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Chapter Text

Hello dearest friends and family! If you received this letter, then you’ve been chosen to spend ten magical days of Christmas in paradise with us, celebrating the most wonderful time of the year and the never ending, cosmic bond our souls share!

And worry not, do you think we’d let you get bored? Each activity is optional, but fun is mandatory! Make sure to pack sun cream, bathing suits and a big enthusiasm!!
We can’t wait to have you all here!! Let the love flow!!

XOXO, Gabriel and Rory - soulmates and twin flames 

“Twin flames,” Aziraphale mutters to himself, folding the letter in his lap. “Let the love flow.” 

He won’t even think about all of the exclamation points. 

There is more in the envelope. He can spot what looks like a leaflet and a smaller, square piece of paper. He picks the latter, merely hoping for less exclamation points. 

Aziraphale!!! My dearest baby brother!!!

Well. 

This is your personal invitation, make sure to bring it with you to the resort, or they won’t let you in. You know, exclusive and everything. My treat, of course!!!

Of course. 

I’m not asking you to be my best man, since Rory and I believe in equality and don’t want our guests to suffer the implication of a hierarchy. But, you’re my brother, I had to do something special for you!!! So I have reserved you a whole…bungalow!!! Near the main house where me and Rory and his family will stay!!!

Delightful. 

And it’s big enough for two people. I know you’ve been hiding something, you big dog. Bring the man!!! Give me a ring as soon as you can. I’ll see you soon baby brother!

Aziraphale puts the piece of paper on his desk, along with the previously folded letter and the rest of the content of the envelope. He loosens his bow-tie, reclining on his chair. Then, head buried in his hands, he enjoys a very satisfying private scream. 

He takes out the leaflet. Wedding bells, flamingoes, clownfish and seashells decorate the border of the front page, a big, glittery RORIEL FEST! proudly on the top. Aziraphale’s left eye twitches.

“Alright,” he breathes out. “Let us see.” 

Each page of the leaflet is dedicated to a specific day. Apparently, Rory and Gabriel managed to reserve multiple rooms and beaches on the exclusive resort for their… fest. Each day is packed with activities and meals and group bonding experiences. The guest schedule is packed from dusk till dawn. 

Aziraphale loses the bow-tie altogether, freeing two buttons as well, and refocuses on the schedule. “I can do this.” 

On the first day of Christmas my true love gave to me a… zumbaaaa class! 

He immediately skips to the second day.

Finger painting morning extravaganza! 

Ocean themed movie marathon! 

Arts and Crafts with Rory! 

Aziraphale’s nose twitches. He opts to skip day three and four, and hops to the fifth, since five is, historically, his favourite number. 

Karaoke day!!! Gabriel’s favs!!!

Well then. His throat is already dry, and he’s barely halfway through. He just skips all the way to the end. End his sufferings and everything; he’s always believed euthanasia to be medical care. 

On the last day of Christmas… true love comes to you!!! Join us for the best day of our life on the Roriel Beach! Tissues strongly recommended!!!

“Hm.” He says. He stares at the leaflet, the left bottom corner crumpling under the strength of his white knuckle grip. He keeps staring, the hustle and bustle of London outside drowning the white noise in his ears. He lets go of the leaflet, and screams again.

Obviously, that’s where the bell above the shop door dingles. He should have remembered the number one rule of being a shopkeeper: the mental breakdowns are reserved to the backroom. 

“Closed!” He calls out, muffled by his hands. He can’t be bothered, not today. Not that he is ever particularly bothered. 

“Er, I have those Austen first editions you’ve been after for months?”

Oh, of course. Of course it couldn’t have been the religious solicitor he usually scares away in mere seconds. 

Aziraphale lowers his hands. “Oh. Crowley. Hello.” 

Crowley is a friend. If Aziraphale were to be honest, Crowley is his dearest friend. They met ten years ago at a book fair in Paris, and Aziraphale still isn’t sure what Crowley’s job is. He says he’s a professional finder: his clients want something, he finds it for them, he gets paid, everyone is happy.

The first thing he found for Aziraphale was a misprinted Bible everyone in the misprinted Bible community (yes, it does exist) thought was just a myth. Aziraphale did too, and honestly only hired Crowley for laughs. Yet, two weeks later, the man sauntered into his shop, ever present sunglasses and black ensemble in check, a fedora, of all things, hiding the shock of red hair and, under his arm, the legendary Buggre Alle Bible. Aziraphale had not blinked for three full minutes. Then, he offered Crowley a glass of wine. Crowley accepted. 

They’ve been friends ever since.

It always goes like this: Aziraphale muses out loud about some kind of rare book he’s after, Crowley hums and says he’ll find it, Aziraphale says he’s not asking, Crowley waves a hand and two to three weeks later, he saunters into the shop with the book under his arm, Aziraphale closes the shop and they drink wine or tea or hot chocolate and talk about everything and nothing until one of them, usually Crowley, falls asleep on the settee in the back. 

Ten years like this, and Crowley has become his dearest friend. Aziraphale has stopped paying him after that first Bible, not for lack of trying. Crowley just waves a hand and demands a glass of something, and that’s it. Aziraphale just enjoys seeing his friend and getting rare books for free.

“Were you screaming?” Crowley walks up to his desk, depositing the first editions on Aziraphale’s desk, and points at the discarded bow-tie. “Why are you naked?” 

Aziraphale sighs, walking up to the door to turn the sign on Closed. Normally, he would be overly excited about the new books, demanding a full day of no disturbances to properly assess them. Not today. “I’m opening the Shiraz.”

Crowley whistles. “Is this a Shiraz kind of situation?” 

Aziraphale doesn’t reply, and Crowley follows him to the back room, where they assume their usual positions. Crowley on the settee, legs up and everything, Aziraphale in the armchair, pouring the wine in the glasses on the little coffee table. “This is an ethylic coma kind of situation.”

Crowley’s mouth twitches, and his throat makes that clicking sound it makes when he doesn’t want to laugh at something Aziraphale said. “What’s up?”

Aziraphale downs his first glass as if it were a shot. It goes against every single one of his beliefs about savouring, but needs must. He pinches the bridge of his nose and takes a deep breath. “My brother is getting married.” 

Crowley, like a normal person, takes a sip. “Right. Congratulations?”

Aziraphale clicks his tongue. He pours another glass. “My former homophobic brother, who stopped interacting with me fifteen years ago aside from the lovely death threats he sent me twice, is getting married to a man.”

Crowley stares. He puts down both the glasses and his feet, assuming a more or less normal sitting position. He even removes his glasses, discarding them somewhere on the settee. “Former homophobic brother.” 

Aziraphale hums. “Yes, well. He’s been to therapy. Apparently he was just repressed and had anger management issues.” Aziraphale downs his second glass. “He found the light or something. And then got engaged to his therapist, so I guess it went well.” 

Crowley keeps staring. It’s worse without the glasses. Aziraphale can see the horrors he’s feeling reflected into Crowley’s deep brown eyes. “I don’t think an ethylic coma is enough, actually.” He leans forward and takes the glass, already full again, from Aziraphale’s hand. “But let’s slow down a tick, maybe.” 

Aziraphale rolls his eyes, but doesn’t protest. He sighs as he burrows deeper into his armchair. “Obviously, he invited me. A ten day long Christmas wedding extravaganza in some Maldivian exclusive resort.” He laughs. “His treat, obviously.” 

“A ten day long Christmas wedding extravaganza.” Crowley echoes. “That must be the most insane sentence I’ve ever heard you uttering.” 

“In the Maldives. The beach theme is important.” He waggles two fingers in the direction where they came from. “There’s a leaflet on my desk.” 

Crowley immediately shoots up. “May I?”

“Be my guest.”

It’s mildly amusing to observe Crowley’s facial reactions to the Roriel Fest. His eyes go from bemused to disgusted to confused to downright horrified. He looks up. “Why aren’t they institutionalised?” 

Aziraphale, at least, giggles. “This is a nightmare.”

“Zumba class? Arts and crafts? Karaoke?” Crowley’s voice gets progressively higher. “Is this a horror movie setting? Do they kill the guests and serve human meat at the reception? No, seriously, have you ever seen Midsommar?” 

Aziraphale rubs circles into his temples. The two glasses shot down on an empty stomach after a mental breakdown were, perhaps, not his brightest moment. “Have you seen the exclamation points?” 

“I think the glittery Roriel is worse.” Crowley grimaces. “Are you sure you two are related?” 

“Well, I do have the scar on my knee to remind me of when he pushed me off of my newly gifted bicycle just because he wanted to be the only one with a bicycle, so.” Aziraphale says. “A hundred percent blood related. Unfortunately.” 

Crowley twirls the leaflet in his hands, muttering zumba to himself almost rhythmically. “Are you going?” 

Fair question. Aziraphale lets a moment pass, teeth sinking into his lower lip. “I don’t think so.” 

Crowley hums, and tops off Aziraphale’s glass, having seemingly changed his mind about slowing down. Aziraphale wonders whether zumba or karaoke are to blame. “I mean, ten days in the Maldives, skipping the whole…” he wiggles his fingers around a bit. “Jolly good time here, and paid by your arsehole brother.”

“Can you honestly picture me in a zumba class?”

Crowley’s bodily shudder at the word ‘zumba’. “You could just… pretend to be injured or something.” He sits up straighter and clears his throat. “I do apologise brother dearest, I took a terrible tumble the other day, you see. I’m afraid I can only rest poolside and sip cocktails with tiny umbrellas.” 

The impression is, unfortunately, uncanny, if a bit high pitched. Aziraphale bites the inside of his cheeks and fights against the corners of his mouth, lifting up without his permission. “I do not talk like that.” 

“Yeah, and you don’t like frilly pink cocktails.” Crowley grins. “Mr. I only drink Sherry in the pub.” 

“I hate Talisker,” Aziraphale says snippily. “And it was embarrassing enough when you called me Miss Marple in front of the whole pub, thank you.”

Crowley makes a sound halfway between a snort and a chuckle, clearly pleased with himself. As if that wasn’t the entire reason they didn’t go to the pub anymore after that. As Aziraphale huffs, Crowley toes off his boots and lays back down on the settee, feet up on the armrest and heads pillowed on his crossed arms. 

It’s one of those days then. On days like this, when Crowley relaxes and makes himself at home, they spend the rest of the afternoon together, more often than not venturing outside after sundown to find something to eat and, on Aziraphale’s favourite days, Crowley will stay for the night, falling asleep on his spot after the obligatory nightcap, and the next morning they’ll stop for a pastry at Aziraphale’s favourite bakery around the corner, before parting to go back to real life. 

They haven’t had a day like this in so long, now that he thinks about it. Aziraphale misses it. He always misses Crowley, but after the day he’s had, he finds himself vibrating with hopefulness. “Comfortable?” 

Crowley frowns and gapes like a fish, which in his vast world of non-verbal clues means yes. “As I was saying, it could be fun, y’know?” 

Aziraphale raises an eyebrow at the non sequitur. “What?” 

“Using your brother’s money to enjoy yourself in paradise.” Crowley clicks his tongue. “Seems like the sort of thing you’d like.” 

Well. It is, it’s the thing. When he first got the parcel that morning, that was the half form planned in his mind: a ten day long extravaganza of his own, made of the most elaborate cocktails and fruit plates he could come up with, the fanciest bottle of wines and the most expensive massages the resort offered, gently provided by dearest Gabriel. It would have been fun, if it wasn’t for that damnable piece of paper accompanying the invite. 

Big enough for two people!!! Bring the man!!! Aziraphale sighs. “Well, not this time, I’m afraid.”

Crowley’s face does that whole scrunchy thing it does when he wants to ask more but refrains himself. “Why?” 

There’s the thing with Crowley Aziraphale finds most charming. Well, besides the underlying shyness and the poorly hidden nerdiness and the long, lean lines of his figure and his honey brown eyes and his slightly crooked nose - where was he? Ah, right. He’s always found Crowley’s inquisitiveness most charming. Today, he could do with a lot less questions. “Because, Crowley. Just because.” 

Crowley rolls his eyes. “No need to get all snippy. I asked you a question, because I know you and you love a good all inclusive retreat. I mean, I get not wanting to interact with your shitty family, but you’re pretty good at ignoring your problems usually, just look at the state of these shelves -” 

“Crowley.” Aziraphale cuts him off. “I’m going to make some tea.” He doesn’t wait for a reply, just gets up and trots to the little kitchenette where he keeps a kettle and some mugs. He’s very, very English, alright? 

And it’s not like he can tell Crowley he doesn’t want to go because he’s embarrassed about the fact that his homophobic brother managed to find the right partner before him. First of all, it’s a terrible thing to think; second of all, it gets more humiliating with every second he spends thinking about it, so he busies himself with his tea-making. 

That is, of course, until he sees a dark, looming presence in the corner of his eyes. Aziraphale sighs. “Fancy a cuppa?” 

