coming to Tadfield then?"

"Coming? I've just been there. It's an hour and a half drive, one way."

"Which is nothing! Plus you've just been and you didn't visit! Really you should be doing the apology dance for me! But speaking about the positives in life you'll be able to give Aziraphale the good news about his application in person! How good is that!?" She chirps. 

Crowley grunts, just as he thought he was coming out of the conversation unscathed, Anathema pulls the rug from under his feet. 

" Fine , fine. I will come. But just so you know I might need to work, I have other commissions now that I need to finish too."

Ana whistles. "Alright Mr Starchitect. I'm sure the next Shard can wait a couple of days."

"You are a pest and a terrible influence."

"And back at you! I'll see you at six on Friday," she says and hangs up, not giving him a chance to respond.

Crowley snorts into his fancy mobile and goes back to working on the boring interior design that most definitely isn't Shard. But even that isn't going to spoil his mood now. Overall, things really do seem to be looking up. 

Friday couldn't come fast enough. 

When Crowley sets out for the journey the planning approval is still not in his inbox but that little detail doesn't deter him in the slightest. 

This time he willingly takes a longer route that avoids the highways even though the roadworks have finished weeks ago now. It's going to take longer but the winding countryside paths are so pretty and fill him with something very closely resembling happiness for no reason at all. 

He watches the vast fields of little yellow flowers that reach to the very horizon, dotted with an occasional poppy or a cornflower. The birds are chirping all through the drive, nightingales and larks. Even an odd squirrel shows up once or twice. Why has he never noticed before how beautiful the countryside is?

When he set off it was raining in London but now the weather is absolutely perfect . Not too hot, and not too cold, as if Tadfield held its own special microclimate. He had to admit that the little town felt special as far as countryside towns went. It felt… loved.

Aziraphale insisted that Crowley needed to come over to celebrate the good news. Crowley's imagination was already running away from him, creating very detailed and unrealistic scenarios in his head, when Aziraphale added that he also invited Ana and Newt. It made sense. Of course it did. Newt helped him get the application go through after all and Anathema recommended Crowley in the first place… but he couldn't help feeling disappointed somehow. 

It was that stupid movie night, gave him all the wrong expectations. And what is he supposed to do with his hope now? He can't put it back into the box, it has grown at least three sizes since. He'll just have to deal with it the hard way, like he always did. Let the butterflies fluttering in his stomach slowly get digested and destroyed by time.

He stops at Anathema's Jasmine cottage for dinner, and then the three of them walk over to Aziraphale's place for a celebratory dessert and a drink. 

Crowley walks through the gate first, overgrown ivy still dangling from the pergola gates. Flowers in the garden have mostly overblown, but the roses are still here, redder than ever. Crowley has to actively stop himself from approaching and smelling them, that wouldn't be very cool. Though at this point he isn't sure who he is trying to fool with his 'cool persona', perhaps just himself. 

Instead, he saunters towards the honey-coloured stone cottage, nervous but excited. The vine that covered the front of the cottage has since been cut back and put into place, leaving only the ever purple wisteria overhanging the porch. 

Aziraphale opens the door with a smile on his face that makes Crowley weak in his knees. The man is beaming at him, all the while Crowley is trying his best to be calm and collected. 

"Uh, hi," he says stupidly, fixing the sunglasses on his nose.

"Crowleu, welcome. Come in."

Aziraphale says something more, but Crowley cannot focus on his words when Aziraphale's eyes crinkle around the edges like that. He makes a few noises on his own and walks past the threshold.

The interior is cosy, in a cluttered sort of way. Although that doesn't make it justice. Crowley doesn't like clutter but Aziraphale's cottage doesn't bother him at all. It's a space lovingly lived in. There are always books scattered around, mugs with funny wings instead of holders left behind on every surface, and every time Crowley comes in there is a new layer added to it. New personalised objects or little decorations.

This time he notices the appearance of new plants.

" Ficus benjamina ?" Crowley points to one of the plants with a crown of little leaves, and a quite significant amount already dried out and lying on the shelf by the pot.

"Ooh yes, Crowley, that reminds me—I was hoping you could educate me a little bit on that. You know a lot about plants, don't you?"

With the corner of his eye Crowley can already see Anathema smiling. "Crowley knows all about the plants," she says, winking as if it was some sort of a secret. Crowley tries to ignore it.

"Uh, yeah. Weeping figs can be temperamental bastards. I'd start with something easier to care for. Monstera Deliciosa perhaps."

"We'll have to come back to that, most definitely. " Aziraphale quips, satisfied, and offers Crowley a tray of mouth-watering pastries and a glass of wine "I thought it was suitable to celebrate."

"Is that the wine I gave you?" Crowley snorts, scanning room for the bottle.

" Maybe ," Aziraphale says, wiggling a little. God, he's adorable when he's happy. 

After that the conversation floats towards the life in the village Crowley has little knowledge about, and even if he did, he was never good at talking in groups. One on one is his preferred scenario, where he is sure people actually talk to him and where doesn't have to fight for the privilege of being heard. Not that he should feel like this here—among friends—but he's only known Aziraphale for as long, and his fear is persistent. 

"Oh look at the time!" Anathema says not even two hours into the visit, showing her watch to Newt a bit too theatrically for Crowkey's liking. "Also, I think I've left the kettle in the oven. Thank you for the pastry and the wine!" 

She stands up abruptly to look for her coat, but when Crowley attempts to stand up as well, Ana quickly rushes him back onto the sofa. "No, no! There's no reason why you shouldn't stay."

Crowley raises a brow, glimpses at Newt who just shrugs and then at Aziraphale who smiles at him warmly.

"I wouldn't want to abuse our host's kind hospitality," Crowley protests weakly, wishing with all his heart to be here that little while longer.

"Oh, nothing of the sort," Aziraphale assures. "I do actually have another bottle of wine which I was hoping to go through tonight. This planning application was a very important thing to me and it's you who made it happen. Also you haven't told me about the plants yet! I would be delighted if you stayed."

Crowley stares at Aziraphale with lips parted like an idiot. Sure, Aziraphale had previously invited him for a picnic, but that was just as an apology, and then for the movie night which also had a believable excuse, but this now… this sounds like a very direct and clear invitation for just his company, nothings else has Crowley left to offer him.

Crowley agrees and it's as easy as anything. Because it does feel easy when there's just the two of them. A team, a group of two. Surely that means that they have become friends?

Aziraphale tells him more about the plants and what criteria he used to choose them in the first place (the fig was apparently a Biblical thing somehow). And before Crowley knows it, they're discussing anything and everything. He unwinds himself more and more with every glass he drinks, and doesn't even notice when he starts feeling comfortable, as if that particular place on the sofa was made just for him, moulded around him for his very comfort. (And not many chairs were comfortable for his stupidly bony frame). 

Crowley can finally uncover his weird nerd side and talk about whales and plants, and landscaping design. How he always wanted to become a botanist but it felt pointless on the current job market. And Aziraphale would listen, add to the discussion, however small the topic, and not ridicule him for it. He didn't have to be cool for Aziraphale. He could just be himself. 

At some point he starts thinking how late it is getting, how much they've both drank and that he doesn't even know if he can walk back to Ana's cottage and not end up in a ditch, or even throw up on the carpet on his way out.

But when Aziraphale stands up, Crowley cannot think of anything else but how the beige trousers are hugging his arse, the waistcoat his belly. It's practically obscene. All the while Aziraphale pours him another glass of wine and sits next to him on the sofa, unties his bow tie and rolls his sleeves up his forearms. Crowley doesn't think he's going to survive this.

"I reaaaally shouldn't," he slurs, not even sure if he's talking about the wine anymore. "Need to… uh, go back, yknow ." He gestures in the vague direction of the door. 

Aziraphale wiggles that little bit more, makes their thighs touch and Crowley can feel the heat radiating through the clothes, his heart beating faster. 

"Dear, you're definitely not walking in this state." Aziraphale decides for him and Crowley swallows, feels his whole world narrowing to this one moment, to every movement, every gesture Aziraphale makes. "There's a spare bedroom, you could stay over. Although… "

Crowley swallows, focuses on Aziraphale's strong hands now playing with the hem of his own waistcoat and Crowley just wants to run his fingers over it. Wants to feel the soft material under his fingertips, the strong body it hides underneath. 

Instead, he sits upright but his treacherous arm, that seems to possess will on its own, sneaks on part of the couch behind Aziraphale's shoulders, forcing his body to lean in that bit more.

It's only been seconds but it's been the longest few seconds of his entire life. 

"Yeah?" Crowley mutters in a hoarse voice, breath escaping into that narrow space between them. He hates how hopeful he sounds, how much he's showing already. How his heart is throbbing in his ribcage with all the hope that fills his swelling heart, completely lost in his own fantasy.

What if he's been imagining this whole thing?

Aziraphale licks his lips before speaking, his eyes rise up to meet Crowley's. One of Aziraphale's hands tips over the invisible line between them to touch the back of Crowley's, his fingers dancing lightly, merely touching. It makes Crowley's breath hitch. 

"I was rather hoping we could get to know each other better, now the approval is out of the way."

It takes a moment for the words to sink into Crowley's skull but once they do he smiles like an idiot. "You've been waiting for the approval to come through? To say this?"

Aziraphale tilts his head, "It wouldn't be appropriate to mix… this , " he squeezes Crowley's hand, "with work."

"You absolute bastard ," Crowley chides playfully, even as his heart is still fluttering in his ribcage, as he is too afraid to even squeeze Aziraphale's hand back, "you were leading me on!"

Aziraphale gives him a very bitchy smile at that, oh Crowley loves when he gets to see that side of him. "You wouldn't have it any other way." Aziraphale says in a lowered tone that Crowley hasn't heard from him before and that makes him reevaluate his whole life. 

"Ngk."

"Is that an agreement, dear boy?" Aziraphale says, dropping his own hand to Crowley's thigh, moving it further still, lighting Crowley's nerves on fire. 

"That is, I mean—" Why is he even this much of a mess? He's not usually. Usually he's very much in control of the situation, but that's not how he feels here. Here he feels like he's about to melt into the man in front of him, into the sofa, into the floorboards of the cottage. Mould into its very fabric forever.

Aziraphale must have noticed that because he changes tactics immediately, reaching out to tuck a wisp of Crowley's hair behind his ear. And then his hand just… stays there, brushing Crowley's cheek, asking. There's something special in that touch, calling him home. It's going to happen, Crowley knows it's going to happen now, and he doesn't think there was anything he wanted more in his entire life. And yet it's setting all of the alarms in Crowley's head, that small red light blinking furiously, asking him over and over— is it going to last? B ecause he's mad and it takes him only seconds to imagine the rest of their lives together before they even get to kiss, before any of the first confessions are made. 

His overthinking is in overdrive. 

…it's not like there aren't any chances, Aziraphale might be convinced to move to London, he keeps talking about a bookshop and they could live in his flat, and sure London is expensive, and he doesn't have a garden, but it's the only place he can pull his weight, he just needs to find that full time job, and …

All these thoughts flash through Crowley's mind seconds before he leans forward towards Aziraphale, before their lips slot together in that perfect balanced way between romantic and passionate, finally silencing his mind. Aziraphale is warm and soft, and wants him, pulls him by the hips towards himself. What more could he ever want?

Crowley whimpers but quickly climbs up on Aziraphale's lap, his knees bracketing the man's thighs. He hasn't been touched in so long, it's overwhelming all at once, it feels like he's been starving . He can feel himself being hard as a rock in his trousers, feels Aziraphale is hard too through the thin material of his neat khaki trousers. 

They're making out like teenagers home alone and it's ridiculous. 

And then, Aziraphale is lifting him up, holding him by the arse like he weighs nothing. 

"You're so strong." Crowley mutters into Aziraphale's skin, crossing his ankles on the man's back. He doesn’t know what Aziraphale is planning but whatever it is, he finds that he trusts Aziraphale implicitly already. 

Aziraphale flips them in order to lay Crowley on the sofa in front of himself and pulls at it with one hand to extend it quickly, staying on the floor himself. 

"Nice trick, you do that often?"

"Only when hot red-head architects come to knock at my door." Aziraphale responds, capturing Crowley's lips with his own again. His strong hands making quick work of Crowley's trousers and pants, his black shirt left half-open.

"Hot, huh?" He quips but a moment later Aziraphale is peppering kisses along his thighs, rendering him entirely speechless. He holds Crowley firmly under his knees, looping them over his shoulders. When was the last time he's been touched with intent and not as a means to an end?

Crowley's entirely unprepared for what's going to happen next.

"You're so lovely," Aziraphale whispers into his skin, hand wandering up over Crowley's scarcely hairy chest and his navel. "Absolutely exquisite."

He shudders as another shiver runs down his spine, another wave of heat hits him. Of course he knew it's going to be different, having sex with someone he got to know so thoroughly, someone he cares about, but he underestimated how deep his feelings for Aziraphale had already run within him. How breathless he would feel once Aziraphale touches him, how vulnerable and bare. 

He screams once Aziraphale tongue slides along the length of him, takes him into his mouth. Crowley's hands automatically fall on the man's head, into those soft curls he wanted to touch from the first day. Aziraphale dares to look up and their gazes lock in the most obscene look Crowley has seen in a long while. 

"What would you like, dear?" Aziraphale asks, sliding off his cock, briefly.

"You, fuck , inside." He pulls Aziraphale in for a kiss, because it's been too long. The man's still mostly clothed, his own naked body scraping against Aziraphale's waistcoat. This is doing it for him too. 

Aziraphale smiles and reaches for something underneath the sofa, then there's the tell-tale sound of a bottle opening.

"You keep the lube under your sofa!?" Crowley can't believe this. He really thought Aziraphale was a chaste old man. Well, as they say, fooled him once. 

"Tch, you never know when it will be needed." Comes the cheeky response and then a wet hand tentatively slides between his butt cheeks. It makes him arch his back desperately, shredding the blankets by his sides with the force of his grip.

"Is this good?"

"Nnn- yeah. Keep- keep going."

Aziraphale's fingers circle around for a while before breaching him carefully in time with his mouth falling back on his very flushed and needy cock. 

The fire is already building low in Crowley's abdomen, around his spine, but it's all too much and too fast. He hasn't done this in a while, he should have told Aziraphale and anytime now he's going to—

"Aziraphale, I won't… last…" he whimpers, but it's too late. Aziraphale finds that spot within him, and Crowley's back arches for the last time. He feels himself coming into the heat of Aziraphale's mouth as the pleasure washes over him in waves, he cannot stop it.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry…" he scrambles for Aziraphale, who smiles at him brightly and pulls himself higher on the sofa to lay next to Crowley and embrace him in his arms.

"Whatever for?" He kisses Crowley forehead, and pulls him even closer. "I've wanted to see you like this, hear you." He's kissing all along Crowley's neck now and Crowley feels the man's bulge pushing against his thigh.

"Because you haven't…" Crowley sneaks a hand between them, runs it up and down Aziraphale's clothed erection, seeing how Aziraphale's eyes spark. "I want to see you too." 

Crowley wriggles his arms out of the embrace just enough to start unbuttoning that velvet waistcoat that's even softer than he had imagined it. He pushes it out of the way and starts on Aziraphale's shirt but then his hand catches on something firm around Aziraphale's nipple. 

Crowley holds his breath. "You've got… nipple piercings?" 

"Is that surprising?" Aziraphale huffs. "My nipples were never particularly… responsive, I've read that piercings could help with that."

It sends a bolt down Crowley's spine all anew that makes his cock twitch. He doesn't think he's ever been this turned on in his entire life. Wishes he was younger and could go again already but he'll have to make do.

Crowley gives the metal an experimental tug, drawing out a gasp.

"I've got to admit, they were not, ah , wrong." Aziraphale adds, biting his lips as if wanting to say more, but deciding against it at the last moment. 

Crowley practically rips the shirt open to get to his prize—Aziraphale's soft and furry chest. Perfect. There are two metal rings nestled in each pink perked up nipple. Crowley latches his mouth to them, playing with the cold metal there with his tongue, drawing the most enticing gasps from Aziraphale. 

"I love them." Crowley mumbles, sucking them in turns. Delicately at first, adding a little bit of bite in time, looping his tongue through the metal rings. (He could always do weird things with his tongue.)

Then he shifts to kiss down the man's chest, so plush and perfect, pushes the shirt all the way off his strong forearms. Fumbles on the buttons of Aziraphale's trousers (of course he has bloody buttons) to finally release its content. He reaches for the bottle at random to drip some of the lube into his fingers and onto his own thighs. 

He guides Aziraphale's cock between them in a silent question. Aziraphale gets it straight away—eyes glazed with desire, he smiles and reaches for Crowley's hips. Fingers digging in deep with possessiveness from Crowley's wildest dreams. 

"My clever boy," Aziraphale murmurs into his ear between gasps and bites it lightly. Crowley moans despite already being satisfied, hands reaching to squeeze Aziraphale's arse. Not having enough of this closeness they're sharing, this connection.

Aziraphale's cock is sliding between Crowley's tightly held thighs with obscene sounds of flesh on flesh as they cling to each other, kissing, and pulling, and grasping at each other. 

This—their bodies entwined, Aziraphale's breath on his skin, his strong hands positioning him exactly as he wants him—drives him completely insane, and when Aziraphale finally comes with a bite to his shoulder, Crowley is sure that mentally he orgasmed all over again. 

"Thank you Crowley." Aziraphale whispers, nestling into his collarbone, but not moving otherwise. Crowley doesn't feel like moving either. With the edge of his eye he sees the darkness outside the window, sees stars sparkling, and smiles. 

Crowley's going to stay the night and something tells him it's not going to be in the guest bedroom. They'll have to stand up and clean themselves in a minute, but they're going to spend the rest of the night together, like this, limbs tangled in the blankets that still smell with the heat of their desire. It makes his heart swell at least three times. 

"This is insane," Crowley whispers.

Aziraphale smiles, "I know."

Chapter Text

Crowley wakes up clutching the warm body next to his like a koala bear—arms and legs slung over Aziraphale's chest and hips, mouth pressed to his collarbone, the man's pulse under his lips. 

A few centuries-old floor joists and timber beams let out loud cracking noises, which Crowley knows is from the thermal expansion and contraction as the sun warms the house in the morning. Just as there's a warmth in Crowley's chest he hasn't felt in a long time.

Memories of the previous night flash through his mind, making him smile and cling to Aziraphale even tighter. Flexing his muscles to prove to himself that this is truly real.

As if on a cue a strong, broad hand moves to caress his back lightly, fingertips dancing on his skin, making Crowley hum in pleasure.

"Good morning, dear." Aziraphale says simply as if it was just that—simple.

And to think he was this close to refusing this renovation job entirely. In fact, he can still remember how angry he was when he received that emai from Anathemal that changed his whole life. A cottage? Deep within the English countryside? At the time he couldn’t have imagined anything less interesting. 

"Breakfast?" Aziraphale asks and Crowley only hums again, squirming in the embrace.

He doesn't want to leave the bed, doesn’t want it to end. He doesn't want to spoil it just yet and he knows he inevitably will, sooner or later. 

"Usually just— skip breakfast."

Aziraphale tuts. "Most important meal of the day, dear. I'll make you something, anything you want."

"Your home made pastry?"

"But that's dessert!" Aziraphale sounds offended somehow which is so silly and endearing.

"You said anything." Crowley points out, rubbing his face with his hand as the breakfast seems inevitable. 

Aziraphale looks like he wants to protest but then relents. "Well, I suppose I did say so. Oh, alright, but just this one time."

Crowley grumbles as Aziraphale shifts to leave the bed, or more accurately, pretends to grumble, because he's over the moon really. He wakes up with the most beautiful man on the planet after world changing sex, and now he is offered breakfast. What could be better?

Once Aziraphale leaves the room, Crowley finally rolls off the bed and reaches for yesterday's crumpled shirt, but finds a clean dark navy t-shirt instead that Aziraphale must have left for him. It's at least two sizes too big but Crowley doesn't really mind. His heart squeezes in his chest as he pulls it over his head, breathes in the smell of sandalwood and… something more, something very much Aziraphale. 

This is good. 

Too good. 

And just like that, his anxiety spikes up again, bubbling in his chest like boiled sulfur. What would someone like Aziraphale even be doing with someone like Crowley? Was this just a convenient fuck? It didn't feel that way, but then again it never did for Crowley. These kinds of things always surprised him, and come seemingly out of nowhere. His expectations had been mismatched more times than he can count.

He knows he shouldn't be asking any questions, especially not this early in a relationship (it's not a relationship), but waiting until everything sorts itself out on its own really isn't his style. Too much uncertainty, too many possibilities.

Once formed, the question is burning deep within his chest and it won't stop until he speaks it out loud, he knows. The anxiety will eat him alive and it will only keel getting worse until Aziraphale finally gets fed up with him. This way at least… he might get fed up sooner rather than later. Once he knows what he's getting himself into, he can make an informed decision.

Crowley needs to know where this leads, what to expect. His mind is already running scenarios of their common future—and it's a nice future, bright and warm. Everything is bright and warm with Aziraphale. But he needs to put a break on it if it's not going to lead anywhere.

With that thought in mind Crowley paddles over to the kitchen, where Aziraphale is cooking something for himself, scrambled eggs maybe; the pastries have already been warmed and are waiting for him on the small kitchen table for two. Next to what appears to be a mug of hot cocoa. 

Crowley smiles at Aziraphale and sits down, plays with the flaky pastry instead of eating it. He needs to ask now . And just as Aziraphale takes the seat in front of him, Crowley clears his throat. 

"Aziraphale,” he starts, his gaze darting there and back. “I need… I need to ask you something.”

“Yes dear?” Aziraphale encourages as he’s butteeing his own toast happily, oblivious to what Crowley is about to drop on him. God, he feels evil for it. 

“I just— I need to know… Is this… serious?" he asks with heart pounding in his chest, the rush of blood in his ears nearly blocking everything out. He digs his nails into the table in front of him for some semblance of purchase.

Aziraphale cocks his head and smiles, it’s a bright smile, one that lets light into the whole house. "I hope so. Do you want it to be?"

Crowley falls silent. Not because he doesn't want it to be, but because he does . So very much it hurts.

"You know I have to go back to London, right?" Crowley blurts out and bites his tongue. Too late. It's not what he wanted to say exactly, it's just...he can't just keep going, pretending this will never end. Because they are from two different worlds and this cannot go unaddressed, cannot be left to chance. Crowley knows that things never work out for the best on their own.

There's suddenly tension in Aziraphale's body that wasn't there before, his strong shoulders squaring off and it already feels like a mistake.

"But I mean… I can still come and visit?” Crowley tries to salvage this somehow. “If you're okay with that. It's only...well, less than a hundred miles. It's not a ‘no’, I just...I wanted you to know."

Crowley can see some of the tension falling away, Aziraphale looks back and gives him a smile that's still a little forced. "That would be wonderful, dear."

Crowley smiles back.

And yet it feels like his heart has been pierced by a spear. It's alright, they're alright, they can still keep this. Crowley had some long-term relationships before and well, maybe they didn't work out, but that doesn't mean this one won't.

Aziraphale turns away to pick up something from one of the kitchen cabinets and Crowley already feels him slipping through his fingers, watching him go.

He ruined it. This is new and fragile, easy to hurt even without meaning to and Crowley went and ruined it. He’s never been good at this to begin with. He's always wanted too strong, wanted everything too fast, read all too much even into the smallest change of other people's behaviour. He knows when he's not wanted and he learnt to remove himself before he feels the need to beg.

Why did he have to say anything? Why can't he just be happy for a while? But of course this is why, what's the point of pretending that everything has a happy ending like in all of his stupid romantic comedies? This is not a bloody movie. What's the point of being happy if you'll just end up being sad in the end?

His stomach curls in a way that's bruising. There is a loneliness in his heart that's always there, like an old friend. He would like to be someone important to Aziraphale, but Aziraphale has plenty of friends—real friends—Newt, Tracy, the whole bloody village. What is Crowley but a coincidental pleasure? A temporary measure? Just another person that won't want Crowley the way Crowley wants Aziraphale? Because Crowley is always too much. 

He relaxes his grip on the kitchen table, flexes his fingers. He just needs to find a way to go around all of this. 

It might hurt (it always does), but he's had enough practice. He can keep an acceptable distance to not feel rejected in the end. He can enjoy it and somehow survive it too, he has to.

And all of this—the little stolen moments, the warmth of Aziraphale when he wakes up, the smell of fresh breakfast in the morning. He can enjoy it in the moment and file it for the inevitable later. Because there is always some 'later', be it in a month or a year, he's not going to be pretending otherwise, even if in this precise moment it feels unthinkable.

He pulls out his phone just to scroll through the awkwardness of the situation and… there it is, finally, the decision notice. It must have been sent a few minutes before the offices closed the day before. He opens it immediately, stomach knotting as he's scrolling on and on and on.

"Your decision notice came through," Crowley announces, trying to keep the tone of his voice neutral. 

Aziraphale brightens up. "That's good." Then he looks from Crowley to his phone. “...right?”

"Yeah, it's just—"

"It's just?" Aziraphale's voice sounds alarmed.

"You've got a nasty list of conditions here. Over fifteen actually. They'll have to be discharged and submitted into planning before you can start."

"Oh."

"I know."

"But you can help with that as well, right?"

"I, well…" He scrolls through the conditions. Never in his life has he prepared a schedule of repairs. "With a bit of research… probably, yeah." He prays that Anathema knows who to call about all that.

Aziraphale looks troubled somehow so Crowley continues, says his worries out loud. 

"You could always commission someone else if you're worried about, you know, mixing… this. with work."