“I’m sorry,” Crowley replies. “Now drop the frowny face, please?” 

Aziraphale’s frown deepens. “I’m making you a cup of tea.”

“I was just curious,” Crowley continues, unperturbed by Aziraphale’s rather aggressive tea making. “You know how I am with questions, don’t you? I wasn’t - it’s an interesting thing that happened to you and I didn’t think you’d get all pouty so fast.”

“I’m not pouty -” Aziraphale makes the mistake of looking up and into Crowley’s eyes. 

Blimey. He’s doing the thing. Aziraphale is a hundred percent sure Crowley doesn’t know he does that thing, but when he gets worried or sad or upset about something his eyes get wider and he sinks his canine into his bottom lip and his cheekbones tinge the slightest bit pink. Add the messy hair and the dishevelled look of his formerly pristine button up to the ensemble, and Aziraphale is doomed. His mouth is open before he even gets the chance to debate against himself. “They booked me a private bungalow.” The kettle starts whistling. “For me and my plus one.”

Crowley leans with his back against the small counter, arms crossed and the rest of him very still. “Right.” 

Aziraphale splashes his cup of tea with one teaspoon of milk. “I don’t have a plus one.”

Crowley uncrosses his arms and exhales. “Well then - I mean not well, but then-” 

“And I would rather spare myself the humiliation of going to Gabriel’s wedding alone and proving him right in the process.” His throat is dryer than it was before and now he’s put way too much milk in his tea. He will not cry over his brother. He can convince his eyes not to sting, if he tries hard enough. 

Suddenly, Crowley’s hands are in his field of vision and they hover around his own, shaky ones for a moment before - before snatching the cup of tea and pouring it in the sink. 

Aziraphale stares at the beige stain at the bottom of the sink being slowly washed away by a feeble trickle of water. 

“You put too much milk in that.” Crowley says. “You only like your tea with the tiniest splash of milk.”

Aziraphale blinks once and looks up to stare at Crowley instead, who simply nudges him away with his shoulder. “Go and sit down. I’ll bring you your tea.” 

“I-” Aziraphale opens and closes his mouth. This has been such a weird day. “Alright.” 

Crowley takes just a few minutes before coming out with a perfectly made cup of tea. Aziraphale doesn’t even need to taste it to be sure of it - he even put in Aziraphale’s favourite mug, the white one with little wings. He shoots Crowley a grateful smile. 

Crowley plops down on the settee, sitting down almost properly this time. “I could tell you that you have nothing to be ashamed of and that you’re an idiot for even thinking about the word humiliation, but -” He lifts his pointer finger and wiggles in the air a bit, ignoring Aziraphale’s half formed protest. “I’m not going to. You’re a stubborn little shit when you want to be, which is actually all the time.”

“Why thank you.” Aziraphale deadpans. “Anything else?”

Crowley breathes. “I have an idea.” He starts smiling before finishing the sentence. “You won’t like it.” 

Aziraphale stops and thinks about a time when he liked one of Crowley’s ideas. 

There was the time he convinced Aziraphale to scam a rare manuscripts dealer to obtain a first edition of Frankenstein. It was horribly nerve wracking and he’d been plagued by guilt-fueled nightmares for weeks before and after, but the manuscript now occupies the place of honour in his private library. 

Or the time when Crowley dragged Aziraphale to a new posh restaurant in Mayfair, which promised modern twists on evergreen classics and fascinating new techniques. It was horrible: the amuse-bouche ended up being a single leaf of lettuce and the wine was actually deconstructed, and he got so mad while Crowley kept laughing they ended up getting drunk on the weirdly shaped grapes and later falling asleep in the backroom mid-argument. 

There was also the time when Crowley had the brilliant idea of going on a seaside trip in the middle of February. It was cold and damp and the wind was almost strong enough to knock them off their feet, but it was… also strangely lovely. He remembers how red Crowley’s hair looked in the grey-white light, how he ended up wrapping his scarf around his friend’s quivering shoulder muttering something about weather appropriate clothing. It was… a nice day. 

Aziraphale hates most of Crowley’s ideas on the spot. In the end though, not all of them are that bad. So he squares his shoulder and says: “Tell me about it.” 

Crowley is visibly excited. He’s trying to tone it down, but Aziraphale can see he’s fairly vibrating. “Take me as your plus one.” 

Aziraphale has heard Crowley say many things, some more insane than others. This - this may take the cake. “I beg your pardon?”

“No, no, listen to me. It makes sense,” Crowley marches on. “I can be very annoying. I assure you I can be the most annoying person in the world, I can spend the entire ten days glueing coins to the ground or hacking into your brother’s phone to get it to blast Silent Night at three in the morning on the dot.” 

Aziraphale does not question whether Crowley would actually be able to hack into another person’s telephone. “Crowley-”

“Just - just think about it: you wouldn’t be alone, I would get to be mean to an arsehole, we spend ten days enjoying ourselves on a beach, all paid for by said arsehole.” He finishes with another devastating grin. “As long as we skip zumba no matter what.”

Aziraphale stares until his eyes start stinging and he has to blink. Then, he downs the rest of his tea in one, long gulp. “I don’t believe I can bring a friend as a plus one.” 

Crowley’s smile dims a bit. “Well, as long as you think you can stand holding my hand or something, we could -”

“Pretend?” Aziraphale tries to modulate his voice to something less squeaky. It fails. “You - you think it would be less humiliating for me to ask my best friend to pretend to be my boyfriend?” 

Crowley is properly frowning now. “You did not ask, I did - and it’s not like - I mean, it’s just a bit of fun.” 

“A bit of fun.” Aziraphale echoes. He rubs tired fingers into his temples. This has been such a weird, weird day. “How could you even - who would even believe it?” 

Crowley goes still. Aziraphale has - somehow - said something horribly wrong. “Right.” He says. He puts the glasses back on. “It was just - nevermind.” 

“No, Crowley, don’t be dramatic.” Aziraphale says, a touch pleadingly. “I merely - I don’t understand. What would you even gain out of it?” 

It’s the wrong thing. Again. Crowley puts on his previously discarded boots with a scoff. 

They were supposed to spend the day together, and now Aziraphale has said something wrong, and he hates both saying something wrong and not knowing what it is, and he’s truly having a really bad day. “Would you stop -”

Aziraphale’s landline in the other room cuts the air with a loud, obnoxious trill. When it rains it pours, and Aziraphale would very much like another private scream. 

“You should get that,” Crowley says, buttoning his coat back up. “I’ll just - see myself out.”

Aziraphale resists the urge to groan out loud. Crowley has a penchant for the dramatics, after all. But he has a hunch that rolling his eyes right now would be very, very counterproductive. 

Not to mention he has to focus all of his will power into not marching to the other room and smash the landline. “Stop. You don’t have to go anywhere.”

Crowley tilts his head in the direction of the trilling. “Don’t you have to -”

“He’ll call back.” There are exactly two people in the whole world who call him on this number. One is in the room with him right now, the other one has rented an island for zumba. “Sit down and give me five minutes and don’t you dare leave.” He sighs then, as Crowley keeps on frowning. “Please.” 

Crowley frowns and lets his eyebrows do a very complicated dance before settling back down on the settee. “You’re very annoying.”

Blessedly, the phone stops ringing. Knowing Gabriel, Aziraphale has a minute of reprise before it starts trilling again. He allows himself one second to bury his face in his hands, unfortunately not for a scream. “And you’re very dramatic.”

“Forgive me Mr. Fell if I wanted to - oh, nevermind. I don’t even know why I’m sitting there.” Coat still buttoned up, Crowley crosses his arms and scoffs, shaking his head to add to the dramatic ensemble. He somehow looks like an Italian greyhound wearing an oversized sweater, and Aziraphale has to bite his cheek not to smile. 

“Well, I don’t know why you’re sitting there either.” Aziraphale gives him a once over. “You could at the very least unbutton your coat.” 

Crowley just coils his arms tighter around himself. “Just because you’re naked today doesn’t mean I have to unbutton anything.”

This time, Aziraphale does roll his eyes. “You’re ridiculous.” 

“You’re ridiculous!” As far as comebacks go, this is not Crowley’s best. 

“Why are we even fighting?”

“Because apparently we can’t do anything fun!” 

Aziraphale throws his hands up. “Are you seriously mad at me because I do not want to have you be my fake plus one at my brother’s wedding?”

“I’m mad because you think I had to gain something to -” 

The phone starts ringing again, and they both groan at the same time. Aziraphale doesn’t even have the time to enjoy this return to unity before Crowley’s glare hits him in full force. “Either you answer it in the next thirty seconds or I will smash it. You know I will.” 

Aziraphale doesn’t move from his spot. He’s still holding the tea cup with a white knuckle grip. He stares at Crowley and thinks and lets the phone ring. “We’re friends,” he says eventually, for no particular reason. 

There’s a tension in Crowley’s jaw, Aziraphale worries about his poor teeth. “Yes, you idiot. That’s the reason I’m mad. I - I have nothing to gain. You’re my friend.” 

Aziraphale supposes he’s starting to understand. Crowley is a good friend, you see. Always supporting and overwhelmingly nice, even if it is in that weird way of his. Sometimes, Aziraphale is kind of concerned about Crowley’s timing: whenever he’s having a bad week, he knows he’ll see Crowley showing up before long, with a distraction or a gift or a lunch invitation or whatever it is he’d come up with that day. It’s almost like Crowley can sense certain things or something. 

He never asked for anything in return. Not that he had to, as their friendship is not transactional, never has been, really. 

Oh, well. Aziraphale supposes he gets it now.

“I didn't mean it like that,” Aziraphale mumbles. “You know I didn’t mean it like that.” 

The phone stops ringing. Crowley lets out a long exhale. “Well, evidently I didn’t know.” 

“There is no need to get snarky.” Aziraphale finally puts the cup down and wiggles his fingers in Crowley’s direction. “And take off the bloody coat.” 

“No need to get snarky, he says.” Crowley unbuttons the coat slow enough to annoy Aziraphale. “I’m only doing this because you hate the planet and crank up the heat like it’s -”

The phone starts ringing again. Crowley stops working on his buttons and shoots up. 

Aziraphale doesn’t know whether he’d prefer Crowley smashing the phone or actually picking it up, so he just follows him with quick little steps. 

As soon as Crowley’s right hand is close enough to the handset, he kicks him very lightly in the back of his knees. Very, very lightly; a barely there kick, really. Crowley is just such an actor. 

He gets to the phone first. With a sigh, he picks it up. “Hello, Aziraphale Fell speaking. I’m afraid we’re definitely quite -”

“Baby brother!” 

Aziraphale winces. Why must Gabriel be so obnoxiously loud all the time? He glances sideways at Crowley who’s still hopping on one foot, muttering something that sounds suspiciously like little shit. He sighs again. “Gabriel. Hello.”

“Hello? Hello? Do I just get a hello?” Gabriel laughs, for whatever reason. Aziraphale mouths a stop that in Crowley’s direction, who just glares at him and keeps rubbing his knee. Seriously, so dramatic. “I am so happy to hear your voice, baby brother. How are you? How are things going? Is the business still flourishing?” 

He will not subject himself to small talk with his brother, who absolutely does not care about his bookshop, who probably doesn’t even know what kind of books he even sells. It never made a difference to him, anyway. “I received the parcel this morning.” Aziraphale says simply. “Congratulations.” 

“Oh, I know! That’s why I called you! Rory downloaded this little app on my phone so that I could track the letter!” Gabriel giggles again. “I watched the little blue man coming closer and closer to you until it -”

“Delightful.” Aziraphale exhales. “Again, congratulations to you both. I’m happy for you.”

Crowley, who has finally stopped bouncing on one leg and throwing expletives at Aziraphale, hops onto Aziraphale’s desk and mouths, “Liar.”  

“Hush,” Aziraphale mouths back. In his ear, Gabriel is gushing about soulmates and twin flames and whatever. Crowley leans forward to eavesdrop and gags at the mention of cosmic bonding rituals. 

“So!” Aziraphale can hear the clapping hands. He shudders. “Have you already booked your flight? Do you need help with that? Me and Rory can easily provide for it, in case-”

“That won’t be necessary.” Good Lord. “I can perfectly provide for myself.” 

Gabriel just tuts. Aziraphale can just see it in his head: the head tilt, the pout, the furrowed brows, and suppress another shudder. He can feel Gabriel’s eyes burning a hole in his head even miles away. Everyone always said they looked nothing alike, save for their eyes, the same deep shade of blue. Aziraphale has never seen it. “Now, Aziraphale, baby brother, there’s no need to escalate. I want to keep our interactions peaceful and enriching.” 

Crowley’s mouth hangs open. “What the hell?”

Aziraphale raises a pointed eyebrow. He knows. “So, did you need anything else from this call?” 

“Well!” There’s some more clapping, and some giggling in the background. “I have an ongoing bet with this little devil on my shoulder…” 

Aziraphale physically shuts his eyes and removes the phone from his ear. “Hang up,” Crowley whisper-shouts, “I am begging you, put an end to my suffering.” 

“So, no Rory-cakes, not now,” there’s some more giggling and some unidentified sounds. Aziraphale puts a hand on his forehead, Crowley mumbles an incredulous Rory-cakes. At least he has a witness to all this madness.

He feels his face soften as he glances at his still glaring, still sulking, still overdramatic lovely friend. He can even feel it in his voice as he urges Gabriel to get to the point already (without escalating, of course. God forbid things escalate). 

“So, uhm, you read how we booked you the couple's bungalow?”

Ah, great. Now it’s a couple’s bungalow. Aziraphale’s hold on the receiver tightens. “Yes. Lovely thought.” 

“Yes! Rory was just telling me it may have been a bit too forward of me, you know, I may have put you on the spot,” more giggling in the background. “But! But I know my baby brother, and he never tells me anything! I just bet you’re hiding someone, I mean, how could you not? Look at you! Well, I can’t look at you right now, but I meant -”

“Gabriel.” Aziraphale breathes. “I get it.” 

In his own sick and twisted way, Gabriel is trying. He calls Aziraphale every week, tells him all about himself and his new job and his new life and asks him actual questions, compliments him, pretends to know anything about book selling. He thinks he’s trying to… patch things up.

He’s never once apologised. Not once in all of these weekly phone calls. After a year, Aziraphale is pretty sure Gabriel doesn’t even know what his favourite book is. 

“So, uh, what’s his name? We’ll need to add him to the official guest list. Exclusive and all, you know how it is..” 

Aziraphale sinks his teeth in his bottom lip and lowers the receiver for a moment. In front of him, Crowley is looking at him expectantly, almost pained. 

His idea is - is madness. It’s ridiculous, embarrassing, humiliating, something so cliché not even the silly movies Crowley makes him watch use it as a trope. He shouldn’t even entertain it. He should reiterate how insane it is, and let Crowley sulk however long he sees fit. 

“You seriously want to go through that alone?” Crowley mumbles. “And not annoy them in the slightest? Seriously? Rory-cakes?” 

Aziraphale stalls. “Why do you want to subject yourself to this?” 

The old tea kettle in the back room has nothing on the sound Crowley makes. “Are you being dense on purpose?” Still perched on the desk, he extends one long leg to kick Aziraphale’s thigh, which, he supposes, is fair enough. “You’re my best friend. I won’t leave you on your own.” 

Aziraphale exhales, bites back a smile. There’s a voice still coming out of the phone. “Azi? You still there?” One year of calls, and Gabriel still doesn’t know Aziraphale despises that nickname.

Crowley is such a good friend. He’s always been the best of the two of them: the one with the gifts, the one calling, the one coming over. He deserves a better friend, Aziraphale has always thought so. 

“I am,” he replies to Gabriel. He looks at Crowley, and then sighs. There is truly only one person in the world who could get him to get along with the most insane of things just with a crooked smile - or grimace, in this case. 

Of course, Aziraphale had to fancy him. 

“It’s Anthony Crowley. Put that name on the reservation.” 

Gabriel lets him pick up after a few minutes of squeals and exclamation points he can actually hear in his voice. At least he manages to free himself before Rory can say hi!!!

“So,” Crowley says, feet swinging. “Jesus Christ.” 

Aziraphale keeps massaging his temples. “He’s awful. Well, I guess he’s trying but -”

“Still awful.”

“Yes.” Perhaps Aziraphale is being too harsh, or perhaps four decades of bullying are a bit hard to forget, despite the namaste and love Gabriel preaches now. 

“Well. Should we open the Barolo?” 

Of course Crowley knows about Aziraphale’s red wines collection. “We might as well.” 

So they end up back where this whole madness started. In the backroom, Crowley half lying down on the settee, Aziraphale burrowed into his armchair, glass in hand. This time at least he’s savouring it. 

Crowley is on a rant Aziraphale has tuned out for the most part. Something about names, perhaps? Something about what kind of name is Rory anyway? Short for what? Robert? Robin? What? Aziraphale merely hums; he does not know what Rory is short for and, speaking of names, his is Aziraphale - he will never comment on anyone else’s name.

Still, Crowley is ranting and moaning and the sound is actually kind of comforting. Aziraphale tunes the words out but basks for a while in the familiarity of his friend’s voice, forgetting about the whirlwind of thoughts currently plaguing him. 

It lasts, approximately, five minutes. 

“Gabriel is forty six.” Aziraphale says. “Which means he is one year older than me. Technically, only ten months, our parents got exceptionally busy that singular year they were married.”
Crowley tilts his head and blinks. He discarded the glasses and the shoes, much to Aziraphale’s quiet relief. “Alright?”

“You’ll need to know these details if we’re to pull this off.” Aziraphale refills his own glass. “Now, as for the rest of my family, I am pretty sure he invited most of our cousins. There’s Michael and Sandy, who I strongly advise you stay away from, then there’s Muriel, who’s probably adopted and actually really nice, and I do hope Sarah doesn’t show up because -”

“Uh, actually, uh, time out?” Crowley tries to mime the time out gesture, missing it completely. “Not the family tree when we’re two bottles deep, eh?”

Aziraphale hums noncommittally. “I suppose I could write it all down for you. Yes, I should actually, so that you don’t forget any details.” He traces the rim of the glass with his fingertips. “Should I also add facts about me?” 

“I know facts about you.” Crowley replies. “What? It’s not like we don’t know each other.”

“We have to fool an entire wedding party, Crowley.” Aziraphale quips. “You need to learn the right things.” 

“The right things.” Crowley echoes, raising an eyebrow. “You tell people your favourite colour is yellow but it’s actually the deep burgundy you painted the two columns outside. You take your tea with one splash of milk, no sugar when you’re home, but you add two tablespoons of sugar whenever you take it someplace else. You eat sandwiches with cutlery and you own multiple handkerchiefs with your initials on it. You  -” Crowley cuts himself off mid sentence with a wave of his hand. “I know things about you, what the hell. It’s been a decade.” 

Aziraphale has always considered Crowley a collector. He finds things, he collects them, then he gives them away to those who ask. But he remembers every single detail about the things he finds: he would burst into the bookshop at random times asking Aziraphale to take a drive with him to the particular location he found an old world map once because he remembered a nice tea shop near it; he would recall the name of the children of the old lady who sold him a Byron first edition and secretly send her a card every Christmas; he would never show up on Aziraphale’s birthday but always, always managed to make him found a little gift on his doorstep, year after year, without him ever having to tell him something about it.
Crowley collects things, and memories, and sometimes people. Aziraphale had never stopped to think about all the things he collected about him, during the years. So he sits in his armchair and stares, and stares, and stares, while he thinks about how no one ever knew about burgundy or two tablespoons of sugar because no one ever asked, but no one ever saw either. 

No one until Crowley. 

“You’re right, I think.” Aziraphale blurts out. “I - This is a sober kind of conversation.” And Aziraphale does not have any more fight in him, today. He cannot stop and think about all the things Crowley means to him right now, not after today. It’s an issue for future Aziraphale (and for every Aziraphale from ten years ago up until today, but whatever). Present Aziraphale is feeling a bit hungry. “Should we find something to nibble on?” 

Crowley blinks at him twice before shrugging. “Eh, why not. Just don’t ask me to move.”  

“I’ll go get the takeaway menus,” Aziraphale brushes his knees and gets up, giving his wobbly legs a moment. “And don’t you dare say a word about my takeaway menus.” 

“I’m just saying you could simply look it up on your phone if you were a normal person.” 

There. The familiarity of a well-practiced argument. This is what Aziraphale needs right now. 

When he comes back to the room, he finds Crowley sitting up, phone in hand and brows furrowed. “Do you trust my menus so little?” 

Crowley looks up. “Uh? No, I just booked our flights.” 

The menus drop to the floor with a dull thud. “What?”

“What?” Crowley tilts his head. “I had a discount given my air miles. I don’t trust that dinosaur you call a computer with my tickets, thank you very much, or the agencies you insist on going to like it’s 1987 or something.” 

“But,” Aziraphale starts, nails digging into his palms. 

“You have the window seat.” Crowley continues, clearly unbothered. “Thank me later. Now, I’m looking into the last bit, you know the one with the little death trap called a seaplane, and I need the name of the atoll - are you alright?” 

Aziraphale is clearly not, standing in the middle of his backroom with balled fists and flared nostrils. “I am perfectly capable of handling my own transportation.” 

Crowley blinks. “Jesus. Big words? Are you big words mad right now?” 

“I do not - Crowley!” He gives up, arms flailing around. “You’re very good at this fake boyfriend thing. Already patronizing me.” With a huff, he leans down to pick up the discarded menus, ignoring Crowley’s spluttering.

“Patronizing - what are you talking about?” 

“Oh, poor Aziraphale, there is no way he can book his own flight, I certainly have to do it for him!” The dumplings offer from the Chinese place down the street crumbles in his hands. “Poor Aziraphale, it’s not like he operates a business on his own, does his taxes on his own, has lived on his own for half of his life - he’s certainly not able to handle an airline website!” The Italian Delights suffer the same fate. 

Somehow, Crowley is now kneeling down in front of him, wrestling the Italian Delights out of his hands. “I wasn’t - oh, come on! I was doing you a favour!” 

“See! You also have the gaslighting down to a science!” 

“I - you - I didn’t even know you knew the word gaslighting.”

“Oh, seriously?” With a firmer thug, he snatches the damn menu out of Crowley’s grasp for good. “I am so glad you think so highly of my intellect.”

“Stop victimizing the Italian Delights. I was in the mood for some -”

“Crowley!”

“Fine!” Crowley throws his hands up in defeat. “I apologise for being a travel freak who needs to have tickets in his Apple Wallet one month in advance! Oh, will I patronize you if I ask whether you know what an Apple Wallet is?”  

Aziraphale exhales and hides his face in his hands, certainly not because he won’t admit he has no idea about what an Apple Wallet is. There’s a hand somewhere around his shoulder. “I’m not your brother, Aziraphale. I guess I should have asked you before -”

Aziraphale looks up. “You guess?” 

“Shut up.” Crowley says, a corner of his mouth already twitching. “I didn’t mean to patronize you. Who do you think I am?” 

Aziraphale stares at Crowley for a while. The way those brown eyes shine is honestly unfair. “I do not know what an Apple Wallet is.” 

Crowley snorts, then gets up, offering a hand. “Let’s just eat.”

Aziraphale takes the offered hand. “I will refund you.” He lifts two fingers as soon as Crowley opens his mouth. “This is non negotiable, Anthony.” 

“Well, damn.” The Anthony in question whistles. “Can I at least buy dinner?” 

He probably feels worse about the whole incident than he’s letting on. Aziraphale never calls him by his first name and he certainly never accused him of gaslighting before, either. And the way Crowley’s brows are still twitching and the hand he offered Aziraphale is still squeezing tells him he definitely feels he needs to overcompensate. I’m not your brother. Aziraphale tries for a smile. “Alright, then. Dessert included, travel freak.” 

Dinner comes shortly after - one perk of living and working in Soho, London. Good food and good delivery services are just around the corner. Aziraphale enjoys his linguine and for the first time in this awful day he allows himself to relax, enjoying a story about Crowley’s pet fish, Lola, who he is immensely fond of, and enjoying a change of topic most of all. 

Well, not really. He really is immensely fond of Lola - which is probably a silly thing to be so fond of, but Aziraphale has been enamored of the Betta Fish ever since he first laid eyes on the purple blue scales and the flowy fins, the first time he visited Crowley’s place and spent the better part of fifteen minutes just watching her float in her tank. Such a mesmerizing creature. 

“Oh!” He gasps. “What will she do when you’re away?”

“Float.” Crowley replies around a mouthful of aubergines. Aziraphale smacks him in the chest. “She has her special tank which gives her food every six hours. And I pay an employee of a fancy pet shop to come and change the water and clean the filter when I’m away.” 

“Oh.” Aziraphale breathes. He never once asked himself about Lola and her whereabouts on Crowley’s business trips. Why is he such a terrible friend and why is he only realising it today? “You could have asked me. I would have been happy to provide for Miss Lola.” 

Crowley glances at him, taking another bite of his parmigiana before replying. “You. Happy to clean out shitty fish water.”

It’s not like that would be Aziraphale’s dream job, but, “I love Lola.” 

“Want to see her?” Crowley picks up his phone again, beckoning Aziraphale to move closer. “Her fancy tank has a camera on it - wait a second.” 

Aziraphale smiles as a blurry image of a fish tank appears on the little screen. In the far right corner, a little purple-bluish blur floats happily. He traces it with a finger, leaning more into Crowley’s space. “Hello there, little lady.” 

“You truly like the fish.”