Aziraphale reaches over and places a reassuring hand over Crowley's shoulder. It helps some of his own anxiety to fall away.

"Do you know, I don't think I am anymore."

Despite Crowley expecting everything to fail spectacularly after his questioning, nothing actually changes between them. Crowley comes over and stays at Aziraphale's place for the weekend, sometimes longer, and Aziraphale calls him every time he has something interesting to share with Crowley (which he has almost all of the time).

Crowley hates seeing that smirk on Anathema's face, the I was right one, when she catches them strolling through the village. When Aziraphale reaches to hold Crowley's hand in public for the first time, like it isn't a big deal at all. Crowley's cheeks heat up immediately and stay like this for the rest of the day. 

It feels…easy. Like the two of them, being together, is the most natural thing in the world. When they're together, the world seems a brighter place. Crowley actually wants to leave the house and see everything Aziraphale has to show him around the village, and even if it means long and strenuous walks, he doesn't mind. 

Consciously or not, each time Crowley visits he brings more and more of his things with him. There's more clothes he leaves behind (because what's the point of moving them back and forth), his selection of coffees he can't live without and that Aziraphale practically doesn't drink. One day, he even brings his plants because he doesn't want to leave them behind for what's becoming a longer and longer stretch of time with each passing month. 

Crowley carves out a nook for himself in the spare bedroom where he works on his interior design commission and discharge of conditions for Aziraphale, while Aziraphale reads or works on renovating some particularly important book. And in the evenings… well the evenings they spend together. Mostly on arguing over what movie to watch or Aziraphale's aesthetic choices, warming themselves in front of the fireplace with hot cocoa in one hand. Sometimes Aziraphale reads to Crowley and Crowley can listen to that voice for hours, falling asleep in Aziraphale's lap, waking up wrapped around the man in his bed in the morning. 

And they have sex. A lot of sex.

They were just in the middle of a very hot make out session that happened spontaneously during watching another romantic movie when Aziraphale starts thumbing Crowley’s nipple through his shirt.

“It came to my attention that I never asked—are your nipples sensitive at all?” Aziraphale asks.

"My nipples?” Crowley repeats, caught off guard. No one ever asked him stuff like that during sex before. “Uhh, they're alright I guess, never paid them much attention." 

"Well what kind of attention were they given before?" Aziraphale doesn’t give up, on the contrary. He gives them little nips of his mouth through the fabric. 

Crowley shrugs. Hooking up was rarely about indulging for him. Everything just sort of… happened.

"Hm, let me try something. Wait here, don’t move.” Aziraphale disappears for a while and then comes back with a glass that he leaves on the table beside himself. “Let me know if you want to stop at any point, okay?”

“Okay,” Crowley confirms, unsure. He trusts Aziraphale implicitly, he doesn’t think he would ever tap out of anything the man wanted to do to him. 

“Crowley,” Aziraphale says, voice much more firm this time. “You will tell me if you feel uncomfortable.”

And there it is, that flood of need to make Aziraphale happy, to make him proud. To do as he says. 

“I will.” He confirms. “Polaris,” he adds after a moment, “that’s my safeword.”

Aziraphale nods, pleased with the answer. He sits on his knees and positions himself between Crowley's thighs, legs outstretched on both of his sides. With one hand he reaches to pull up Crowley's vest, mapping his body with his hands gently, reaches to Crowley's nipples. Crowley’s breath hitches but the touch itself doesn't do much for him. Aziraphale doesn’t look disappointed, he kisses Crowley sweetley, before reaching for the glass. 

And then Aziraphale's freezing cold mouth lands on Crowley's nipples and Crowley almost curls on himself as the sudden hit of pleasure spreads all across his body, up to his fingertips.

"Oh, shit!" He fists his hands in Aziraphale's hair, urging him to press it again. "Is that… ice?"

Aziraphale smiles, that cheeky grin appearing on his face and he nods, holding the now-melting cube of ice in his teeth. "Okay?" He mumbles around it.

"Fuck, more than! Please ." Crowley breathes and Aziraphale is down on his chest again, playing with one nipple, before moving onto the other. The feeling is like nothing Crowley’s experienced before. He can already feel the heat coiling at the base of his spine, moving lower, inhabiting his belly, his cock jutting. 

Aziraphale's slick hand starts circling Crowley's entrance, but not breaching yet. He pants desperately as Aziraphale teases him slowly, he's entirely out of his mind already. Splayed and pleasured like never before, mind completely blanking out.

From a great distance he registers as Aziraphale's finger breaches him finally, as it strokes and touches and swirls inside of him. Pushing and making space for more, making space for himself. Crowley cups Aziraphale’s face in his hands, stopping him briefly.

"I don't know if I can last," he whines, almost an apology.

"Of course you can, I will take care of it, don't worry." Aziraphale promises and Crowley nods, feels tears staining his cheeks, running down to the pillows. “And if not, we have the whole night, the whole week, month, Crowley… ”

When Aziraphale finally lines himself up with Crowley, his hips are jutting desperately to take him in, he is sure he will explode once they finally touch. But Aziraphale pushes in and he doesn't, the man buries himself deeply with one firm but careful push. Stays inside of him, while Crowley cannot stop his hips from moving. Aziraphale doesn't thrust, doesn't make any sudden movements, just sways his hips with Crowley's like this, as they're joined together. 

It drives Crowley crazy. 

The ice cube is now completely melted and Aziraphale pulls back to focus his attention on Crowley's cock. He strokes it down, very slowly, then back up again. With his other hand he draws reassuring circles over his thigh.

“Shh, it’s okay. Relax now.”

"An— angel !" Crowley wails as he squirms underneath, hands shredding the mattress, desperate to touch himself, to jerk himself off furiously and finally come.

"Hands where I can see them," Aziraphale instructs and Crowley swallows down, looks up at the ceiling, pushing his hands further away.

"That's it, you beautiful thing. Is it good? Is this what you want? Tell me.”

Aziraphale makes the smallest move with his own hips as a prompt and it sends sparks to Crowley's vision.

"Fuck! Yes, shit, please!" He cries, shredding the bedsheets on both of his sides into ribbons.

Aziraphale pushes Crowley's cock down again, adds a swirling motion for good measure. Then comes another stroke and another. Aziraphale's hungry eyes aren't hiding anything anymore, he's as lost in it as Crowley is. His breath finally hitches and he gives out a gasp. Crowley snaps his hips and this time Aziraphale matches his pace. It's maddening and without any sense of control, just the animalistic slap skin on skin, racing to reach completion. Together. 

Suddenly Aziraphale changes the angle, that bastard, and it snaps at Crowley's prostate, his cock already starting to leak precome on his own stomach. Aziraphale grips his cock firmly then and speeds it up, hips meeting Crowley's. Crowley grabs Aziraphale's hand on his own cock for the last two strokes and then he is coming onto his stomach, feeling Aziraphale releasing into him as well, head pushed back, one hand on Crowley's hips and groaning. A delicious flush on his chest.

Aziraphale uncluches himself from Crowley's grip and falls on the bed next to him. They’re both out of breath, it’s way too much for his age, Crowley thinks. He’ll be feeling it tomorrow but, by God, was it good .

" F-fuck ," Aziraphale swears and Crowley scuts closer, lays on Aziraphale's shoulder. 

“That good, huh?” He teases. “I don’t think I’ve ever heard you swear before.”

“And you never will. That’s because I don’t swear.”

“Sure,” Crowley chuckles. 

“Did you like it?” There’s a change in Aziraphale’s voice, a worry as he’s enveloping Crowley in his arms. He doesn’t think he can possibly love the man any harder. 

"I have never come so hard in my life. Where did you even learn this?"

“Ah,” Aziraphale turns a little bit more red. “I’ve been around for a while.”

“The gay clubs of London?”

“Maybe.” A pause. "Where did the 'angel' come from?"

"Hm? Oh I don't know. Aziraphale is an angelic name, isn't it?"

"I suppose it is."

"You're my angel, aren't you?"

"You'd like me to fall for you? Is this where this really came from? Give up my eternity and become human, like in the movie?” 

Aziraphale is joking, Crowley knows, but he’s not going to pass on such an offer. 

“Would you?” Crowley perks up. 

“I think I have already fallen for you.”

Crowley closes his eyes and smiles, committing this moment to memory, gripping Aziraphale that bit harder. He’s so happy he could die right now. Daring to believe that maybe, just maybe, this man is the one for him. 

It’s perfect. 

Everything about this moment in Crowley’s life is simply flawless. The village, Aziraphale, this community. Even the weather. Crowley cannot find a flaw in it if he tried (and he tried).

The summer, too, feels endless. Until one day Crowley leaves the cottage to go for a walk and notices that the leaves have turned yellow under his feet, crunching as he walks through the small woodland. The air is getting cooler as well. It's not long before the weather turns and it will be autumn again. Did he really spend the whole summer in Tadfield? It seems impossible, and yet.

“It's getting chilly outside.” Crowley announces from the door, taking off his shoes. 

“Is it really?” Aziraphale sounds unconvinced but once Crowley straightens up, Aziraphale throws a long scarf around his neck, pulling him closer. “Maybe this will help?”

Crowley's first instinct is to protest. A scarf? He doesn't wear scarves, not of this variety anyway. It cramps his style. But it feels so soft and warm on his skin, and Aziraphale looks so happy about it, suddenly it doesn't matter that it's patched with every colour imaginable. Crowley likes it against himself.

“Thank you, angel.”

“You're welcome, dear.”

They both lean in nearly imperceptibly… and it's when Crowley's phone decides to blast on full volume. They both jump up, surprised.

Crowley reaches for it so quickly, he nearly drops it. A familiar name flashes across the screen.

“Uh, sorry. I need to take this.” He says apologetically. Aziraphale nods and walks back into the living room, giving him space. “Uh, hi Bee.”

Bee is curt and to the point. Just like in person. They give Crowley the news in the most dispassionate tone like they didn't care that they are putting Crowley's life on its head just like that. They probably don't.

“Mhm, yeah… yes, of course I will… anytime, can be even tomorrow… will do, thanks.”

On wobbly legs Crowley makes his way into the living room where Aziraphale is sitting on his side of the sofa, leaving a space for Crowley, as always. It makes his heart squeeze in his chest even harder.

Several months ago, hells, even one month ago he would be ecstatic to get the news, but now… Now he realises with a surprise that he's not so sure if he wants to go. He’s built something resembling home here, with Aziraphale, and he’s happy here. 

But how long can this bliss last anyway? This is not a fairy-tale and Crowley should be a grown up about it. He’s being a burden to Aziraphale, really, even if the man doesn’t say it out loud. Living off his savings, Crowley doesn’t have much to offer. He needs to be independent. And the only way he can is to accept what he is being offered. 

“Are you alright?” Aziraphale takes off his glasses and closes the book he was reading. "Who was it?"

"It was Bee. There's a job offer waiting for me in London."

Chapter Text

Crowley was different . No, different doesn't quite encompass it, sounds too much like Aziraphale’s wishful thinking, like a worn phrase people tell themselves - one day you'll meet someone different. No, Crowley was special .

Aziraphale's parents told him early on, and in not ambiguous terms, that his ways were cursed. And that he would never have a stable relationship, let alone a loving partner. For a time when he was still young and hopeful, he didn’t believe a word of it. But the older he got, the more he worried that there might have been some truth to it. After all, he was nearly fifty now, and he was still alone.

It was very clear from his youngest years that Aziraphale’s taste in men was disastrous. He seemed to have kept falling for the worst types of men over and over again, from Fergus to Shadwell, and he doesn't even want to think about Sandalphon.

Aziraphale knew Crowley wasn't like that. That him coming back to live in London for good wasn’t about not wanting to be with Aziraphale. He wasn’t worried about that, not really. It was about something else entirely.

Throughout his life, Aziraphale avoided committing to any one thing like fire. Or at least the things that really mattered. If he never tried, he couldn’t fail, right? It was a simple, if a bit twisted truth, but it let him survive this far. His family has made sure that Aziraphale always felt like a failure, no matter what he did.

It’s why he never pursued an actual career. Even repairing books was just the hobby that he picked out to keep himself occupied, taking money for it only when he absolutely needed it, which wasn’t all that often since his father still kept sending him what he called “pocket money”. It was enough for Aziraphale’s needs. 

He’s learned to be content with that, learned to be content with what he had. He’s learned to reach only for the things that were available to him and nothing more. Nothing that could ever reject him or tell him ‘no’. Even when he reached out for sex he never stayed for the relationship these days. It was easier that was, simpler and without any complications. 

With Crowley, it wasn’t supposed to be any different.

Yes, Aziraphale had wanted to put his hands on Crowley the moment he walked through Aziraphale's garden gate, leaves tangled in his hair, looking like a demon that got utterly lost. He wanted to run his hands through that hair, mess up his perfect effortlessly formal style. Crowley was a flash bastard but Aziraphale had experience with those, after all, he had a type. 

Of course that would have been inappropriate at the time, and Aziraphale is all about protocol and politeness (he wouldn't love Jane Austen so much if he wasn't). So Aziraphale had made a mental note to make the move after Crowley had obtained the approval for him. Seemingly a simple plan.

But the more time he spent with Crowley the more he found himself peeking behind the curtain of who Crowley really was. Realising that the flash persona he sported was merely a mask he wore in public, not unlike Aziraphale himself. It made Aziraphale feel a weird kinship with Crowley, made him crave spending more and more time with him. Wanted to make him feel cherished and precious as he should have been, as he became to Aziraphale. 

He wanted to listen to Crowley always, wanted to know everything, every little thing that made Crowley smile, every one of his silly walks. The jokes, the soft outfits he only wore at home where no one else could see. God. Suddenly it wasn't enough to take Crowley to bed and spend one night with him, suddenly he wanted to keep him, to see him day after day.

Suddenly he found himself scared of where this was going to end. 

Trying to create and maintain another relationship after his string of failures was scary. If he could fail that meant he inevitably would. 

The more Aziraphale was yearning for that genuine connection, the less ready he felt to meet Crowley halfway and the resolve to open himself up was running away from him, like an ever moving goal post. Tomorrow, tomorrow, tomorrow… he kept telling himself. 

It’s a familiar path to sabotaging himself and his happiness, again, Aziraphale knows this. He’s learned to recognise those moments for what they are, the patterns he was falling into, although it didn’t mean he knew how to fight them. He felt like a child in the dark, going through the motions, waiting for the inevitable, but he knew he was going to try if it kills him.

For the longest time things were looking hopeful and Aziraphale let himself be lulled by the false sense of security. Then, out of the blue, Aziraphale’s father announced his visit, with as little forewarning as possible of course as was his style. And just as Crowley came over for the weekend. Aziraphale had to worry about tiptoeing around two people he cared about now. Two people who will inevitably try to push him in different directions without even realising it. 

Aziraphale hears the familiar quiet purr of Crowley’s Bentley parking on the kerb out front. He takes a deep breath and wears his best polite expression as he moves to open the door to his cottage.

“Angel!” Crowley gathers Aziraphale in his arms as always and reaches for a kiss like he was starving, which Aziraphale does try to pay attention to and to give back just as enthusiastically but perhaps there is a missed beat somewhere because Crowley immediately asks: “Something wrong?”

Crowley, bless his heart, reads him like an open book, even when Aziraphale gives him nothing to work with. He always picks up on the most subtle expressions. There’s no one else in the whole world who pays so much attention to Aziraphale and it melts his heart a little.

He smiles to himself, tries to compose, and shake off the feeling of dread that settles down in his stomach. It's nothing, he shouldn't feel as scared as he does. It’s just more of the same and Aziraphale has already been through it so many times.

"My father will be in the area and he wants to meet," Aziraphale explains, leading Crowley inside. “I’m sorry Crowley, he only told me about it this very morning.”

Crowley raises a brow. "And that’s making you so nervous?” He makes his way over to Aziraphale's armchair in that sinful way only his hips can move and sits on the armrest. "You never talked about him before. What's up?”

Of course, Crowley makes another on-point observation. Aziraphale shouldn’t be as afraid of his own father, should he? Most people probably aren’t. Ah well, but Crowley never met his father, he resolutes as he pours tea into two cups and places them on the small table between them. 

He ponders this for a while while sipping the hot brew, then lowers the cup of tea, trying not to spill the contents on his freshly ironed trousers. 

“Religious family?” Crowley guesses. 

"Ah, that too. But my father is… a very busy man. A university Chancellor, has a PhD, won many awards, you get the idea.”

Crowley whistles. "Sounds like kind of a big deal."

"Yes, exactly," the tone of his voice changes as Aziraphale lets all of his pretense drop and turns over to Crowley. "And I… Well, I have this cottage." He says, a little too teary for his liking.

Crowley stands up from his place to take the seat next to Aziraphale on the small sofa and takes off his sunglasses to look him in the eye, which he does more and more recently, to Aziraphale’s contentment.

"Oh, angel. You have so much more than that. You have a community here, you have friends . You have your library that you cycle ten miles one way every other day, you have nature around you, the little shops. People love you here."

Crowley’s words fall on Aziraphale like a warm blanket on a cold day, covering him whole. He can feel the edges of his mouth quirking up a little. When he looks at it like that, it does seem like Aziraphale has achieved something in life. Something that's harder to quantify but maybe not something that's less.

"Thank you, Crowley," Aziraphale leans into Crowley's body which is now so close and reassuring. His long fingers card through Aziraphale's locks, as he rests his head on Crowley’s shoulder.

“When do you need to go?”

Aziraphale checks his watch. “In half an hour.”

"Wow, okay. He really did only let you know just now, huh? Do you want me to come with you?"

"No, I think… I think this is the kind of thing I should probably do alone. You understand? I just— I need space." He raises his gaze to see the fear already gathering in Crowley's eyes, and realising his poor choice of words. He didn’t even mean it like that.  "Crowley, I just meant—"

"I know what you meant. I get it. Don't fret, angel. I’ll uh— I’ll just be here, lounging in your cottage until you’re back. Who knows? Maybe I’ll even pick up a book .”

Aziraphale laughs. “Alright, I’ll try. Now let me just get my coat—”

He stands up, fixes his waistcoat, checks his pocket watch, and puts on his coat like  armour. Crowley gives him a thumbs up once he’s ready, and a kiss on the cheek, and then he leaves to face the inevitable. It’s bad enough that he needs to leave Crowley alone, they already have so little time for each other, and the whole weekend will now be soured with the ghost of Aziraphale’s father. But he goes, he has to.

They are meeting in the village cafe, Aziraphale suspects that after Michael had told their father how his cottage looks inside, he didn't want to put his foot in there. Which was probably for the best. 

He can see his father from the very threshold of the cafe—looking very stern and out of place, as if he was offended he had to drive all the way here even though it was him who wanted to meet. There are already two drinks waiting at the table and even without looking, Aziraphale knows there’s going to be coffee for him even though he never even liked coffee.

"Hello, father," Aziraphale says cautiously and sits down on the opposite side of the table, feeling very small, like he was sixteen all over again. He wonders whether everyone feels like that around their parents or if it’s only his father who has that particular aura of authority that accepts no opposition. 

"Aziraphale," his father nods at him. Looks down at the coffee on Aziraphale's side expectantly. "I've ordered for you."

"Yes, I can see that," he says in his most level headed voice, not reaching out for the drink at all. "You wanted to see me?" He adds with a smile that's polite enough.

His father smiles back and it’s nearly warm but the way he narrows his eyes is supposed to make it clear that he’s dealing all the cards here. "Yes, quite." 

The whole conversation was short and straight to the point, as they all tend to be when Aziraphale’s father is involved. There’s no time to waste, no time like now and all the other empty slogans Aziraphale had to listen to while growing up that meant absolutely nothing to him.

There is time like now—in his quiet cottage in the rural side of England where he can read books sitting in front of his fireplace. He doesn't need to be productive or useful . He can just be. 

But this is all going to fall apart now, isn’t it? 

Aziraphale comes back to the cottage, to his home, thoughts all tangled in his head. He isn't even sure what he is feeling at this particular moment, only that it is all wrong. It feels like something has ended. He shouldn't have met with his father in the first place, it never brings any good, except he couldn't not go. It’s his father and, after all these years, Aziraphale still wants to be noticed by him, wants him to be proud, wants to be loved. 

He opens the door to his cottage to see Crowley lounging on the sofa among all the colourfully patterned blankets that he supposedly hates so much. The picture looks so very homey it nearly breaks his heart.

"And?" Crowley immediately scrambles up to meet him halfway. "What was the whole meeting about?"

He's already looking for clues, for answers, Aziraphale knows. Crowley is always so good at reading his body language. There's no hiding anything from him. 

"He offered me a job," Aziraphale says with a smile but in a tone of voice like he’s about to start crying. He can’t let himself feel this right now, it’s too much. But it’s too late—his mask slipped when he entered the cottage, it’s on the floor now and all of his emotions are flooding down the hallway.

"Okay," Crowley says cautiously, “that's a good thing, right?" Crowley says but his voice is breaking. He’s terrified, Aziraphale knows. He really shouldn’t have let Crowley show what he really feels. It’s such a mess. How is he going to sell this idea to Crowley now too? 

And he knows that for Crowley that must sound like a death sentence—he’s probably already analysing the whole situation in his head at double speed. What will it mean for them? Where is Aziraphale relocating? Can they still keep this?

Crowley isn’t asking, of course, too bloody quiet about it all but Aziraphale can read all of that on his face. He should pretend but he knows he can’t.

"No, Crowley, that's an awful thing,” he confesses and breaks into a sob.

It’s clear Crowley doesn’t understand but he’s already wrapping Aziraphale in his arms. “Angel, angel. I’m here, it’s okay.” He cuddles Aziraphale in his embrace, holds him close, and with every passing second it does feel a little bit better until Aziraphale isn’t crying anymore and all the tears have dried up.

“I’m sorry Crowley, you shouldn’t have seen me like this.”

“I absolutely should and you have nothing to apologise for. What happened? Is it a bad job?”

“No, it’s at his university. Pretty good, if a little boring but….”

“But?”

“I’d have to sell my cottage, this is the one condition.”

“Fuck right off. Why would you even do that?”

Oh . Aziraphale feels himself shrinking. “Well… he’s going to cut me off his finances if I won’t. I have some money set aside, it wouldn’t be the end of the world. But I’d need some additional income—”

“Rent out the second bedroom,” Crowley deadpans and Aziraphale stares at him. At first he wants to laugh but then he sees that Crowley is serious. “In a place like this? Air bnb is going to be a hot commodity, trust me.”

Aziraphale considers it in his heart, tries to look at it from every angle but he really doesn’t see any problems with that. “That… might actually work, but…”

 “But?”

Aziraphale sighs. “Even though I know it’s not what I want, a part of me still wants to accept my father’s offer. I want him to be proud of me, I want to do good, I want to be useful. But also… I don't want to leave this place, this cottage, this town. It's my home. Am I… am I being selfish?"

"Oh angel, you're the most selfless person I know. You always put everyone else first, always ready to help anyone who knocks at your door. It's okay to want to have something for yourself, to live your life for you, instead of for someone else. You have to take care of yourself, too."

Aziraphale takes a deep breath, he suddenly doesn’t feel like falling anymore. "Thank you Crowley, I really needed to hear that."

“Anytime,” Crowley says. “Families can be so much to deal with, eh?”

Aziraphale looks up at that. Crowley never talked about his family, and neither did Aziraphale. He hoped they could just avoid that topic altogether as if it couldn’t reach them in here, in their personal haven, but that ship has already sailed and reality started closing in on them.

“You don’t get along with yours either?” Aziraphale asks, sitting upright again, trying to regain his composure.

"We don’t exactly… keep in touch.” Crowley responds and it’s clear he isn’t going to elaborate.

“Oh but that sounds…,” Aziraphale wants to say but thinks better of it in the end. That whole meeting with his father has clearly shaken him.

“Lonely?” Crowley says anyway, finishing his train of thought. Aziraphale only nods. “Yep, it can be… at the beginning, but it’s not so bad once you get used to it.”

Aziraphale nods, although the thought of not talking to his family horrifies him. In a way, he envies Crowley. He wishes he was that bold, that strong to leave all that pain behind and tell his father to never contact him again. Though… that might still be coming. He isn’t sure how his father ks going to react to Aziraphale refusing his offer. Probably will just give him one of his disappointing looks, Aziraphale knows the exact one, and that will be that until the next time. 

“Besides,” Crowley continues, “a person as lovely as you could never be lonely.”

That surprises Aziraphale as well and he can feel his eyebrows raising on their own. "Where did you get that idea from?" 

“The Lambs Inn? Everyone knew you there, everyone was happy to see you. There’s also Anathema, Tracy…” Crowley lists all the people Aziraphale introduced him to which only makes him the more surprised.

First of all Aziraphale never would think himself as lovely . Sure, he’s the right amount polite but that can be just as much and secondly—

"Crowley." Aziraphale says, his voice level and confident and Crowley shuts up. "No one knows me there. Not really. You have to know this.”

Crowley gives him a surprised look in turn. Well, it’s too late now.

“Not their fault,” Aziraphale admits. “I just… I don’t really, ah, open up to people I suppose.”

“Angel…”

“I thought you'd find me boring, too.” He admits. 

"I genuinely hope you're kidding."

Aziraphale looks at Crowley unsure what else to say, feeling his lip wobbling slightly.

"Oh my God, you're not kidding! Of course I don't find you boring, why would you even think that? I think you're brilliant, and clever and kind. You make for a wonderful companion plus," Crowley lowers his voice and brushes his lips on the man's ear, "you're very good in bed."

Aziraphale swats him away. "Crude," he says, but he's smiling again, feeling so much lighter already. 

"It's true though," Crowley shrugs.