Aziraphale looks up, finding Crowley already looking at him. It’s the golden hue of the many lamps inside the shop, it’s the lingering smell of good food still in the air, it’s the silence between them - but the moment feels so soft. Warm. Special. 

Aziraphale lowers his gaze back to Crowley’s phone. “I was very mad today.”

“I know. I could tell.” 

A testament to a truly draining, truly awful, truly weird day, Aziraphale sighs and rests his head on Crowley’s shoulder, who tenses for a second before relaxing again. 

They don’t do this very often. They’ve probably hugged twice in their whole acquaintance, and Aziraphale has never found it in himself to be more open to casual, free touches, never brave enough to voice his actual wishes. A legacy from the way he grew up, and a proof of how well he knows himself and how greedy he can be. 

Today, though, today he is too tired to care. He just needs a friend. “It’s going to be fine. We’re going to be so annoying.”

Aziraphale huffs a laugh. “I cannot believe you talked me into this.” 

Crowley hums. “Zumba.” 

“Arts and crafts.” 

“Karaoke.” He feels Crowley’s shoulder vibrate under his temple. “Seriously, are you sure this is not an elaborate ploy to murder you?”

“I’m not, actually.” He’s actually entertained the thought, as he was analyzing the glittery Roriel Fest earlier. “At least the location would be nice.” 

“Nothing like getting slaughtered on a zumba dancefloor.” 

“You don’t need a dance floor for zumba.” Aziraphale chuckles. “Why are you so obsessed with zumba?” 

“Long story,” Crowley replies. “You don’t want to know. Trust me.” 

Aziraphale does. Damn him, he does. 

He’s trusted Crowley since their very first conversation. Fussy, annoying creature of habit Aziraphale Fell trusted a stranger dressed with skinny jeans, of all things, ever since they spoke for the first time. There is no one else on the planet who could have talked him into this kind of madness. 

“Aziraphale?” 

He blinks. “Yes?”

“Is your passport up to date? I could look into checking in early -”

“Oh, good Lord Anthony.” 

“Passport?”

“It’s in the inside pocket of my jacket.”

“You should put it somewhere safer.”

Aziraphale sighs. Crowley was not kidding about being a travel freak.

In the past month, they’ve been to clothing stores, because Crowley was sure Aziraphale’s summer wardrobe wasn’t suitable (he was right), suitcases stores, because Crowley didn’t deemed Aziraphale’s usual luggage acceptable (he was, once again, right) and to more lunches and dinners they’ve ever been to, to get their story straight. 

Aziraphale hasn’t stopped to think about how twisted it is to see his favourite person so often just so they can successfully fool his entire extended family into thinking they’re a real couple. If he does, he’ll have to excuse himself and enjoy a number of private screams. 

“It’s fine, dear. Everything is ready, you know it is. Nothing has changed in the past thirty minutes.” 

Crowley stops fiddling with his duffle bag. “Can I please -”

“Sweet Jesus.” Aziraphale reaches into his jacket and hands him his passport. “Relax, Crowley.” 

“Aw, look at you playing the boyfriend perfectly. Already telling me I should just relax.” 

“I don’t like you.” Aziraphale bites back a smile. “Now, onto more important things.” 

Crowley cuts him off with a lifted finger. “We keep our first meeting the same, old books galore, blah blah. Then somewhere along the line in the past year we started going out, vavoom, love aplenty. Stay away from the bald cousin, interact with Muriel, try to figure out what the hell Rory stands for, do not get sunburnt.” 

Aziraphale blinks. He gets an unscratchable itch every time they go over their makeshift love story. “I was actually about to tell you I was going to look at Lola for a while.” 

Crowley raises an eyebrow. “Be my guest.” 

They’re staying at Crowley’s place for the night, since it’s closer to the airport and he’s the only one of them who owns a car. Aziraphale has successfully avoided panicking in the past month, losing himself in preparations and packing and the all hubbub of owning a shop in London in December.

Now, the suitcases are packed and stashed in Crowley’s living room, the guest room is made for him, and the panic is ebbing just below Aziraphale’s skin. 

He’s doing this. He’s actually doing this. He’s spending ten days in the Maldives with Anthony Crowley as his fake plus one to his brother’s wedding. 

Lola floats in her fancy tank, a whirlwind of purple scales. Aziraphale stares and wishes he could take her place, just floating around without a thought in the world until New Year’s. He would make a good fish, actually. He taps on the glass three times, grinning as Lola comes his way in a swirl of fins. She’s truly so pretty. 

Aziraphale never considered himself partial to pet fish or any other pets, but something about Lola hypnotizes him. Perhaps he is so fond of her because he is very fond of her owner. 

Which is - which is such an embarrassing thought -

“Hey.”

Aziraphale doesn’t jump. That would be ridiculous. He just lost himself there, for a moment. “Yes?” 

Crowley looks at him funnily for a moment. Aziraphale steps away from the tank with a light flush. “You’re a nerd.” 

“Yes, well. Do you have something new to tell me?”

Crowley tries to hide his snort with a cough, only earning an eye roll. “We’re leaving at three thirty in the morning, so I’m going to sleep now.” 

Aziraphale glances at his watch. It’s five past eight. “You can… sleep now?” 

“Eh. I’ll close my eyes and it’ll just come.” Crowley just shrugs. Aziraphale has always been envious of people who could just - sleep. 

“I’ll - will it bother you if I stay up for a bit?” 

“It will bother me if you can’t get up on time.”

Aziraphale stares. There is truly no one else who can build up his annoyance quite like Crowley. “I have insomnia. I will be up before you.”

In the many years of knowing each other, Aziraphale has catalogued a fair share of Crowley’s throaty, non verbal responses. This is a new one. “Since when?”

“Since I was a child?” 

“Why didn’t I know it?” Crowley’s frown just deepens. “Every time I stayed over-”

“I slept very little, yes. You just didn’t notice.” Aziraphale huffs. “It’s alright, really. I will just relax and wait for you to call me.” 

Crowley wants to say something more, Aziraphale can see it. In the end, he decides against it for some reason. “Fine,” he says flatly. He lifts two thumbs. “I’ll just -” 

Aziraphale gives him a small smile. “Good night.” 

Crowley mumbles something before disappearing down the hallway. Aziraphale turns back to whisper a goodnight to Lola before settling on the sofa, surrounded by their suitcases, and picking up one of the books he packed for entertainment. 

He barely makes it ten pages into The Secret Garden before losing what little focus he had to begin with. It’s just the damn suitcases’ fault for staring at him and reminding him of what he’s about to do. 

He doesn’t want to see his family again. He doesn’t want to hear Gabriel’s loud voice in person and to properly meet namaste and love Rory, he doesn’t want to interact with his cousins and to subject himself to their… looks. There’s a reason he stopped visiting home for Christmas, and it wasn’t because of Gabriel’s less than concealed homophobia or his mother’s death. 

They always looked at him like he was a stranger. And perhaps he was, he is, with his blonde hair nobody else in the family shares and his preference for neutrals and his love for books and a quiet life. He’s always been the different one, the black sheep: it bothered him once, when he still cared about them. Sometimes, it still bothers him; other times, he’s more bothered by how little he cares. It’s still family, after all. That must mean something, right?

He should be bothered by how much he’s dreading this trip. He should be bothered by how much he’s glad he’s not going through it alone, despite it being a farce, despite it being dangerous for his -

“Hey.” 

The book drops from his hands with a loud thud. “Oh, good Lord. You gave me a heart attack.”

Crowley sits down next to him on the sofa, changed into comfier clothes. Aziraphale ignores how the sight makes his chest tighten. “I can’t sleep knowing you’re awake now.” 

Aziraphale sighs. “I’m sorry? I thought you knew that.” 

“Well, I didn’t.” He lets his head fall on the back of the sofa, red hair spread everywhere. “Any other life shattering information I should know about?” 

Aziraphale turns to look at him properly. “I actually hate books. The shop is a cover up for my underground activities.” 

“I knew that already. The lady in the coffee shop in front of you thinks you’re a criminal.”

Aziraphale laughs quietly. “Go to sleep.” 

“I can’t. It’s too weird knowing you’re here, awake.” 

Aziraphale bends down to pick up his book. “I have entertainment.” 

Crowley leans further back and closes his eyes, arms crossed. Aziraphale raises an eyebrow before the request even passes Crowley’s lips, and starts reading chapter one from the beginning, out loud. 

It’s not a new arrangement. It started one night, back in the bookshop, when a rather intoxicated Crowley said Aziraphale had the kind of voice fit to narrate audiobooks. Aziraphale, who abhors audiobooks and everything that is not strictly words-on-paper, had laughed it off in the beginning, but after two more glasses he picked up his previously discarded book and just… started reading out loud. He enjoyed it. 

He still enjoys it. Words spoken aloud take a whole different meaning, a deeper connecting force. He likes how the sentences flow from his mouth, how his voice changes to modulate according to different characters and scenarios, and how the scenes come to life with his voice. He likes how Crowley relaxes when he reads out loud, how his face softens and betrays his enjoyment, how he always, always manages to fall asleep. 

He gets through three chapters before Crowley’s snores become too loud to be ignored. As always, he allows himself one minute of unashamed ogling and one single touch to the red strands he’s grown so used to long for. Then, he nudges Crowley’s shoulder, progressively harder until he gets a groan and an expletive in response. “Go to bed, Crowley.”

Crowley’s eyes stay closed. “Ugh. Shut up.”  

“Come on.” Aziraphale keeps poking him. “Before I carry you myself.” 

One brown eye blinks open. “Time is it?” 

“Ten to ten.” 

Another groan, louder, and Crowley finally starts to get up. He often looks like a skinny dog, tonight more than usual. Must be the casual wear. Crowley glares and wiggles two fingers in his direction. “I’ll meet you here at three fifteen. Don’t be late.” 

Aziraphale winces. He really didn’t think the travel freak thing was that serious. “I’ll be here. Literally.” 

“Don’t remind me.” Crowley walks over to his carry on bag, checking the documents for the fiftieth time this evening alone. Aziraphale refrains from commenting. Again. 

Once he deems the organisation acceptable (as if it could be any different from an hour prior, but whatever - Aziraphale has decided against commenting, after all), he claps his hands. “Right then. Night, angel.” 

For the second time, the book slips from Aziraphale’s hands and down on the floor. He normally takes exemplary care of his volumes, but. Even Crowley’s hands have frozen mid-clap, eyes wide. Aziraphale swallows. “What?” 

Crowley doesn’t blink for five long seconds. “Pet names.” He blurts out. 

Aziraphale keeps staring. “What?” 

“I thought we should have pet names. For each other. You know, as - as couples do.” Crowley lowers his hands and puts them on his hips. “So, you know, angel fits. With your curly little - erm.” 

It’s not, historically, the first time Aziraphale has been called ‘angel’. He is a very, very gay man with curly blond hair and light eyes who has been on his fair share of terrible first dates and men don’t have much imagination, let alone creativity. 

Still. He and Crowley don’t do pet names. They have never done pet names, certainly not - not that. So he just keeps staring. 

Crowley swallows and marches on. “Better to start early. You know, practicing and all. To be more natural. Erm.” 

Slowly, so slowly, Aziraphale nods. It does make sense. Couples do not call each other by their last names, after all. Still. Still. “Natural. Of course.” 

“Of course.” Crowley echoes. “So, uhm. Goodnight then.” 

If Aziraphale thought he couldn’t sleep before, now he’s sure. Still, he plasters on a smile. “Goodnight.” 

Crowley nods, trips on one of the suitcases, swears some more and mutters another hasty goodnight before retreating back to his room. 

Aziraphale waits until he hears his door shutting, then waits another two minutes, counting the entire one hundred and twenty seconds in his head, before picking up a throw pillow, mushing his face into it, and screaming. Very quietly, of course. 

He’s going to spend the next ten days with Anthony Crowley, which would be delightful, in any other circumstance.

He’s going to spend ten days with Anthony Crowley wearing little to no clothes, who now will call him angel, while they pretend to be romantically involved, at his awful brother’s wedding extravaganza, spending the nights in the couple's bungalow right next to said awful brother’s accommodation. 

Oh, and he also needs to survive a twelve hour intercontinental flight and an hour on a tiny, dangerous looking plane with a self proclaimed travel freak who is the same man he’s desperately infatuated with, and has been for ten years, while they practice how to make his entire family believe they’re together.

Ten days. Two hundred and forty hours. Fourteen thousands and four hundred minutes. 

Oh, he forgot. It’s also bloody Christmas. 

He burrows his face deeper into the pillow, and screams again.

Chapter Text

Somewhere over the Atlantic Ocean - 11 days before Christmas

Aziraphale lets his head fall back on the cushion of his seat. His neck pillow is making him sweaty, his compression socks are not compressing anything and on top of that, his skin feels so dry it’s about to snap. 

This is why he prefers trains. 