Aziraphale feels the heat rising to his cheeks. He doesn’t get easily flustered on most occasions but today he’s feeling particularly vulnerable. He looks away and only then notices Crowley’s open laptop sitting on the small dining table. 

“Crowley… were you working?”

Crowley looks at him apologetically and shrugs. “Ah yeah, I have some stuff I needed to finish at work but I wanted to come over as promised so I, uh, I thought I’d bring it with me. If that’s alright with you.”

Aziraphale blinks. From what he had gathered Crowley was frequently working late, often on the weekends. He hasn’t brought his work here before though. Not after being employed full-time in London.

“Of course, dear, of course. I just hope you’re not overworking yourself.”

“Don’t worry about it. It’s just the London pace, yeah? If you’re not ahead of the game you’re already falling behind. And I’m the youngest addition to their team so…” he trails off gesturing in the air.

He nods. It doesn’t give him much peace knowing how hard Crowley is working while Aziraphale goes out on walks alone and reads books but he supposes there’s not much that can be done about that. At least they’re together. They occupy the same space for a short while and watch a movie together in the evening. Even if Crowley is falling asleep halfway through it. 

Once Crowley closes his eyes and starts quietly snoring Aziraphale briefly thinks of moving to London. He used to live there once, long ago, when he was still studying. He didn’t love the pace but he could do it, in theory. But then he thinks about his cottage and how he’s decided to fight his father to keep it… it’s his home. It’s who he is, where he wants to grow old.

He looks over at Crowley as brand-new worries start creeping into his heart. He covers the love of his life with a blanket and walks upstairs to his bedroom.

Chapter Text

Crowley wasn't made for long-distance relationships, he’s always known that. He was too anxious, too insecure and couldn’t control his own thoughts and emotions well enough. It was just unsustainable and for the most part he avoided it like fire, but he couldn’t control everything. 

Falling in love with a gorgeous countryside man wasn't on his bucket list for this year. Turns out that finding a job in London wasn’t something he was happy about either. But what was he expecting really? He needed a job and the only contacts he had were in London. This problem was never going to go away on its own, the only person he can be angry at for this situation is himself. 

“Well done, Crowley,” he mutters, staring at his phone, imploring it to light up with Aziraphale’s name. But Aziraphale, too, cannot read Crowley’s mind.

Crowley wishes he could just be normal and write first, casually chatting up his boyfriend . Because that’s what they are now, aren’t they? But he can’t, the rejection—should it come—would be too strong, too overwhelming to deal with.

Arguing with himself Crowley double-checks their last conversation—just as he thought he wrote first. Twice. Which means he can’t start the next one, no matter how much he wants to. Because that's the sort of thing he keeps track of in his head, desperately trying to read between the lines whether Aziraphale does care for him or is it really just his wishful thinking, like with Bee and the rest of his pack. Anxiously counting the minutes since Aziraphale’s last message so he can wait the same amount of time before responding so that he doesn’t seem too eager. He's not even thinking about it as much anymore, he does it all on autopilot. 

It's just how it is, how it’s always been for him. 

No amount of therapy managed to change that, although he did get better. He doesn't send ten consecutive messages in a panic anymore, he doesn't ask why you've stopped responding to me. His therapist would really be proud of him. 'Someone would take their time to spend it with you, schedule it , and sacrifice it for you,” she told him once and he wanted to believe in it. Maybe he should go back to seeing her regularly again. 

Growing up, Crowley came up with his own ways to make people stick around him. Read into what people would find interesting - a snarky comment? A funny story? He's got it all. Anything that shouts hey I am here, look, I'm worth your time.

Still, most people only ever called him when they were bored, needed to tell him about something clever they did, or when something was wrong. More often than not, people slip through his fingers anyway and he’s had to learn to be okay with that in order to survive.

Crowley’s phone flashes and he immediately scrambles for it only to see his father’s name on display. Great . He stares at it for the longest while and lets it ring out. It beeps soon enough for the second time, shorter this time, but then falls silent for good. Better that way. He doesn’t need to hear about his father’s new life, his kids, his job and what have you done with yours?

The next name his phone flashes up with doesn’t make Crowley any more pleased but he picks it up nonetheless. 

"Crowley? What the hell, did you vanish off the face of the Earth!?”

Crowley groans at Bee’s annoyed tone of voice. Not a worrying one, never a worrying one. Like Crowley was some sort of obstacle to be dealt with. 

 “Yeah, sorry about that. Lots happening in my life right now.”

“I bet,” Bee says and Crowley practically sees their eyes rolling out of their skull. “Your dad called, asked if we’re still roommates. Crowley, sincerely, what the fuck?”

Crowley groans louder, remembering the miscalls on his phone that he happily ignored. He doesn’t really want to get into that discussion right now, not with Bee. 

“He’s probably just traveling to London and wants to meet.”

"Well? Aren't you going to?”

“Nope. And he doesn’t really want to either. He's only asking because it's convenient and because he wants to be seen doing something.”

If it was Crowley who wanted to meet, his father would come up with at least half a dozen excuses, most of them contradictory, to avoid it. It’s not like Crowley didn’t know it was much easier to start on a new project. Throw away all the broken, messed up pieces from his life. Fresh start and all that. Crowley is aware of it so what’s the point in pretending?

“Oh okay,” Bee accepts Crowley’s line of reasoning without question, or more accurately, no interest. “Speaking of, when you move out of London can I have your furniture?”

“Wait what?” Crowley sits up at the revelation. “Where did you— I'm not moving out of London! I work here in case you haven’t noticed.”

Bee seems undeterred. “Heard you talking to Ligur that your plants are wilting because you constantly keep traveling in and out. Figured it’s a matter of time before you finally ditch us.” 

Crowley flinches at Bee’s choice of words. He would never ditch anyone. If anything Bee is doing the ditching and it’s while they still live in the same city. 

He doesn’t have time to protest though because Bee continues: “Got a new fling out of town, eh?” They shoot and he doesn’t know what to say. "Cat got your tongue? Are you suddenly scared?”

The question is thrown carelessly his way, but pierces him right through. Is that it? Has he been scared all along?

“Crowley? Still there?” Bee has the decency to sound at least a little bit worried for a change.

"I…” he swallows, his mind is suddenly spinning as if it was some sort of big revelation. “I have to go.”

“Don’t forget we work this Saturday!” Bee manages to shout into the receiver before Crowley hangs up. His heart is still racing.

What is he afraid of? 

A better question would be what isn't he afraid of? He's afraid of this thing working out, and not working out. He's afraid of being a burden, of being too much, of not being enough. Of Aziraphale getting fed up with him, of him not wanting Crowley quite as much as he wants Aziraphale. Of living in a place that isn't his and might not ever be. Of disappointing his father and not becoming the famous architect they paid for him to become, even if his father couldn't care less.

He's doing it again, isn't he? Stressing over their potential future as if it was a sure thing. But when he is with Aziraphale everything is fine. His vicious thoughts are silenced like they never existed. So which one of these is real?

Will he ever know?

"Hi Crowley, we haven't spoken in a while."

Crowley swallows, blinking the tears away, half-not believing Aziraphale has finally called him. It's true, it’s been a while but Crowley initiated the last two conversations, it wasn’t his turn... What is he supposed to say? It sounds ridiculous already in his own head, spoken out loud it would be even worse, no matter that it’s the kind of thing he constantly keeps track of.

He really should get back to therapy, he makes a mental note hoping that the future Crowley will do something about it.

"Yeah, I er, I was, well, you know how it goes."

"I've missed you," Aziraphale says simply and it sounds so genuine and sincere there is an instant wave of heat filling his body, letting him unfurl. His heart is beating faster. And right now, everything feels alright and he knows this is real. 

"I've missed you too," he chokes out before he can stop himself. It's stupid. He feels like a teenager speaking with his first crush but when Aziraphale speaks next it’s as if he is filled with sunshine and it’s all worth it.

"Do you think you could come over this weekend? It's the village fete, you see, Tracy is organising a party and I thought we could… go together maybe?"

Crowley feels himself crumpling. "This weekend?" He checks his diary with a beating heart for what he knows is already there, flashing bright red back at him. Don’t forget we work this Saturday. "I can't, angel, I’d really love to but…”

"It's okay,” Aziraphale cuts in and his voice is devoid of happiness once more. “I understand, it's nothing big. Some other time maybe."

There's a prolonged silence in the receiver, the disappointment is crushing him. His thoughts are wildly spiraling out of control. He has to do something , has to fix it somehow. 

"I could… come on Friday evening perhaps? Stay until Saturday morning at the very least, help you with that party?” He blurts out. He’d have to work late some other time to make up for it but on Saturday they’re stupidly meeting in the office to finish a big project and he cannot be in two places at the same time. 

“Crowley, are you sure? It’s not a short drive and going back and forth—”

“Don’t worry about it, angel,” Crowley cuts in this time. “It’ll be fine, yeah?”

There is a prolonged pause during which Crowley holds his breath and chews off two of his fingernails.

"That would be lovely," Aziraphale says finally, his voice brightening immediately. 

Crowley feels so much happier for it already. Maybe he could even miraculously haggle one day off? Work on the Sunday instead? Hell, he will sell his soul if he has to.

Ever since he got offered this new position in London everything got more complicated. Aziraphale came over to London a couple of times and even showed him that gay club he was bragging about. There were more theaters and coffee shops than anything. But it started becoming increasingly clear that Aziraphale will not be moving to London any time soon. Or ever. And Crowley could never ask him to. How could he? After seeing how he reacted to his dad suggesting the very same thing. Aziraphale was his cottage, his country life. Everything Crowley has fallen in love with. 

The Harvest market, Crowley realises with a startle, that's what Aziraphale was referring to and what Crowley forgot. Aziraphale was looking forward to it so much and now Crowley is going to ruin it for him. He covers his face with his hand. Great . He’s ruining it already, for both of them. 

Maybe they were both lying to each other about ever keeping this going. 

Crowley drives his Bentley through the countryside feeling absolutely free and unburdened. Even if it’s just for today, even if this bliss cannot last—it’s here now and it’s real. 

Just as real as the field flowers—poppies and cornflowers that replaced the little yellow rapeseeds. They’re blooming in the fields, twinkling at him and Crowley cannot help but smile back.

In his pocket, he has a new peace offering—a bird-watching app. It seems like something Aziraphale would like with how interested he is in nature and everything that surrounds him. Looking up how every bird looks and sounds would be a chore but an app that can pick up a bird's song and immediately identify it. Crowley was going out to parks in London just to test it out. Mostly blackbirds and magpies so he cannot wait to properly test it out in the countryside.

He drives into the village in style, as always, and parks the Bentley on the kerb by the town centre. Even from the distance he can see the stalls being set up, the scene nearly built up for tomorrow’s festivities. Crowley’s heart squeezes in his chest at the thought of missing it

"Crowley! I'm so glad you’ve made it!” It’s Tracy who spots him first once Crowley saunters over. 

"Yes, well, I'll have to run early in the morning." He shrugs, shrinking even more into himself.

"Do you? Shame really, Aziraphale was kahagaghsk" Aziraphale promptly puts a hand over Tracy's mouth, shushing her.

"Really happy you’re here, dear." He says and looks at Tracy pointedly. He’s beaming as always when he sees Crowley, which makes all of the effort worth it.

At the same precise time, Crowley feels his phone vibrate in the pocket of his tight jeans. Oh, for somebody’s sake. Aziraphale raises a brow but Crowley just smiles pretending not to notice. 

“Show me around?”

“Of course, dear.”

They walk through the stalls and Aziraphale greets each and every one of the locals, introducing Crowley and explaining what sort of things will be displayed here tomorrow. 

“Don’t you have a stall?” Crowley asks once they finish making rounds.

Aziraphale laughs quietly. “And what would I be selling? Not my books, I hope.”

“Pastries,” Crowley responds without skipping a beat. 

Aziraphale stops in his tracks. “Do you really think that I could?”

“Are you kidding me? Of course! They’re the best I’ve ever had! And they were gluten-free at that!”

Aziraphale looks at Crowley from behind his eyelashes, vulnerable and raw, lip wobbling slightly as if unsure what to say.

Crowley smiles. Hell, he loves him. So much. He leans in to kiss Aziraphale’s cheek, grateful that he doesn’t flinch away from that public display of affection…

…when his phone rings again. They both jump away from each other startled. He curses quietly to himself but the moment is ruined already and he can’t keep ignoring it for the whole evening.

“Do you mind if I…?” He points towards his phone and Aziraphale nods in a way that’s unsure.

“Go ahead,” he says all the same.

“It won’t be a minute,” Crowley sneaks away. 

It takes way longer than that of course, and is an absolute waste of time too. Someone couldn’t find a file Crowley worked on so of course they had to call him. Jeez, he’s going to be back there tomorrow. 

"Everything alright?”

"Yeah, work again, absolute pests,” Crowley shrugs, smiling. 

Aziraphale checks his watch and Crowley has that feeling of dread spreading in his stomach again. 