In the seat beside him, Crowley is obviously sleeping. He closed his eyes as soon as takeoff was completed and just fell asleep on the spot. He didn’t even need a pillow around his neck. 

Aziraphale tried to read a book, but got a headache an hour in. So he tried to watch a movie, but nothing in the catalogue was even remotely good enough. He tried the book again, but got distracted by the crying baby two rows behind. 

He is bored. Transcendentally, epically bored.

And well, Crowley had said it would be fine, in a throwaway comment just before dozing off. He actually asked Aziraphale to wake him if he got bored, probably knowing Aziraphale is too polite to even consider it. 

And he is, normally. The thought wouldn’t even cross his mind. But they are just fours hours in and he is so, so bored. 

He pokes Crowley in the shoulder. Nothing happens. He doesn’t even stir. Aziraphale sighs. 

He pokes him harder. Nothing. Not even a tiny frown on his brows. 

He grabs Crowley’s shoulder and shakes him. Finally, he blinks awake. Groggily, but surprisingly eloquent, he opens his mouth. “What? Are we landing?” 

Aziraphale exhales. “No, no we are not. It’s been a little over four hours.” 

Crowley raises an eyebrow. “Then why the hell - is there an emergency?” 

“I am bored.” Aziraphale replies. He is met with an unblinking stare that goes on for two beats too much. Then, Crowley exhales slowly, and leans back on his seat with a groan and his arms crossed. “Goodnight.” 

“Seriously?” Aziraphale doesn’t pout, because he never pouts and he is way too old to pout. “You told me to wake you if -”

“Well I didn’t think you’d actually do it!” 

“Fine.” Aziraphale turns to look out of the tiny window. “I’ll be bored alone then.” 

The silence afterwards does not surprise Aziraphale, but it also deeply annoys him. It stretches on for two minutes before he hears another, louder groan and a tap on his shoulder. “Alright, alright. I’m sorry. I’m awake.” 

Aziraphale bites his smiling lips and schools his features into a more neutral expression before turning around. “I do apologise. I truly am so bored.” 

“Yeah, well. You should sleep.” Crowley grumbles. “Have you tried any trick?”

Aziraphale rolls his eyes. Every trick ever invented by mankind regarding sleep has been tried and tried and tried once again, for good measure. Nothing ever worked. “I don’t know, Crowley. Has a chronic insomniac tried any trick to fall asleep? Should we ask the audience?” 

“Jesus, you’re even bitchier than this morning.” 

“I am not bitchy -”

Aziraphale cuts himself off. He supposes snapping at Crowley for the way he was holding a duffle bag and then half yelling at him because he may have suggested taking ten minutes to say goodbye to a fish were a tad excessive is, a little bit, bitchy. “In my defense, I had fallen asleep an hour prior.” 

He didn’t even make it to the guest room Crowley had provided for him. He just stayed there on the couch, enjoying some more private screams, some more sulking, some more chapters of his books and then finally, blessedly, some precious minutes of rest. Until Crowley had barged into his living room, shouting rise and shine. 

“And whose fault is that? Mine?” Crowley retorts. “Blaming me for your own nervous system shortcomings, you truly are the perfect boyfriend.”

Aziraphale matches Crowley’s saccharine, borderline manic smile. “Not as much as you are, darling.”

They lapse into silence for a few beats after. Crowley mumbles something under his breath and gets up to retrieve his bag from the overhead compartment, Aziraphale tries not to gawk at the newly revealed patch of skin when his soft henley rides a bit up his stomach. 

Eleven days, he thinks. Eleven days of this he’s supposed to survive. 

It gets even worse after that, because Crowley sits back down and offers Aziraphale his hand, palm up. “Chocolate rice cake?” 

Fine. Aziraphale is fine. Why wouldn’t he be? “Did you pack snacks?” 

“I’m travelling with you. Obviously I did.” He wiggles his hand. “So?”

Aziraphale just sighs and takes the offered packaging, tearing it open with a smile far wider than necessary. He’s smiling even as he bites into the rice cake, which is not his number one choice as far as snacks go, but Crowley packed it for him and it’s suddenly a rare delicacy.

His lovely, lovely friend. He is not going to survive this. 

“Thank you,” he says after his first bite. “Awfully nice of you.” 

“Shut it.” Crowley mumbles. Aziraphale just tries for a wink; the unbearable weight of being perceived as anything other than aloof and prickly. Every little insight into Crowley’s actual generous personality is a gift. 

Aziraphale shakes himself and takes another bite. Then, checking to see if Crowley’s fallen back asleep, he finds him staring back at him. He raises an eyebrow in a silent question.

“Tell me,” Crowley drawls, angling his whole body in Aziraphale’s direction, his long legs taking up the entire space in front of him, even in business class. “Tell me a you thing.” 

Crowley came up with the little game about a week after their… new arrangement. A way to get to know things about one another without it sounding like a job interview, Crowley had said - in way less words and a lot more weird sounds. As always, Aziraphale had been hesitant: if he had to rate the most unpleasant things in the world, talking about himself like that would rate first.

So he slightly manipulated the game to only collect little bits of information about Crowley he didn’t know before: how he went to uni for botany, of all things, but dropped out half into his second years after getting into an unspecified fight with the board of directors of his department; how he got Lola after a man he used to work with told him he would never be able to look after a pet, selfish as he was (now Aziraphale had been - and still is - doubtful about this man being merely a colleague, but Crowley had been sure); how he deconstructs every dish he eats, eating the green bits first and his favourite parts last. Four or five rounds of the unilateral game after, Crowley had picked up on Aziraphale’s little devious plan of never making it about himself, so he took it upon himself to always open the game with a question of his own. 

Aziraphale sighs and doesn’t even think about getting out of it. They had one too many fights about this already, so he just thinks. Finishing his snack, he finally decides. “When I was a child, I wanted to be a veterinarian.”

Crowley rolls his lips in. “No, a kid wanting to be a vet? Shocking.” 

Aziraphale smiles as he shakes his head, looking down at a crease in his trousers. This part is always easier if he’s not looking at Crowley. “I ran around the garden to spot all the little snails and worms and ladybugs, if I was lucky, even butterflies. I wanted to take care of them, not of dogs and cats, that would have been so cliché.” He remembers how…ridiculous he sounded like when he tried to explain his plan. Still, every time he now spots a slimy trail or a little red-and-black little bug in one of his walks, he smiles and watches for a while. Just a little while. 

“You… you wanted to be a… bug doctor?” 

There’s evident mirth in Crowley’s voice. It’s not disappointing, because it is a funny story. It’s not a crime to laugh at his childish antics. It’s not… it’s not personal. “Yes, well.” He crosses his arms. “I was a child who was taught to love all creatures, great and small, and took it literally.” 

Crowley makes one of his weird sounds, making Aziraphale look up. He finds Crowley looking back at him, face all pinched. “What?”

“Don’t make me say it,” he pleads. “I beg you, don’t make me say it.” 

Aziraphale just blinks. “What?” 

“Oh, god. A bug doctor. It’s… cute.” Crowley looks properly pained. “It’s very cute.” 

Aziraphale just stares. “I don’t think I have ever heard you say that word out loud.” 

Another weird sound. “I begged you.” 

For some reason, it makes Aziraphale laugh. Crowley is weird; he forgets sometimes, but behind the looks and the constructed charm he is just weird. And unfortunately, Aziraphale likes him way too much. “Well, your turn. Tell me a Crowley thing.” 

Crowley chews on nothing for a while. He’s wearing a new pair of glasses today, the ones with covers on the sides as well. They are Aziraphale’s least favourite pair of glasses Crowley owns, as he cannot steal even a peek of his eyes. He doesn’t like talking to his own reflection for long periods of time, but he knows how particular Crowley is with his accessories.

“I tell everyone I restored my car by myself, but it’s a lie.” 

Of all the things he expected - “Wait, the Bentley?” 

Crowley nods curtly. Aziraphale gasps. “Crowley! You told me you restored it yourself!”

“Well, I lied.” Crowley shrugs with that fake nonchalance Aziraphale knows so well. “It was a cool lie, alright? Everyone always looks impressed.”

“But you didn’t do anything.”

“I barely know where the engine is located.” 

For some reason, that does it for Aziraphale. Letting out a very inelegant snort he will later deny ever making, he starts giggling. Not laughing, not guffawing, properly and embarrassingly giggling.

“Alright, that’s enough.” Crowley swats him lightly on the arm, but his mouth is doing that upward tilt he does when he’s trying not to smile. “It’s seriously not that funny.” 

“I told so many people about it!” Aziraphale chokes out. “So many people in London think my friend fixed a classic car himself!”

Cheeks pink, Crowley swats Aziraphale again. “Who do you even talk to, beside me?” 

Perhaps so many people is a bit of an exaggeration. But there is a particularly annoying patreon of the shop that knows how Aziraphale’s dear, dear friend is a genius in mechanics and who shouldn’t bother him anymore with all of those talks about classic cars and their maintenance if he wants to have a chance at impressing him (he does not).

“I cannot believe you made it up.” Aziraphale wipes some tears under his eyes. “Why would you?” 

“Oh, shut up, bug doctor.” Crowley scowls, mouth still pinched. “It was a cool story.”

Shaking his head, Aziraphale leans forward to pat Crowley’s knee. “You are so very cool, dear. The coolest fake mechanic-”

Crowley smiles then, small and tight but real nonetheless. “Will you drop it?”

“I should have known.” Aziraphale gives Crowley a once over. The designer sunglasses, the artfully tousled red hair, the expensive looking angora henley that fits him like skin. When he looks back up, Crowley is biting his cheek to keep his smile small. “You do not look like someone who fixes cars.” 

“I contain multitudes, you absolute bast-”

“Gentlemen?” 

Aziraphale finds a sturdy looking steward leaning into his booth and looking at the both of them with a toothy smile, painfully fake and way too wide for comfort. “Yes?”

“We don’t need anything,” says Crowley, polite as ever. “Bye.”

The steward ignores him. “We are so glad you’re enjoying the flight, but could you perhaps keep your tone down so that the other passengers can enjoy it as well?” 

“No,” Crowley replies. “Bye.”

Aziraphale rolls his eyes. “I apologise, it’s my fault. You see, I was having trouble sleeping and -”

“Angel, stop.” Crowley puts a hand on Aziraphale’s shoulder, and he promptly forgets the rest of his sentence. He forgot about the pet name for a while there. His brain is, at least, trying to protect him. “As I said, bye.” 

“We’ll keep our voices down.” Aziraphale pats the hand on his shoulder and gives the steward what he hopes is an apologetic smile. “Won’t we, darling?” 

The man beams. It’s deeply unsettling. “Thank you, Mr?”

“Bye!” Both Aziraphale and the man jump at Crowley’s bark. With a final nod in Aziraphale’s direction, the poor steward leaves them alone. 

“Don’t be a nightmare. He’s just working.” Aziraphale keeps his voice purposefully close to a whisper. Crowley lowers his eyes just to glare at him. “Oh, I’m sure he is.”

The hand on his shoulder is a pleasant weight. As soon as he notices it, of course, Crowley drops it. Aziraphale’s eyes linger on it as it rests between their seats. 

Crowley yawns. “Think you can sleep now?” 

Aziraphale ponders it for a bit. He is, unfortunately, even less sleepy than before. All those giggles and those little touches have awakened him completely, and not even the looming headache creeping in behind his right eye is enough to convince his brain to let him rest. 

He sighs. “You can sleep, Crowley.” He picks up his previously discarded book and taps the cover twice. “Thank you for indulging me.” 

Crowley doesn’t seem pleased. He chews on his bottom lip for a moment before twisting in his seat to fish his phone out of his pocket. “Alright, we need to shut your brain off.” 

Aziraphale frowns. “That is not allowed.” 

“I paid for two hours of wi-fi.” Crowley uses his free hand to beckon Aziraphale closer. “Come on, let’s look at videos on the internet until your brain says enough.” 

Aziraphale keeps frowning. Of all the tricks doctors suggested during the years, videos on the internet were never on any list. “I could ask for some relaxing herbal tea.”
Crowley scoffs. “Come here and shut up for once in your life.” 

And, well. Aziraphale may not like the internet very much, but he is truly desperate for just a few hours of rest. And he’s not about to refuse some extra closeness, not when Crowley is being so caring and thoughtful. It makes him feel all tingly.

God. The exhaustion is making him feel way too many things.

He scoots over on his seat until he’s close enough to see the phone screen. He looks and shuts up as Crowley wanted for about fifteen seconds, before it gets too much. “Seriously? A video about the pyramids?” 

Crowley merely clicks his tongue and uses his thumb to change the video. “You’re always babbling about your documentaries.” 

“I do not watch documentaries about the pyramids - oh, not the royal gossip Crowley, please.”

Crowley’s thumb moves faster. “I’m not the one choosing - do you know what an algorithm is?”

“I wonder how low you think my intelligence - oh, this is cute.”

It’s a video, with captions this time. Aziraphale is grateful for it, as the muted images from before were making him feel a bit like a fish in a tank. He spares a little thought for Lola, hoping she’s floating happily right now. 

In the video, a black labrador puppy grows up as his family documents all of the milestones: the puppy’s first bottle, the puppy’s first wobbly runs, the not-so-puppy-looking-anymore first trip to the dog park. 

“Puppies? Really?” 

Aziraphale glances sideways to Crowley. “It’s your algorithm, isn’t it?”

Crowley, in response, changes the video. Aziraphale glares. “I was watching it.” 

“Relax, angel. Here, more videos of your new friend.” 

Looking back down at the screen, Aziraphale indeed finds the same dog, now more grown up and splashing around happily in the middle of a mud puddle. He smiles, not looking at the screen.

Four or five videos in, his eyelids start to feel heavier. They’ve tricked him before, so he doesn’t expect much as he tries to relax his body further. Who knows, he may find himself with eyes wide open and a very active brain five minutes from now.

Still, as new videos keep coming their way under Crowley’s thumb motions, his head starts to feel much lighter and his vision blurs. This may indeed be happening. He spares half a thought for his doctor and a very important call he has to make regarding the benefits of silly videos on the internet. He doesn’t even notice he’s leaning against Crowley’s shoulder before he feels a movement under his cheek. 

“See?” A whisper above him. “Told you.” 

Aziraphale makes some kind of sound in agreement. On the screen, the puppy is now a fully grown dog who’s destroying a pillow on a very comfortable looking sofa. Finally, he decides to trust his body and let his eyes fall shut.

The last thing he hears before going under is a soft, soft, “Goodnight, angel,” whispered in his hair.

He hopes Crowley catches his answering smile. 

Eden Resort, Landaa Giraavaru, Maldives - 11 days before Christmas 

Aziraphale pops his own sunglasses on. He will admit he missed the sun on his skin and a warm, humid breeze blowing his shirt. 

One plane ride, one seaplane ride and a small ferry ride later, they’re finally on land again. The Eden Resort is their final destination: the exotic, exclusive and all inclusive paradise Gabriel and Rory selected for their guests. 

Standing right outside the lobby of the resort, Crowley whistles between his teeth. Aziraphale shares the sentiment. 

Rich trees and plants line up the path to the beachfront real estate. The sand is white and powdery, not a single jagged shell in sight, the clear, cerulean water dotted with lucky morning swimmers relaxing under the bright blue sky. It is scenic, indeed. 

“You know, I’ll give it to the tossers. This place is nice.”

“Nice? A four letter word, coming from you?” 

“Shut up,” Crowely retorts. “I’m too tired for your witty little remarks.” 

Aziraphale sighs and walks toward the wooden sign on the doorway, reading ‘Welcome to Eden!’, and he rolls his eyes at the, frankly, quite audacious name. 

As soon as he reads the sign, the door swings open and two men in crisp white polo shirts, matching trousers and no shoes in sight come up to them. Aziraphale notices how alike they look, wondering if his exhausted mind is just playing tricks on him. 

“Welcome to Eden!” One says, holding a hand out towards what looks like a concierge desk. “We are so happy to have you here!” The other one adds, shaking both of their hands. 

The blonde woman at the desk smiles as well. “Welcome to Eden!”

Aziraphale wonders if they know how redundant it all is. Still, he smiles at her. “Hello. Thank you very much.” Crowley, beside him, grunts something. 

The woman keeps smiling. “My name is Maggie and I’m one of the concierges here at Eden. Feel free to ask for me whenever you may need something during your stay.” 

Aziraphale extends a hand toward Crowley and wiggles his fingers. Wordlessly, he hands him his passport with a nod. “Thank you, Maggie. The reservation should be under Fell.”

At the mention of the name, Maggie’s already bright demeanour changes into something even brighter. And, unfortunately, louder. “Oh! You’re here for the wedding, obviously!”

Obviously. Aziraphale ignores the twitching in his right eye. “It seems so, yes.”

Maggie’s eyes go round as she opens Aziraphale’s passport. “Are you the brother of the groom?” She asks, her delicately manicured fingers already hovering the phone to her right. “Your brother specifically requested to be called as soon as you got here.” 

He’s been in paradise for less than fifteen minutes and he’s already feeling closer to hell. Of course he doesn’t get a single day of break from Gabriel’s antics. 

“Listen, uh, Maggie, right?” Crowley speaks up for the first time. “We’ve been travelling for days, we probably - well, definitely smell and we are not in the mood to meet the family, do you know what I mean?” There is a bill rolled up between his index and middle finger, and Aziraphale winces internally as he covers Crowley’s hand with his own before Maggie notices anything. 

“What my darling partner means,” he squeezes Crowley’s hand. “Could we maybe postpone the call until we had time to freshen up a little bit?” He hopes the pointed glance he sends Crowley conveys the let’s save the corruption for the zumba day he cannot voice out loud. 

He’s met with a deeper frown. “Well, angel, I’m sure me and Maggie here could find a mutually beneficial arrangement-”

They don’t need a phone call, nor some kind of corruption tactic. Aziraphale would recognize those footsteps anywhere. Gabriel is somehow able to be loud even when he walks. 

Stalling won't delay the inevitable. With a deep sigh and a barely hidden grimace, he turns around. In a motion smooth enough to surprise him, Crowley takes his hand properly, and gives it a squeeze.

Gabriel looks - well, he looks the same as he did the last time Aziraphale saw him, five or ten or fifteen years ago. He lost count, honestly. But time seems to have stopped when he looks over at his brother: same jet black hair, not even a speck of grey at his temples, same chiseled jaw with no trace of facial hair in sight, same muscular build which is honestly offensive for a man who’s pushing fifty. The all white, linen ensemble he’s wearing is definitely a new development, but it fits the breathy, beachy mood of the resort. 

He’s also smiling, and it’s… more open than it was before. Still too wide, still too many teeth, but less creepy than before. 

“If it isn’t my baby brother!” Gabriel booms. There’s not another way to describe the sounds that come out of that man’s mouth. He’s always been loud, even when they were children, and the years have only gotten him louder. Aziraphale manages a weak smile and an ever weaker hand wave in his direction.

With two quick strides, Gabriel stands in front of him in all of his taller, broader glory and pats

Aziraphale on the shoulders, twice. For a terrifying moment, he feared Gabriel may have gone for a hug. “Look at you! You’re still so blond!”

Aziraphale merely blinks. “Yes, well. That tends to happen to blond people.” Crowley exhales sharply next to him. Aziraphale squeezes his hand again. 

Gabriel’s teeth shine in a menacing way when he shakes his head. “No one ever believes me when I show them pictures. Rory here was so sure it couldn’t be natural!” 

Aziraphale didn’t expect his first conversation with his future brother in law to be about the state of his hair. Let alone he expected said future brother in law to look like… that. The brown haired version of Gabriel Fell is looking back at him with an even broader, even toothier smile, and an identical all white shirt and shorts matching set. 

Well - Rory’s eyes are dark, and he’s slightly shorter than Gabriel, but the wide shoulders, big arms, squared jaw - they look like brothers way more than Aziraphale and Gabriel ever did. 

He’s not sure how this information makes him feel. He’s not surprised about his brother dating a clone of himself, though. Somehow, that tracks. 

Remembering his manners, he shakes himself out of the weird reverie. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Rory,” he smiles, extending one hand. 

Apparently, Rory doesn’t share his brother’s reservations about physical contact, because he surges forward with a squeal and plants a kiss on Aziraphale’s forehead. “Namaste and love, baby brother,” he whispers. “I am so glad to finally have you here.” 

Aziraphale truly doesn’t want to know what expression is currently plaguing his features. He clears his throat and takes a step back, dragging Crowley with him by their still entwined hands. 

“Right, erm. Best not do that to me, mate.” Crowley says, the first words he utters in the whole… exchange. He coughs. It’s truly a terrible fake cough. “Must have caught something on the plane.” 

He glances over his incredibly supportive partner and gives his hand a tighter squeeze. “You poor dear,” he quips. He feels Crowley’s tendons spasming under his grip, and relents a bit. “We should definitely go and sleep it off-”

“Oh! The boyfriend!” Gabriel moves his unnatural smile to Crowley and claps him on the shoulders as well. Crowley jumps. “You - you’re real!”

Aziraphale’s left eye twitches. Crowley opens and closes his mouth twice. “What?” 

“Don’t listen to him,” Rory cups Crowley’s cheek and… boops him on the nose. There are suddenly nails digging into Aziraphale’s palm, and he has to bite down on his bottom lip, hard, to stay still. “Another brother. What a blessing.” 

Gabriel, for some reason, laughs. “I merely thought, for a moment mind you, that you may have made him up, baby brother.” He gives Aziraphale’s shoulder another squeeze. “But look at you! A ginger!”

Aziraphale grinds his jaw so hard he hears a crack, lips tight in a closed-mouthed smile. He glances over at Crowley, who looks between the two brothers for a moment. Dropping his hand, he pulls Aziraphale in by his shirt, slinging his arm around his waist. 

Just what Aziraphale needed. Good Lord. 

“Right, so. Anthony Crowley, charmed, I’m sure. Very real. Very, uh, very much not made up.” 

“Well!” Aziraphale manages to unlock his jaw. “Also very, very tired, as I’m sure you can imagine.” 

Someone clears his voice behind them, and Aziraphale looks back at Maggie like he imagines a castaway would look at shore. She shoots him a smile and slides a shiny white key card in his direction. “Your room is ready, Mr Fell.” She hands him a form detailing the resort’s rules and a pen. “It’s one of our loveliest bungalows. Very spacious, very cosy. You have access to room service twenty four hours a day, and you may contact me for whatever you may need during your stay. You also have access to a private hot tub and a private beach you can walk to from your porch. Anything else is -”

“Thanks, Maggie.” Crowley cuts her off, ever so nicely, and digs into his pocket to retrieve his wallet and a sleek, black credit card. Aziraphale doesn’t fight the urge to roll his eyes - what a show off. 

Gabriel laughs once again and bats Crowley’s hand away. “Don’t be silly, Anthony. I have my card on file for every room, you just sign the privacy policy and don’t worry about a thing.”

“It’s Crowley.” They say simultaneously. Aziraphale flushes lightly as the arm around his waist tightens. “He doesn’t go by his first name.”

The next smile gracing Gabriel’s features is more similar to the ones Aziraphale grew up with. “That’s peculiar.” 

Aziraphale smiles back. For a second, he’s eighteen again and he’s attending his family Christmas Dinner at his family’s manor and Gabriel is asking him questions about degrees in literature and old bookshops. “Yes, well. We are all entitled to preferences.”

Rory claps his hand again, which doesn’t help with the whole clone thing. “Excellent! You’ll love your bungalow so much, Aziraphale and Crowley darling. The decor is divine and the linens, oh my God! I didn't believe such a high thread count was a thing!” 

Aziraphale picks up his discarded duffle bag, but Maggie gently intervenes again. “You can leave your cases with Eric and Derek,” she points at the two men who originally welcomed them. Why does everyone have a doppelganger in this resort? “Guys, please bring their luggage to Bungalow 1941.” 

With a nod and an identical smile (goodness gracious), Eric and Derek set off, and Aziraphale is left with his brother and his clone-like fiancé, once again, in the lobby of this resort. His head is starting to spin. 

Crowley tugs him closer. “Very nice to meet you both, but I think we’ll have a nap now.”

Aziraphale is nodding enthusiastically before the sentence is out of Crowley’s mouth. “Yes, please. We are both quite tired.” 

He is tired, actually. The two hour nap on the plane didn’t do much for the previous sleepless night and the early flight, nice as it was to wake up on a lightly snoring Crowley. Aziraphale spent the rest of the flight watching him, too tired to feel any embarrassment. 

“You look dead on your feet, angel.” Crowley whispers, and for an instant there as Aziraphale smiles at him there is no Gabriel and no Gabriel’s clone, no wedding and no farce. It’s just Aziraphale and his best friend whose hair looks on fire when hit by the Maldivian golden sun. 

Of course, that’s when Rory breaks the moment with a high pitched squeal. “Angel? Oh that is so adorable. Gabey-baby, did you hear that? Why don’t you ever call me angel?”

There is nothing stopping the incredulous Gabey-baby slipping out of Crowley’s mouth. Aziraphale rolls his lips and clears his throat. 

Gabriel eyes the both of them with a raised eyebrow. “We’ll see you both tonight at the Welcome Dinner, right?”

How Aziraphale wishes he could simply refuse. The resort looks nice, and the hot tub and private beach sound heavenly, especially since they’re free. What wouldn’t he give to be able to enjoy them without the wedding looming over his head. He forces himself to nod. “You will. It was nice to -”

Crowley scoffs and starts walking backwards. “Bye!” 