“Your colleagues are still working?”

“Er, yeah. They didn’t have a good enough excuse to leave early. Or—on time. I mean… it’s just that we have this deadline on Monday, it’s not like that every day.” Maybe every other week, Crowley doesn’t say but he probably doesn’t have to. Aziraphale is clever enough to figure it out on his own. 

For now however Aziraphale hums and nods along, thoughtfully. They stroll along the river and away from where the market is being set up. It’s quieter here, calmer. The river is riddled with swans and ducks hoping to catch an occasional snack, weeping willows planted along the pavement lean into the water, leaves touching its surface. The birds are chirping and Crowley is about to pull out his phone and show off the bird app when Aziraphale breaks the silence:

"Crowley, I have to talk to you about something.”

His tone of voice is serious and Crowley’s heart stops in his chest. He pushes his phone back into his pocket, fixing the sunglasses on his nose to hide the anxiety. 

“Yeah?”

Aziraphale fiddles with the hem of his waistcoat looking down at his shoes. “Crowley, look… As much as I'm happy you're here now, I… I worry about you. You work so much and… I fear you're overextending yourself."

Crowley relaxes a little bit. If it’s only about him that’s not going to be a problem. He knows he can give up a lot to make things work. He can make this work.

"Nah, angel. Don't worry about it."

"No, Crowley . I am serious.” Aziraphale stops to look directly at Crowley, he uses his serious voice this time, the one that tells Crowley he’s made up his mind already and is confident in going through with it. 

He swallows hard as his stomach sinks. “An…gel?”

Aziraphale sighs like he doesn’t really want to be here, like he wants to hide. “I know what you're doing and I know you're doing this for me.” He makes a pause at that. "I like you, Crowley, I really do. You're clever, funny, sensitive, and unapologetically yourself."

Crowley snorts. "Yeah and look where that led me."

"To me," Aziraphale says, taking Crowley's hand and forcing on a smile that only ends up being sad. "And I will always be grateful for that. You are the best thing that happened to me in a long time.”

“But?” Crowley prompts, already feeling where this is going.

Aziraphale nods a confirmation. “But that also means… I cannot watch you suffer any longer because of me. And I…” he trails off as if fighting with himself over whether to continue or not, his brow furrowing. “I can’t live through a relationship in bite-size pieces but also I could never ask you to stay here with me. I know you belong to a much faster, much more colourful world. I cannot follow you there and I'm afraid this life here is too slow for you. I… I really wanted it to, but I don't think this is working. For either of us. I'm sorry, Crowley."

“But, but, but! I’ve done everything I could, I’ll do anything, just, please—”

“And that’s the problem, Crowley!” Aziraphale cuts through, almost angry. “You shouldn’t have to. I don’t want you to sacrifice even more of yourself, I cannot watch you doing this for me. You’ve got to take care of yourself, too. I’m letting you go because you would never have done it yourself, I know you. No matter how much it hurts, and it hurts, doesn’t it?”

Crowley opens his mouth to protest, to disagree, to beg and plead and perform but—Aziraphale is right. It’s been hurting for a while now. They gave it their best shot but with the situation as it is, as it has been—

Perhaps there’s no way forward. Maybe there never was.

Aziraphale gives him a sad smile, there are tears in his eyes and he doesn't look so level-headed and calm anymore. Crowley bites his lip and nods his understanding, letting go of Aziraphale’s hand and pushing them into the pockets of his own trousers, as deep as they will go.

That’s it then.

Aziraphale takes a step back from Crowley.

"You're free to stay the night. The spare bedroom is rented out tonight for the fete but there is no reason why we shouldn't share the bed… It's… big enough." Aziraphale says and turns around.

Crowley watches him go.

The worst part is that Crowley doesn't regret any of it. Not one thing. Given the chance, he would do it all over again. Aziraphale brightened his world in ways Crowley didn't even know was possible and having that knowledge alone was something to cling onto. To know he can be happy. 

No one's going to take that away from him. And that it hurts? Well. It's better for it to hurt after something this beautiful and incredible than to survive the gnawing pain of constant loneliness. Aziraphale at least gave him respite in the sea of hurt of his existence.

When Crowley enters the cottage some hours later he smells of cigarettes and alcohol. Extraordinary amounts of alcohol. He spent the rest of the evening in the pub, not wanting to drive home just yet but not looking forward to coming back to the cottage that’s in no way his home anymore. 

He hesitates before opening the doors to their bedroom, no, to Aziraphale’s bedroom, in his cottage. Crowley doesn’t have any claim to it anymore. Well, he has a long drive the next morning, might as well get a proper night’s sleep. And Aziraphale told him to anyway, it’s not like he’s intruding. 

He enters.

Aziraphale is asleep, curled up on his shoulder on his side of the bed. He looks so… beautiful and calm Crowley has the strongest urge to cuddle up to him but… he can’t. This was a mistake. 

Not wanting to wake him up by taking a shower, he puts his pyjamas on and lies in bed at a safe distance. He can’t sleep. A chasm of impenetrable void between them. It used to be so easy. He’s dying to roll closer and press against Aziraphale, hold him in his arms again, and tell him it’s going to be okay. But he knows he can’t. He never felt as lonely as he does now. 

Lying on his back he runs through the conversation over and over in his head. Was there anything he could have done or said to change this? There must be but for the life of him Crowley cannot figure it out. Drinking probably didn’t help. 

Crowley doesn’t remember falling asleep although it must have happened at some point because when he opens his eyes it’s already bright outside. Aziraphale is still asleep. His alarm clock didn’t ring yet but Crowley stands up just the same. He only has less than an hour before he needs to get back. He dresses up and finds his last cigarette rolled at the back of his jacket. He stopped smoking a long time ago, but with his new job, he'd picked it up again. Aziraphale has not even once commented on it.

He quuetly goes downstairs and stops to look at ficus benjamina, the plant that flourished ever since Crowley moved in. He never told Aziraphale how to care for it after all, they still had so much time and at the same time not enough of it. After a moment he scribbles a short note about watering and sun requirement, and leaves it by the plant before going outside.

He curls right by the entrance doors in the cool of the autumn morning, chill biting to the bone but it cools his head at least. Lets him think. He’s hoping for some sort of miracle that would sort out his life and save him but by the time he finishes the cigarette nothing changes. He watches the scenic landscape and listens to the birds chirping. 

He takes out his phone and opens the app he got for Aziraphale but completely forgot to share and presses record. There’s one particular bird’s song that elevates itself above all the others, more melodic and deep. A small brown shape flies down and perches in front of him on the porch as if he has a message for Crowley. He watches the bird and then his app flashes with a found match to the bird song. 

“Nightingale, huh?” Crowley says out loud. He can’t believe he is talking to a bird but here we are... “Got any useful advice for me?”

The bird cocks his head and sings. Crowley stares at him. It dawns on him that he doesn’t really have anyone to talk to about it. He’s on the verge of tears. The heaviness of the whole of the night finally catching up to him and crashing down. 

He thinks about his father never having time for him, he thinks of leaving his projects in front of his always-closed door to have a look. 'Don't interrupt me or it's only going to take longer'. How he tried being more cool, more interesting, more noticeable, all so his father would at least once look at him sometimes.

How he carried over all of that guilt and hurt into his relationships.

“Do you think I’ve fucked this up?’ He bursts out crying on the doorstep of the countryside cottage.

He's always thought about himself as strong and independent, not needing anyone else, definitely not his parents, but the truth was more complicated than that.

"I just… I just wanted to be loved." He chokes it out, half revelation, half explanation to the little bird.

The bird whistles his song to Crowley which sounds weirdly comforting, alleviating half the pain off his chest. He calms down, wiping the tears with the back of his hand. He doesn’t feel so alone anymore.

Grateful for the company, he finishes off his cigarette, stands up, and goes inside to pack his stuff.

There’s a long drive ahead of him. 

Chapter Text

Crowley is back in London. The pain of break up never really goes away but it just might have been the push he needed to look at everything with a fresh perspective. The truth is this city has only been suffocating him but Crowley was too busy to notice. He talked himself into accepting it as normal: the pace, the fake friends and fake smiles, the stuffy bars, and working till sunrise. Anathema tried to tell him that it doesn’t have to be like that but he wouldn’t listen, the stubborn fool that he is.

Now it feels like he tore the blindfold off his eyes and for the first time he saw the world the way it is. That he's only ever been miserable in London, his prestigious job, the empty flat devoid of life. Yes, he was working with increasingly more famous architects, building skyscrapers, adding his name to the projects. That it was somewhere at the back of the documentation, on some minor technical detail of a door handle failed to register for him. That he was just a cog in a much bigger machine. Working until late, barely sleeping, not even able to plan anything because he never knew if a deadline would push his working hours past 10pm, all the while he had to be back in the office for 7am the next day.

He barely believes when his boss gives him a counter offer once he hands in his notice. A massive raise that they could have been paying him all along. He leaves the company even more disgusted and disillusioned by the toxic working environment. He’ll need some time to figure out what he wants to do next, what he wants to do with his life at all, but now he has all the time in the world.

Right now it’s feeding the duck at St James park as he’s sprawled across one of the benches. It’s been six weeks since he left his job, eight since he’s last seen Aziraphale. The sale on his flat has been agreed in no time and truth to be told, he should be in the process of moving but he hasn’t exactly chosen where to yet. 

His phone pings unexpectedly. Reluctantly he unlocks his screen to see the approval to Aziraphale’s Discharge of Conditions. Shit, he’s completely forgotten about, he realises guiltily. He scrolls through it—all approved without any issues. His first instinct is to call Aziraphale and give him the good news, to hang onto this very last piece of connection between them. Which is how he knows he shouldn’t.

He calls Anathema instead. Shriveling at the thought he will finally have to tell her all about the break up, but strangely his phone rings out and goes through to voicemail. Normally he would try to call her later but for whatever reason he has a bad feeling about this. He calls Newt next, this time it takes only two beeps for him to pick up.

“Hi Newt, is everything al—”

“Crowley!” Newt cuts him off immediately, voice shaken. “Anathema had an accident!”

“What?” Crowley immediately sits up straight. “What sort of accident? What happened?”

“I don’t know! She’s been clipped by a lorry when she was on a bike! The ambulance took her! We’re on the way to the hospital now.”

Crowley feels as if someone sucked all the air from his lungs. He scrambles up and storms towards his car, filled to the brim with various plants that he needed to move from his flat.

“Which one?"

"Crowley…"

"Just tell me!"

"Tadfield Hospital."

"I'm on my way. I'll be driving, but you can call me anytime, okay? Anytime at all."

"Drive safe.”

Crowley wishes he drove safe, and to be fair to him he did his best while knowing his friend, maybe the only friend he ever had, is hurt. It’s not fair that misery doesn’t even spare a place as idyllic as Tadfield. A person as good as Anathema has no right being hurt. 

It takes him just under an hour and a half to arrive, the last stretch of the countryside road really does go on and on, but finally he reaches his destination. He goes straight for the emergency ward entrance, from which he's directed towards the minor injuries ward, thank God.

Three pairs of familiar eyes immediately turn towards him as he enters. His stomach sinks when he sees Aziraphale among them but his attention immediately shifts towards Anathema. There's blood on the side of her face, dripping down her coat and the skirt. The cut on her right eyebrow is at least four centimeters wide and seemingly quite deep. She looks absolutely dreadful.

Their gazes lock, Anathema’s eyes widen in surprise and Crowley is grateful for the sunglasses on his nose.

"Crowley? What are you doing here?”

“I, er, might have mentioned that you’ve got hurt…” Newt admits sheepishly, clasping his hand tighter around Anathema’s. 

“Coming to see if you’re okay, you witch,” Crowley says feeling better now he can see for himself that Anathema is indeed mostly okay.

“But— your job?” Aziraphale chimes in, looking utterly confused. 

Crowley’s gaze drifts towards Aziraphale brifly. It’s not the place nor the time he imagined explaining himself to his ex-boyfriend, in the rare instances he imagined it at all but he supposes it cannot be helped now.

"I quit. They can fuck off with their weekend working hours." He answers shortly, quickly shifting his attention back to Anathema. “Now tell me—how long have you been waiting here? Has anyone seen you yet?” He turns around. “Excuse me! Nurse!”

Anathema is aiming to catch Crowley by the wrist but it’s Aziraphale who actually manages to do it. He holds firmly and pulls Crowley down, he has no choice but to follow the movement, looking at their joined hands with a racing heart. He’s always been rubbish in crisis situations, he knows. Aziraphale is much more level headed.

“Crowley, it’s fine,” Anathema reassures him. “I was checked for everything already—no concussion, nothing broken, I’m just a little bruised. Waiting for my turn so they can stitch this up properly." Ana points to the scarily bloodied wound on her forehead. “Alright?”

Crowley takes a deep breath and nods, Aziraphale lets him go then which makes him feel untethered but Anathema is fine. It’s fine. The tears spring to his eyes then. "You could have died." He chokes out as he folds in on himself on the hospital’s floor, head hidden in his arms. 