Aziraphale lets himself be dragged away, hiding a snicker behind his hand. “Bye? Seriously?” 

Crowley shakes his head. “Hush. I need a moment to elaborate whatever the hell that was.” 

Aziraphale shares the sentiment, and giggles again. He places a hand on Crowley’s chest and lets himself enjoy the closeness for a few moments longer. 

It’s going to be a long, long wedding. But at least he’s not alone.

“I can’t believe you’re forcing me to get up.” 

The room - bungalow, actually - is beautiful. It looks just like someone out of the Home and Garden magazine Aziraphale likes to peruse monthly. The dark hardwood floor contrasts nicely with the crispy white fabric draped over the furniture, stunning pieces timeless in their elegance. The design is as exquisite as Rory promised, beach chic and quietly luxurious. Aziraphale was immediately enamored with the sitting area, the cream couches and the overstuffed armchair put right in front of the bed. 

The dark, hardwood bed they are currently laying on is so wide it’s almost outrageous, the linens softer than Aziraphale thought was possible. 

From the large glass door leading outside to the hot tub and private beach, Aziraphale can spot the sun setting over the ocean in a whirlwind of orange and red. He sighs, popping a grape into his mouth - the welcome basket was very much appreciated. 

“I’m not forcing you to do anything.” He comments. “You wanted to come here. We actually had a fight because you wanted to do this and I didn’t.” 

Crowley turns and props his head onto his arm, his other one outstretched and pointing to the bamboo fan whirling lazily above the bed. “Look at this place. Was I wrong?” 

Aziraphale doesn’t want to give in and giggle, but his lips are trembling. “I will admit I was scared before seeing it. Gabriel’s taste isn’t usually…” He trails off, wiggling his fingers to emphasize the point. “I guess Rory is a positive influence.” 

Crowley snorts. “That’s his not-so-evil twin.” 

“Did you see it?” Aziraphale turns around so he’s facing Crowley properly. “I thought I was seeing things!” 

“It’s terrifying. Absolutely terrifying. I had to pinch my leg to make sure I wasn’t hallucinating.” 

Aziraphale lets go and giggles into his pillow. “It makes so much sense for Gabriel to be marrying himself.” 

Outside, the sky is turning pink. Aziraphale knows they will have to get up soon and join the rest of the party for the welcome dinner. But staying here, laying in a giant soft bed in matching bathrobes and snacking on grapes and pineapple and watermelon while the sun sets over the ocean outside, is getting more tempting by the second. 

Aziraphale sighs again. “We need to get ready.” 

Predictably, Crowley groans. “Can’t we skip it?” His voice is muffled by the hundreds of pillows he’s currently buried into.

“Tomorrow is Day One, which means,” Aziraphale uses all of his will power to peel himself off the bed and get up. “Zumba Day. If we want to skip something -”

“Fuck.” 

“What’s with you and zumba, anyway?” Aziraphale asks, as if the mere thought of the word zumba doesn’t make the hair on the back of his neck raise. He enters their walk-in closet - apparently, Eric and Derek took the time to unpack for them as well - to scan his options. “What do you think the dress code is tonight? They didn’t say.” 

Crowley tosses and turns on the bed. “I honestly couldn’t care less. And you don’t get the zumba story on the first day.”

“Does that mean I’ll get it eventually?” Aziraphale selects a lilac shirt Crowley made him buy on one of their shopping trips. It’s in the cut he usually wears, though the material is obviously lighter and pleasantly softer, and the colour is new for him. It will go well with the cream linen trousers he usually wears during the summer. “I’ll take the bathroom first, dear.”

Still on the bed, now on his stomach with his hair sticking up everywhere and his face still mushed into the pillows, Crowley mumbles something affirmative. 

The bathroom is as breathy as the rest of the room, with lighter wooden floor, double wash basins and a shower with too many bits and bobbles Aziraphale can’t even begin to understand.

He runs a hand through his hair, tugging lightly at the light blond curls. Still blond, as Gabriel said. Still different from the rest of his entire family, as Aziraphale remembered. The brief nap has done wonders for his under eye bags, who have decided to give him a break. There’s nothing to do for the crows-feet in the corner of his eyes, a genetic curse he took after his mother. He squints at himself in the mirror: no, the blue of Gabriel’s eyes is not the same as his own. 

He dresses quickly, sure they are already late as it is, and when he gets out of the bathroom Crowley is standing up and already dressed, in a black v-neck shirt, slightly looser dark trousers than his usual and - “What are you wearing?” 

Crowley looks up and grins, dangling one foot. “We’re at the beach. I’m getting comfortable.” 

Aziraphale blinks at the hot pink flip flops, willing them away with sheer power of manifestation. They stay where they are, and he looks back up at Crowley’s face. He’s fixed his hair in an almost boyish fringe, and his sunglasses are hooked into the neck of his shirt, deepening the neckline and putting even more attention on his collarbones. He looks handsome, of course he does, a fact that makes the flip flops even more outrageous. “Must they be hot pink? And… plastic?” 

Crowley takes two steps and demonstrates their squeaky sound. He looks elated. “Beach attire, angel. Keep up.”

“I hate you.” Aziraphale comments, eyes still fixed on the pink monstrosity. “I really, really hate you.” 

Crowley snorts. His fingers creep forward and gently touch the hem of Aziraphale’s sleeve. “‘S nice.”

Aziraphale looks up. Yes, the brown of Crowley’s eyes is different than Rory’s: softer, richer, warmer. “You picked it up.”

“I was right,” Crowley shrugs, fingers still grazing the fabric. “It brings out your eyes.” 

Before Aziraphale can even begin to process the words or the blush they brought on Crowley’s cheek, flip-flops clad feet are already squeaking away and he’s holding the bungalow’s door open, white key card already in hand. “Shall we?”

A long wedding. A long, long Christmas. 

He smiles. “Lead the way.”

Fairy lights. An imperial table full of baby’s breath and golden chandeliers. Some anachronistic Christmas trees on the edge of the wooden platform where the imperial table is built upon, but it’s a Christmas wedding, so he gets it. 

The twinkly lights are all around them, above their head creating a shiny cocoon, on the floor around each chair, on the table between the chandeliers. 

“They don’t know the meaning of plastic waste, do they?”

Aziraphale gives Crowley a look. “You’re wearing plastic shoes, darling,” he whispers back. 

They’re sitting halfway down the right side of the table, three chairs down Gabriel and Rory’s seats of honour at the head of said table, where they’re currently greeting guests with a handshake (Gabriel) and a kiss on the cheek (Rory). He and Crowely managed to avoid further physical contact by sprinting to their seats when they were distracted.

Crowley is sitting next to Rory's grandmother, apparently, who is a chatty lady with bright white hair who Crowley has already whispered bad things about multiple times. 

The seats next to Aziraphale are still empty, for now. He just hopes Rory has enough cousins and friends to keep his own cousins from sitting next to him. 

“And you are Gabriel’s little brother, dear? I’m Margaret.” Rory’s grandmother leans over the table to greet Aziraphale. “You look nothing alike!”

Thank God the wine has already been served. “I know.” 

Margaret leans closer to them, one hand on Crowley’s shoulder, who looks at it like it’s a burning iron. “Don’t tell him I said that, but you’re prettier. Look at those curls!” she whispers with a wink. “And look at this man of yours!”

Better and better. This evening is already shaping up to be a fantastic time. Aziraphale gives Margaret a tight smile and a nod, placing what he hopes is a placating hand on Crowley’s bouncing knee. “Why is everyone in his family harassing us?” He asks through gritted teeth, knee bouncing high enough to hit the table in rhythmic thuds. 

“I told you this was a bad idea.” Aziraphale replies, downing his first glass of the evening. “And we didn’t even get through the amuse bouche.”

One by one, the seats start to fill up. By some miracle (Aziraphale does not want to give Gabriel’s planning any merit) the worst of his cousins end up sitting at the far end of the table, only greeting Aziraphale in passing and sparing a raised eyebrow for Crowley. 

“What a warm welcome,” he comments, wiggling his fingers to a sour looking Michael. Then again, Aziraphale can’t remember a time when Michael didn’t look sour. She nods in Aziraphale’s direction and goes to sit next to Sandy and Sarah. 

“Be grateful they invited the three of them only.” Aziraphale shudders at the mere thought of his entire extended family attending the celebration. Thank God Aunt Beatrice fainted the Easter Sunday Aziraphale first uttered the word ‘gay’; Gabriel should have done more than pay for his entire stay merely for freeing him of her company. 

Muriel is the last to arrive. She’s the youngest cousin of the Fell clan, and Aziraphale has thought multiple times she must be adopted: no one else in the family has a heart so big or a personality so warm, if a bit naive at times. Aziraphale can honestly say he missed her. 

As soon as she spots him, she sends one of her bright, bubbly smiles and a hand wave, and he reciprocates, genuine for the first time that night. “Let’s talk tomorrow!” She mouths before taking her seat next to the rest of the cousins, and Aziraphale nods and gives her what he hopes is a sympathetic look. Muriel doesn’t have it in herself to hate anyone, but no one deserves to sit more than ten minutes next to Sandy Fell. 

“She was the nice one, wasn’t she?” Crowley’s warm breath on his ear doesn’t fail to send shivers down Aziraphale’s spine. It’s not even the first time that night; better get used to it.
He nods. “I’m going to introduce myself to the lady next to me.” 

“Why?” Crowley frowns. “Have you not been harassed enough?”

Aziraphale ignores him. “Hello!” He chirps. The lady turns around and looks at him with big dark eyes. “I’m Aziraphale Fell. This is my… partner, Anthony Crowley.” 

“Mmh.” Aziraphale elbows him. “Hi.”

The lady tucks a long strand of brown hair behind her ear and eyes them curiously behind thick glasses. “Anathema Device. This is my husband, Newt.” A plain looking man beside her waves a hand. “You’re the brother, right?” 

“He looks like a question mark.” Crowley whispers. Aziraphale elbows him again. “I am. And you are…?”

“I’m Rory’s sister. Guess we are the weird name siblings.” When she smiles, Aziraphale finally spots the family resemblance he should have first seen in those dark eyes. “That’s cute,” she adds with a bigger smile. 

Aziraphale blinks and looks down at himself. “What?” Crowley beats him to the question.

“Oh, I’m a witch, actually.” She waves a hand dismissively. Crowley chokes on the wine he was sipping. “Your auras match. That’s cute.” 

As Aziraphale was just thinking, it just gets better and better. He picks up his wine glass again. “Splendid.” 

“Cuckoo family,” Crowley whispers in his ear again, and he gets yet another elbow in the ribs.

Finally, the waiters appear with the first course. The food is one of the only reasons that convinced him to get out of bed, actually, and everything that happened in the last few minutes is proving him it was the wrong choice. He hopes the menu will at least be up to his standards. 

The shrimp tartare is good, though he would have preferred less lemon grass. Nothing to write home about, all in all. When Crowley slides his plate closer to Aziraphale, he doesn’t complain. Crowley just grins at him and lets him have it.

“Excuse me? Excuse me, everyone?” Rory stands up clinking his glass with a fork. Aziraphale wrinkles his nose, and he’s pretty sure Anathema mutters something like somebody sedate him next to him. 

“As all of you know, I’m Rory and this is my fiancé Gabriel.” He giggles. “God. It’s so surreal to say it out loud.” 

Crowley leans towards him again. “Tell me when I have to fake a vomit emergency.”

“Hush.” Aziraphale doesn’t exclude he will be the one faking the emergency, honestly. 

“We are both so overjoyed tonight, looking at this table and feeling all the love flowing, oh.” Rory is now dabbing at his eyes with a napkin. “Thank you all so much for being here. You don’t know how much it means to us.” 

Gabriel stands up as well when Rory’s hiccups become too loud to be ignored. Aziraphale understands the whole sedation business. “What my lover said. Now, my wonderful Rory had the brilliant idea to use this dinner as a way to get to know each other better!” 

Better and better. Better and better. “How convincing can you be?” 

Crowley has never smiled wider. “Angel, I could have won a BAFTA if I tried hard enough.” 

Rory seems to have been invigorated by the praises. “Starting from me, everyone will say his name, where he’s from, what he does for a living and a fun fact about themselves! How does that sound?” He and Gabriel clap excitedly, while the rest of the table hesitantly claps back. 

“My name is Rory Device, soon to be Fell, I’m from Los Angeles but I live in London, I’m a therapist and my favourite musical is The Sound of Music! Come on Mum, it’s your turn!” 

Crowley stares at Aziraphale pleadingly. Aziraphale is unable to say anything, The Sound of Music and endless winter nights spent watching it in his family house reverberating in his brain like a montage from hell. Rory is truly Gabriel’s doppelganger and this is, literally, Aziraphale’s worst nightmare.

“Angel, I’m next.” Crowley urges. “If I need to throw up on Gran’s shoes you need to tell me now.”