Unexpectedly he feels strong hands weaving into his hair, Aziraphale’s. He knows this doesn’t mean anything but the slow rhythmic movement is calming and he doesn’t do anything to bat his hands away. Aziraphale has always been stronger than him. 

“I’m here, Crowley, it’s okay,” Anathema leans over him too, hand firmly on his shoulder. 

“Ms Device?” an unfamiliar voice says and they all look up at the doctor standing in the doorframe.

Anathema stands up to follow the doctor in and Crowley takes this chance to free himself from Aziraphale’s touch. A brief but loud scream comes from behind the closed doors that Crowley will probably remember for the rest of his life and then Ana is back with them. The wound looks somewhat closed but the dried blood on her cheek is a stark reminder of what happened.

“Is there anyone that can drive you home?” The nurse asks Anathema in the doorway.

“I can!” Crowley and Newt say at the same time then look at each other, surprised.

“I’ll take Ana, you take Aziraphale,” Newt decides for both of them. Before Crowley can protest the nurse is pushing a leaflet into Newt’s hands and they walk out of the hospital together, leaving the two of them behind. 

Right. 

He still hasn’t told Ana nor Newt that they actually broke up and guessing from Aziraphale’s face, he hasn’t either. 

“Well then,” is all Crowley says. “We better go.”

They walk towards the Bentley in silence. Aziraphale enters the car and positively glares at all the selection of plants Crowley forgot he gathered onto the backseat of his car.

“Do I even dare to ask?”

“I sold my flat,” Crowley says as dispassionately as he can, pushing the sunglasses higher up on his nose.

“You… did what?”

Crowley shrugs. “Wasn’t worth the hassle.” 

The rest of the drive passes in complete silence. Aziraphale buckles his belt and looks out of the window. Now that the emotions have settled, Crowley is suddenly painfully aware how awkward the whole situation is. 

Does he even go back to stay at Ana’s, hope for a piece of empty floor at Aziraphale’s, or drive back home? He really didn’t think this through and it shows. It gets even more awkward once he stops by Aziraphale’s cottage, it’s clear neither of them know what to say or do. It’s well past midnight, no way of making this a polite social visit. 

“Thank you for the lift,” Aziraphale says finally after prolonged silence.

“‘Course, any time.”

“Do you have a place to stay?” 

Crowley sighs, “I was going to drive back—”

“At this hour? Absolutely not!” Aziraphale looks positively appalled and it makes Crowley smile despite himself. “What are you smiling about?”

“You have the same reaction when you see people serving lasagne with garlic bread.”

“I do not!” Aziraphale says and somehow looks even more offended, it’s endearing.

“There it is again.”

“Alright you stubborn minx,” he sighs, “come on in.”

Crowley is still unsure but he exits the car and follows Aziraphale through the threshold of his cottage—the same cottage he thought he would never see again. He stops in the doorway to take it all in—not much has changed, really. The books are still covering every possible surface, Aziraphale’s favourite mug still stands on the small coffee table—probably has been since Crowley left. 

It all feels painfully familiar. 

He spots the ficus benjamina, in a slightly poorer shape than he left it but surviving all the same. Behind it there’s a new plant that Crowley once mentioned to Aziraphale in passing—monstera deliciosa. There’s so many memories tied to this place—saving the little bat, getting warm by the fireplace after an absolute downpour, the lazy mornings and romantic evenings spent on movie watching, the amazing sex.

“So um, the guest bedroom is rented again.” Aziraphale’s nervous voice jolts Crowley from his thoughts. “The bed and breakfast business is going rather splendid but that means I can really only offer you the couch…” Aziraphale frets as if it’s something he realised only now.

Crowley checks his watch double-checking his options but unfortunately it only confirms that most definitely he doesn’t want to be driving home right now. He sighs, he probably shouldn’t wake Anathema up now either… he’s plainly out of options.

“I’ll take the couch,” Crowley decides. “Don’t worry about it, a— Aziraphale.” He says, fully aware how stale it sounds.

Aziraphale blinks, then looks away as Crowley bites his tongue. Stupid habit, stupid nickname. 

“Alright. Good night Crowley,” he says finally and then disappears up the stairs, leaving Cowley feeling like the last idiot he is. 

“Good night angel,” he whispers into the empty silence.

The next morning Crowley is rudely awoken by the sounds of pots and pans banging in the kitchen, shortly followed by the smell of fresh bread, scrambled eggs and coffee. There are timber beams crackling above his head and a somewhat uncomfortable sofa underneath his body.

“Aziraphale… what the hell,” he mutters, turning on his other side, trying to cover his head with a pillow. The noise momentarily stops.

“Oh, I’m terribly sorry, Crowley, I didn’t mean to wake you up. I just got peckish.”

Aziraphale’s voice brings Crowley back to reality. In the past several weeks he woke up more than once thinking he was in Aziraphale’s cottage only to be faced with the emptiness of his own four empty walls. And now it’s real. He opens his eyes to see Aziraphale bustling in the kitchen. It feels… idyllic. It feels right. 

He rubs his eyes and sits up. “How early is it?”

“It’s only half past nine. Would you like a cup of coffee? Six shots of espresso, just as you like it.”

Crowley accepts the bumblebee decorated mug that Aziraphale presses into his hands. He sips on the black liquid in silence, curling up on the sofa in his crumpled shirt, letting Aziraphale finish cooking in peace.

Peckish, Crowley snorts as he looks at the full English breakfast served to him fifteen minutes later on the small kitchen table. There’s scrambled eggs and bacon, tomatoes, mushroom, beans… even the gluten free pastries Crowley loves so much. He wonders if they are freshly made or a leftover from when they were still together but he doesn’t dare to prod. His enormous coffee mug looks comical opposite Aziraphale’s filigree little tea cup. It looks like two halves of a whole.

“You didn’t have to,” Crowley points out.

“I know I didn’t have to,” Aziraphale confirms.

Crowley can’t help but feel grateful, edges of his mouth turning downwards in a lopsided smile. If only things were different. “Thanks.”

“So, what are you going to do next?” Aziraphale changes the topic, casually sipping on his tea and it’s almost like the good old times.

Crowley shrugs, trying to shed some of the awkwardness with it. “To be completely honest I am not quite sure myself, I’m still in the process of figuring it all out, but hopefully it’s going to be somewhere better.”

Aziraphale doesn’t say anything, he looks almost surprised but he nods and smiles all the same and Crowley smiles back at him. And in this moment Crowley finds that it’s all he needs. A quiet understanding, acceptance and a sense of belonging. A little bit of space to decide about his future, free of judgment and advice. 

The two of them have been together for such a short amount of time and yet meeting Aziraphale ended up having such a massive impact on Crowley’s life. It’s unreal thinking it was just a passing acquaintance.

“I forgot to tell you,” Crowley suddenly remembers why he even called Anathema in the first place, “your discharge of conditions approval came through the day before. I was actually calling Ana to pass the good news.”

“Oh!” Aziraphale brightens up immediately. “That means I can finally start the building works, correct?”

Crowley smiles. It still warms his chest seeing Aziraphale happy like this. “Yeah, you can finally start building. Might want to look for someone to prepare working drawings for your chosen builder and all that. Ana’s local, I’m sure she can help you with that.”

“Oh…” Aziraphale mutters and he blinks several times. Surely he didn’t still expect Crowley to do it for him? “Yes, I’m sure she can.”

“Well then,” Crowley looks down at his mug that has been empty for a while now, and the empty plate that signals the inevitable. There’s no point delaying it now. “Guess I’ll be going. I… I’ll see you around, yeah?”

Crowley stands up, gathers the few belongings he has and runs his hand through his hair which has to do for a comb today. He very pointedly tries not to look back because if he does, he might never be able to leave. 

He’s already by the doorframe when—

“Wait!” Aziraphale yells after him. 

Crowley turns around, sunglasses pointedly back on his nose, he needs every shield he has now. Aziraphale opens and closes his mouth several times as if unable to settle on what to say. 

“Pastries!” he blurts finally and turns towards the kitchen, wrapping them quickly up in a sandwich paper.

Crowley nods as Aziraphale passes the offering on, their fingers only narrowly missing to brush against each other. “Thanks.”

This cannot be the last time they are ever going to see each other but it very much feels like something is ending. Crowley gives Aziraphale one last nod and then he leaves the cottage for good.

Chapter Text

Once Crowley made his way over to Anathema’s place, she already looked so much better if a little bruised. The real problem was going to be recovering from the rib injury, he knew. Nothing to be done about it but resting as per doctor’s advice. And even if Ana and Newt were adamant they could handle it, Crowley recently came into more free time that he knew what to do with.

“I appreciate all the help and trouble you’ve put yourself through but I don’t need to be babysat,” Ana huffed at him.

“You’ve always been self-sufficient, haven’t you? You’re good at it, but it’s okay to need help sometimes,” he fired right back at her. Anathema wanted to protest, of course she did but Newt agreed with him and so in the next few days Crowley mostly moved himself back into Ana and Newt’s cottage. 

He didn’t hate it as much as he thought he would. People remembered him here and not everything reminded him of Aziraphale all the time. It also helped him to have some company in his life again, which he needed more than he thought, which he attributed to hating London so much he felt better literally anywhere else.

But the worst part was having to finally tell Ana that he and Aziraphale broke up. Crowley dreaded what she might make of it and sure enough when he finishes summarising all the latest events she looks at him like he has grown a second head.

“What?” He quips, annoyed.

“I’m sure Aziraphale regrets breaking up…” she starts but she already sounds unsure. Like she knows Crowley has made up his mind about this.

Crowley rolls his eyes. He can’t believe he’s about to defend that decision but here we are.

“The thing is I don’t regret him breaking up with me, Ana. God knows I needed it. He was right—I was so caught up in someone finally wanting me for me that I ended up giving everything up to keep it going that little bit longer, no matter the cost. And the cost was too high. I was putting a plaster on a festering wound, he ripped the bandaid. I respect that.”

Ana looks sympathetic but not quite yet convinced, like she would like to wave her magic wand and just fix things. But life’s not that simple.

“But… you still care for him.” She persists. She’s not trying to preach, Crowley knows, just understand.

“I know but I can’t just… forget about everything. Life is not a movie, certainly not a romantic comedy. He was the right person at the wrong time. That’s all.”

“But— stars—”

“Stars have shit to do with this, Ana.” Crowley cuts her off too roughly, but he’s tired now. 

It’s Anathema’s turn to sigh but then she just nods grimly as if it was the hardest thing she had to accept in a while. The prophecy in her stars failed her, which Crowley had to admit happened very rarely. But once it did, she always struggled with it.

 “How are you feeling today anyway?”

“Much better than I look, it seems.” She points to her general state but mostly the wound at her forehead. 

“Nah, I can almost convince myself not to stare at it most times.”

“You could stay here, regardless, you know.” She says and Crowley just looks at her for the longest while. “You’d be among friends and there is enough work for two. I could use another pair of hands. Think about it—Device-Newt-Crowley limited.”

“Crowley-Device-Newt, if anything, alphabetical order.” Crowley corrects her, a smile slowly creeping onto his face. 

Anathema snorts. “That sounds awful.”

“It does.” Crowley agrees.

They both laugh and it’s like the good old times when they were studying together and were still full of hopes and dreams about their profession. So long ago now.

“C’mon, you witch, I’ll cook you dinner.”

He picks a simple but versatile stew to use up all the vegetables from Anathema’s garden patch—another thing he always wished he had back in London. He was just about finished when a doorbell rang.

“I’ll get it!” He shouts into the void and just like that he is standing face to face with his ex-boyfriend, too shocked to say anything. “Aziraphale?” he eventually stammers out.

“Oh, don’t look so surprised. I’m friends with Anathema and Newt too.”

“I know but—” Crowley sighs, giving up. His eyes trail down to Aziraphale’s hands where he is holding a small glass dish. “What’s this?”

“I cooked dinner!” Aziraphale says triumphally. “I know Ana needs rest, I thought I could help a little. Can I come in?”

Crowley crosses his arms but he does step aside, letting Aziraphale in. 

“And what makes you think I’m not capable of cooking?” He asks.

“Well I don’t see a cookbook for one.” Aziraphale says and Crowley can see the precise moment he takes in the smell of the stew that has filled the cottage by now. “What’s this?”

Crowley raises up his phone. “See this device? It holds all the recipes in the world. Here,” he pushes a ladle towards Aziraphale, daring him to taste and is instantly rewarded with Aziraphale’s moan that he makes when tasting something particularly delicious. 

It’s so familiar it makes Crowley’s stomach swoop. Not less because it reminds him of how they always approached things differently but managed to find a common ground somehow. Of how they both learned something new by the end of it. Well, most of the time at least. 

“This tastes positively heavenly. What is it?”

“Lecso, it’s a Hungarian stew. Mostly self grown vegetables,” he explains, anticipating Aziraphale’s question. “I helped set up Ana’s garden patch back in the day.”

Aziraphale looks genuinely impressed and Crowley cannot help but bask in that look. He was quite good with plants and always regretted not having enough space for them back in London. Maybe it would be nice to stay here after all, only for the time being of course.

“So that’s the secret,” Aziraphale nods thoughtfully. 

“Really I just have a little rat hidden in my hair pulling at the strings.” Crowley fires.

“A what?” Aziraphale’s eyes go round.

“Crowley rolls his eyes. “Ratatouille, it’s a reference to ratatouille,” and when he sees Aziraphale’s blank face, “how have you not seen it?”

“We should make a movie night and watch it,” Anathema appears as if on a cue although she must have been lurking here for far longer than this. 

Crowley rolls his eyes. He guesses watching movies with a group of friends rather than Aziraphale alone would be different but Crowley suspects it will still make him feel raw. Especially if he’s going to cry (he always cries). He shouldn’t have dated friends of friends to begin with. What was Anathema even thinking introducing them in the first place?

“Staying for dinner then?” Crowley decides for Aziraphale and to break the awkward silence that ensued. He’s not going to be petty. Instead he pours a hefty amount of stew into a bowl and offers it to Aziraphale who accepts it without protest.

God, why is it so easy? Breakups shouldn’t feel like that. But not every day you break up with someone you have to see day in and day out. Someone that really understood you. Not like he could forbid Aziraphale to see Ana either. 

At first it feels like the worst and best kind of torture. Because Crowley cannot deny the way he waits for Aziraphale’s visit every time, how much he relishes in it, in their easy banter and understanding. There are days when it’s a painful reminder of what they had and lost and that things can never be the same again. Those days leave Crowley resentful of the world.

Eventually it molds itself into an awkward re-learning of spending time around each other in this new capacity. Crowley stumbles through it all but at the end of the day—they develop a system that works for them, which mostly consists of not talking about the past, avoiding physical contact and not ending up in a room one on one at all cost.

He sees the way Ana stares at him every time they interact but doesn’t try to pick the topic up anymore, which is just as well. Crowley knows exactly what she’s thinking. 

This goes on for a few weeks, they’re well into the autumn now and thoughts of everyone are already turning towards decorating houses for Halloween and carving pumpkins. It’s already dusk. Birds are chirping like there’s no tomorrow and Crowley is hanging out on the porch of Anathema’s cottage trying to discern them via his bird app which he grew to be very fond of. For example there this is one kingfisher that comes back every evening to perch on the neighbour’s aerial. Every evening it sings out it song and disappears to come back the following evening.. Tonight belonged to a nightingale however, a lone graceful singer brightening the falling night. Crowley couldn’t help but wonder if it was the same one that lifted Crowley’s grief away several weeks ago. 

It’s strange still being here after all that’s happened, but also weirdly comforting. There is something very calming and profound in listening to the sounds of nature, in learning its language and patterns. As if the fields and woodlands and birds spoke to him directly. Or as if he’s finally learned to understand and appreciate its subtle song. Noticing patterns that had always been there, as if someone or something opened up his eyes after a very long slumber. 

Listening to the birds singing, to the crickets chirping, to the wind quietly rustling in the leaves is makes him feel like he is a part of something much bigger than himself. It’s making him feel like he belongs to this world in a way that he never had before. Like he can almost grasp his intended purpose.

For the first time in a long while he’s feeling… hopeful.

“Ah, this is where you’ve been hiding.” Aziraphale says, closing the door to the cottage behind himself. Crowley’s too focused to look back or realise it’s the first time they’re alone since he crashed on Aziraphale’s couch after Anathema’s accident, so long ago now.

“What are you doing?” he asks, peering at Crowley’s smartphone.

“Just watching birds, got this app,” Crowley gestures at his phone briefly then puts it back in his pocket. 

Once he might have latched onto the opportunity to entertain Aziraphale, hold his attention in any way possible, but he doesn’t want to perform anymore. He knows that for the right people he doesn’t need to.  

It's a little odd—this new power balance between them. Finding out that, he doesn’t need Aziraphale’s regard to breathe. Sure, it’s still nice but it's not everything anymore. 

“You were saying?” Crowley prompts instead.

“Uh, yes, um.” Aziraphale mutters, he looks embarrassed or maybe just distressed. “I wanted to ask you something.”

Crowley raises a brow above his sunglasses. “Go on?”

“Right. I was thinking: do you think we could… see each other again? A little or… a lot maybe?”

Crowley not only blinks but even takes off his sunglasses to look directly at Aziraphale, trying to discern if he was asking what Crowley thought he was asking. Aziraphale on his part looks hopeful and unsure. Not at all like the same person who seduced him after the movie night several months back. He supposes they’re both very different than they seem on the surface.

The question echoes in his head, reverberates in his chest and goes down to his heart. He immediately realises that the way he feels about Aziraphale has changed too but not entirely in the way he expected. It reshaped itself into something new, something very different but not least weaker. This time however, Crowley has to protect himself.

“Why now Aziraphale? What changed?” He asks, eyes fixed firmly at the man in front of him.

Aziraphale fiddles with the hem of his waistcoat which is an obvious tell-tale for Crowley now, his eyes darting everywhere around but him. “Well, you’re here. Not somewhere far away, it seems daft not to—”

“I’m here for now.” Crowley cuts him off. “I don’t yet know where I will end up being.” He says even if at this precise moment he has no intention of leaving. He has a feeling they should have had this discussion a long long time ago. “What will happen if I find a job I really like somewhere else? Somewhere far away? How would we make it work then?” he challenges.

“You could stay here, just for a bit.” Aziraphale offers. “If you… if you wanted to. I don’t want to presume.” he quickly adds, his nervous fiddling intensifying. “And afterwards if you decide you don’t like it here… we could move somewhere else. Anywhere really, Just not to London, please.”

“We?” Crowley repeats, thinking he misheard but Aziraphale nods. Crowley blinks, genuinely surprised. “You would really do that? For me?”

“I’m not an immovable object, Crowley.”

And how can Crowley respond to that? “You’re an angel, I didn’t think angels could be tempted,” he says playfully because humour is all the defense he has left. 

“I’m not an angel.” Aziraphale sighs, his features turning serious. “I’m not any good at this, all of my relationships ended up with me shutting my friends and partners out. Tracy, Ana, people in the village, you. The truth is… it's been easier, that way. Commitment was never my strong suit.” He pauses. “I’m sorry, Crowley, I was wrong about you. It’s clear you’re well capable of taking care of Ana and yourself.”

Crowley softens then, seeing Aziraphale vulnerable and bare in front of himself, all the layers stripped, all the performance and pretense. He could remain silent but he can also be brave and honest in return. 

 “Not really, angel. I needed to change certain things in my life that I kept neglecting. I needed that wake up call.”

Aziraphale gives him a sad smile and nods in understanding. “Then I should have found a better way to deliver it.”

“Maybe you should have.” Crowley agrees and they both look at each other in silence for a while. An unspoken question in the air—this might be settled but where do they go from here?

Aziraphale dares to break the silence first.

“I just… I’ve never expected this. It was too good to be true and I was too afraid of what it was becoming.” He takes a breath, suddenly sorrowful. “I might not know much but I have this feeling I’ve made a horrible mistake and if I walk away from you now I will be walking away from the best thing that ever happened to me in my life. So if you think there is even the smallest chance that we could… fix it and move past this somehow, I am willing to take it.”

By the time Aziraphale finishes his monologue he looks much more put together, much more sure of himself. Of his intention and the future he wants. Standing there, illuminated by the lamp behind him, he glows like a true angel. It’s clear to Crowley that there is strength in him he might not be aware he possesses. A comforting kind of reassurance in acknowledging past mistakes and wanting to move past them. A certainty, that Crowley realised only now, he was looking for all along.

Crowley leans in on the post of the porch, much calmer now and in peace with the choice he wanted to make all along. He leans towards Aziraphale and extends his hand to push a stray lock behind Aziraphale’s ear, sees him holding his breath.

“Let’s try this again then,” he says and kisses Aziraphale softly. 

Chapter Text

The mating dance before forming a relationship is what spikes Crowley’s anxiety the most, but the beginning of one is never free of it either. There is always this internal pressure quietly drumming under his skin, one that he puts on himself of course, that everything has to be perfect. And if it isn’t that means the relationship is wrong somehow, that he’s not really wanted. That he’s doing something wrong. 

This time it’s no different. But this time he also knows he just needs to take a deep breath and give it a little more time. Crowley is not like his father, he doesn’t have to run away from what’s already been broken once, he can work on fixing things. One mistake, one crack doesn’t mean the whole relationship is wrong. After all there are cracks in everything—that’s how the light gets in. 

It’s not always easy. But day by day he unwinds and relaxes that little bit more. It helps that Aziraphale really is with him every step of the way., always within reach.

Most things that would bother him before, don’t tick him off so much. Like Aziraphale not immediately responding to his texts or going to meet their neighbour when he wanted to stay at home to work on the garden. It still flares up occasionally, Crowley suspects it will never disappear entirely, but even then it feels like a song of the past, much less acute than before.

Nothing makes him feel more at peace and fills him with a long lost sense of security like watching Aziraphale read by the fireplace—deep in thought, his reading glasses high on his nose, brow slightly furrowed. A mug of hot cocoa on the coffee table beside him. The fire crackling in the background. Crowley could watch him like that for days. Sometimes he thinks he just might since Aziraphale completely loses track of time when reading. That is comforting too. 

One day Aziraphale turns to him and says: “I’ve heard it said before but it was you who finally made me believe that I am beautiful. That will always be special to me.”

It makes Crowley’s heart squeeze in his chest. He never thought he’s got a lot to offer, he doesn’t have much after all. But in that moment he understands there are more things to give beyond the tangible. 

Little by little Crowley sinks into the comforting acceptance of it all like he sinks under the many colourful scarves Aziraphale wraps him in winter. He’s not even fighting it this time, likes it even, in a weird way. Feels that Aziraphale marks him for his own. You are mine, it says, and I am yours, Crowley tells him, slipping his hand into Aziraphale’s as they walk through their village’s Christmas market. 

There are lights everywhere—flickering at them from every stall and every corner. There is even a fully decorated Christmas tree, though Crowley has no idea who placed it on the village green. They buy funny hand-made knick-knacks and home-made pies, and mulled wine. Walking hand in hand among friends. It feels unreal in more ways than one.

The coat that hangs on his shoulder is at least one size too big but it allows him to have a thick jumper underneath. One that Airaphale knitted for him especially. It’s very unstilish but Crowley can’t even pretend to care anymore—he loves it and wears it almost all of the time. The tartan scarf spiraling around his neck almost reaches the tops of his ears. 

“Hi Crowley!” Anathema greets him with unbridled joy. She’s cradling her own mug filled with mulled wine, steam rising up to fog her glasses a little. Newt is by her side with his own drink.

“Fancy seeing you here,” Crowley quips back and snickers. Anathema rolls her eyes. The whole village is here tonight.

“Nice work on your last project. Clients are ecstatic, they won’t shut up on how much they like your design on that barn conversion.” She tells him, all excited. Turns out they make a good team at work.

Crowley feels that pleasant warmth spreading in his stomach. This is why he got into designing in the first place. Who’d have thought barn conversions deep in the English countryside would become his speciality when he chose to be an architect? Definitely not him. 

“They only got permission thanks to your planning wizard over there,” he points at Newt. “Wyre Forest is notorious for refusals, all submissions have to be ironclad.”

Anathema tips her head to the side but it’s Newt who speaks first.  “Couldn’t take a compliment to save your life, eh?”

Crowley grins but then he feels Aziraphale’s reassuring hand on his back, holding him with a grip that speaks of care and confidence.

“We’re working on it,” Aziraphale responds instead and Crowley has to push his face further down into his scarf to hide his quickly heating up cheeks. “Especially now that building works have started on our cottage. I have not appreciated how much work goes into making sure every element is constructed properly!”

Our cottage, Crowley thinks, almost too drunk on that thought alone to follow where the conversation goes next. The way Aziraphale speaks about it so casually fills him with confidence, hope and conviction about their future. It makes him feel… safe. Safer than he’s ever felt before.

The conversation carries on as more people approach them to chat. Crowley follows it for a bit but he also has this strange impression as if he was watching himself from the outside, and finds it hard to believe how far he’s come in the past year. How much he managed to turn his life around. He found the love of his life, he changed his job for the better but he’s also part of something bigger, something he never thought he would have. He is part of a community. 

Is there still anything left to worry about? Of course there is, and Crowley suspects there will always be something. Aziraphale’s family for one. But he’s also learning to trust a little bit more, and take it one day at a time, one foot in front of the other foot, instead of planning his entire eternity. 

Aziraphale’s hand in his is warm and comforting. Crowley squeezes it lightly to remind himself to focus on the present. 

“Everything alright, dear?”

“Yes,” Crowley smiles. “It couldn’t have been better.”

The End