Aziraphale can simply stare at his wine glass. “I cannot believe he said The Sound of Music.” 

Margaret is now wrapping up her fun fact - apparently, though Aziraphale cannot say he’s very much surprised, she holds seances and can talk to people beyond the veil. Cuckoo family, indeed - and it’s Crowley’s turn. He sends a murderous glance in Aziraphale’s direction and downs his wine glass like it’s a shot. “Anthony Crowley. London. I do stuff, book stuff mostly, antique stuff sometimes. Hi.” 

The table falls into a rather stunned silence. Aziraphale does his best to not burst out laughing. Judging by Gabriel’s face, he is now sure Crowley works for the mob, given the job description. 

Rory, sunny as ever, doesn’t even flinch. “Cool! And what about the fun fact?” 

Crowley’s fingers turn white where they’re holding the crystal stem of the glass. “The fun fact,” he echoes, emphasizing every F. “You see, I don’t think my boss would approve of me divulging any fun facts.”

Aziraphale snorts. He can’t help it. He tries to hide behind his glass, but he’s sure the silence fallen upon the table and the smile threatening to burst out of his lips give him away. “Don’t say that, darling.” He’s always known the improvisation class he took in university would be useful eventually. “I’m sure he wouldn’t mind them knowing about the cat.”

Crowley watches him with arching eyebrows. “The cat.” He repeats, as well lips trembling. “Right. Mr. Whiskers. He’s only got one eye and no tail, but he’s a fine cat.” 

“He’s cute enough, given everything.” He nods in Gabriel’s direction. “You know how it is with collateral damage.” 

“Every day with Mr. Whiskers is a gift.” Crowley lifts his glass in a silent toast. “Literally. He wasn’t supposed to live another week.”

Aziraphale hears Anathema snorting beside him, while everyone else at the table is sporting a progressively horrified expression. Smiling, Aziraphale clinks Crowley’s still raised glass. “My name is Aziraphale Fell, born and raised in London, I’m a bookkeeper and I sometimes date the dark and looming figures roaming around my shop.” 

Anathema cackles loudly, her grandmother following shortly after, clapping at the both of them, her “new favourite comedians,” apparently. Rory drops the confused, borderline worried expression for another serene smile, clapping lightly and urging his sister to go on. Gabriel is smiling the usual, familiar murderous smile he usually reserves for Aziraphale. 

Under the table, Crowley squeezes his knee. “You are way more insane than I am,” he whispers, the smiling lines by his eyes betraying his expression. 

Aziraphale pats the hand on top of his. “Next time, I’ll let you do your bit.” 

Crowley grins. “See? Are you not having fun?” 

Damn him, Aziraphale is. Grant this is one of the weirdest evenings (well, weirdest days) of his life so far, but it’s not been completely horrible. Half of the table thinks they are criminals and the other half of it thinks they are insane. His brother wants to kill him and they still have to find a way to skip zumba tomorrow, and possibly karaoke on day five. 

“Oh, I am. You are not allowed to tell me you told me so.” 

“Told you so, Aziraphale-cakes.” 

Aziraphale’s loud snicker interrupts one of Rory’s friends in the middle of her fun fact. 

There are a couple of birds on their little porch. Small little things, with bright yellow bellies and a speck of blue on their necks, a red mark on their beaks that reminds Aziraphale of lipstick. 

He smiles. “Hello little friends.” 

Farther back, the waves roll silently on the moonlit beach, their shushing noise a gentle background. It’s a clear night: there are so many stars, the moon shines so bright the sand looks silver. It’s quiet, not eerily so. It’s the kind of quiet one can enjoy, the kind of quiet that can lull someone to sleep.

One of the birds tilts a little head in Aziraphale’s direction, hopping closer to his feet. “I apologise, I can’t offer you anything.” The companion pecks the wooden floor twice before chirping lightly, making Aziraphale smile again. “I know, I know, very rude of me.” 

“Why are you a bloody Disney princess?” Crowley slides the rest of the glass window open, plopping down on the chaise longue next to Aziraphale. The birds fly away in a flutter of wings. 

“You’re a Disney villain.” He pouts. “I was making friends.”

“Bananaquits.” Crowley says. “Cute little buggers. Same family as the hummingbird.” 

Aziraphale shakes his head. “Do you also do bird stuff in your free time?” 

Crowley nudges his shoulder. “Collateral damage.” He’s smiling. “You’re a freak.”

Aziraphale focuses his gaze back on the sea. He breathes in, salty air tingling his nose. 

He missed the sea. Save from that infamous Brighton trip with Crowley years back, he hasn’t been to the beach in a good decade. Certainly, not this kind of beach. He is not the kind of person to randomly escape to a tropical destination; the beaches he did frequent in his lifetime are the typical chilly English beaches, with one notable exception of one summer spent in the French Riviera. 

The sea is different here. It looks wider, even more infinite, the blue melting into the horizon and the gentle waves caressing the Earth with a softness the sea back home does not possess. 

“It truly is a beautiful place.”

Crowley hums. “Can’t believe those two picked it.” 

“I have decided to appoint all the merits to the wedding planner.” 

“Good idea.” Crowley taps his fingers three times on his right leg. “Can I ask you something?”

Aziraphale keeps his gaze fixed on the sea, and nods slowly. He expects some questions, after a day like this.

“How is Gabriel so awful?” 

Aziraphale smiles. He asked himself the same question so many times during his life. He wondered about it over broken toys, stolen clothes, sabotaged bicycles, ridiculed studies, mocked books. He pondered the question over every line of Little Women, every chapter of To Kill a Mockingbird, every page of Pride and Prejudice. Every time he thinks about brothers, he thinks about Gabriel, and he thinks about how different things would have turned out for him, had his family been different. 

“I’m not sure,” he breathes out. “We’ve always been different, in every way.” 

Tale as old as time: one sporty, one bookish; one loud, one quiet; one pragmatic, the other a dreamer. “I wasn’t the brother he wanted, he wasn’t the brother I wanted. We never worked it out, and I doubt we ever will.”

“I don’t like him.” Crowley mumbles. Aziraphale smiles: it’s mutual as it is obvious. “He looks at you all… murderous.” 

Aziraphale laughs. “I believe we are both on his black list, after tonight.” 

“Good. Fucker.” Crowley feet, still cladded in the godforsaken plastic shoes, toy with a bit of sand the wind carried on the porch. “His doppelganger is a nutter.” 

“I don’t believe he’s a bad person.” Aziraphale says slowly. “I do think he has a good influence on Gabriel.” As far as he knows, Gabriel started trying to mend their relationship around the time he and Rory got together. Even if it’s not a successful attempt, it is more than whatever happened in the fifteen years before.

“Aziraphale. He’s a therapist who’s now marrying a client.” Crowley deadpans. “I’m pretty sure that’s wrong.” 

Aziraphale grimaces. “Well. It’s - perhaps they - alright. That is bad.” 

“And his sister is a witch.” 

“I like her.” He recalls her mutterings with a smirk. “I think she doesn’t like her brother very much.” 

“Good to know. She’s an ally.” Crowley says, dead serious. “Even though her husband looks like… that.”

“I agree. She’s so pretty and he’s…”

“There.”

“There.” 

Aziraphale smiles and looks at the ocean again. The breeze has picked up a bit from earlier in the evening, messing his hair in a pleasant way. He’d like to sleep with the window open tonight. 

Speaking of. 

He’s not exactly stalling. He knew there would only be one bed when he confirmed the trip, and it’s not like it would be their first sleepover. They spent the night together more times than Aziraphale can count, over the years: Crowley on a sofa, Aziraphale on an overstuffed armchair. The bed has always been off limits, somehow, for no particular reason.

Well. The particular reason being the fact that they’re not together, have never been together, have never thought about getting together. 

But now they have to spend ten days in a couples bungalow in paradise while acting together and never leaving each other’s side and Aziraphale may or may not be thinking about their matching auras. 

He stands up. He needs to dip his toes in the water. 

“Where are you going?” Crowley asks his back. “You nutter.” 

The water is warm. Aziraphale didn’t expect it to be chilly, but the warmth of it is as pleasant as it feels unnatural. The delicate foam tickles his feet. 

“A midnight dip, angel? Wouldn’t have thought so.”

Aziraphale turns around and laughs at Crowley hopping around the wet sand like an overgrown flaming. “What are you doing?”

“Have you ever gotten wet sand into flip flops?” He squeals, dangling one foot.

“Take those things off.” 

“Buy me dinner first.” Crowley glares and mumbles, looking even more murderous than Gabriel did during dinner. He leaves the hot pink horrors on the wet stripe before the water, and reaches Aziraphale. “Oh, it’s warm.” 

“It’s nice.” Aziraphale breathes. “It’s beautiful.”

He has never seen Crowley under the moonlight before. He has never seen him in a short-sleeve shirt at the beach, pale skin glistening and goosebumps rising. He has never seen him smiling down at foamy water, glancing back up at Aziraphale with his eyes unguarded and his face so open. He looks young, he looks happy. He looks free. 

Aziraphale can’t look at anything else. “Are you having fun?” 

“Yeah, kind of.” Crowley takes a step closer and gently kicks warm water at Aziraphale’s ankle, his smile all lopsided. 

Aziraphale steps back. “Don’t you dare, you scoundrel.”

“Scoundrel? How old are you?” Crowley kicks more water. “You’re the one who got in the water.”

“A child.” Aziraphale bends down to roll his trousers further up. “I’m here with a child.” He uses his position to splash a bit of water on Crowley’s shins. He’s nothing if a bit competitive, after all.

Crowley steps back and shakes his head. “Oh, alright. It’s on.”

It is, indeed, on. There is nothing like handing a tiny bit of competition to two grown men to turn them back into boys. Aziraphale’s holidays during his boyhood did not feature a lot of water splashing, certainly not at night, but he feels young as he and Crowley jump around in the shallow water, making a mess of trousers and shirts, squealing in a way they will both later deny. 

He feels young and he feels free and unfortunately also damp, as he jumps around to avoid splashes and progressively more colourful expletives thrown at him. Since he’s anything but young, one jump was bound to go bad; his knees are not what they used to be and hopping around wet sand and rolling waves is not the best idea he’s ever had, despite his current feelings, so he trips. 

What happens next does not surprise him. Crowley catches him. It makes sense: somehow, he knew he wouldn’t fall face first into the water. He knew two arms would snake around his waist and keep him upright, despite the wobbliness of the next few moments. 

What he didn’t know is how solid Crowley’s chest would feel under his hands, how deep the fingers on his back would sink, how warm their mingled breaths would feel on his nose. 

How Crowley’s eyes are still bright and ablaze even in the dark, how the wrinkles by the side of his eyelids are deeper than he’s ever seen them, how his canine bites into his bottom lip to contain his grin. 

Aziraphale swallows, and follows the same movement on Crowley’s throat. “You caught me.” 

“Did that,” Crowley’s eyes dart all over his face. “Guess I won.”

“You absolutely didn’t.” Aziraphale smiles. “It wasn’t even a competition. We didn’t have a judge.” 

Crowley’s eyebrows shoot higher as he tightens his arms around Aziraphale’s middle. “A judge? Seriously? Does your highness require a referee for some splashing on the beach?”

“Clearly, when playing with a child.” His own hands creep up higher, resting just under Crowley’s collarbone. In the back of his mind, he wonders whether they should talk about this. What even is this?  

Crowley opens his mouth, but whatever the retort is swallowed by a loud, unmistakingly loud, “Boys?” 

No one can make Aziraphale’s smile drop as fast as Gabriel does. He’s a bit farther than where they’re standing, so he raises his voice to be heard. “What’s the matter?”  

“I’m so, so glad you two are having fun.” But. There is always a but when it comes to him. “But can you maybe move the fun inside your room? Rory needs his full eight hours of sleep to balance out his chakras, you know how it is.” 

“We don’t, actually.” Crowley replies, fingers sinking deeper into Aziraphale’s lower back. “Thanks for the suggestion.” 

Even from a distance, Aziraphale is sure Gabriel’s left eye is twitching. Still, he doesn’t drop the smile. “I suggest you both go to sleep. Tomorrow will be a long day. A long, fun day! Never a dull moment here in Eden.” 

Aziraphale sighs. He will agree to anything if it means getting Gabriel to stop with the claps, which he supposes are the physical equivalent of the exclamation points. “You can go back to your room, Gabriel. We were about to head to bed.” 

“Were we?” Crowley mutters. Aziraphale rubs absent-minded circles into his chest. 

Gabriel grins and lifts two thumbs. “Great! That’s - that’s great. Goodnight boys. Remember, eight full hours of sleep are -”

“Night!” Crowley half shouts. “And we are not boys. Haven’t been boys in twenty years, Jesus Christ.” 

If Gabriel heard the last part, he doesn’t comment on it, merely walking backwards on the beach with a renewed spring in his step. 

Aziraphale exhales, letting his head hang low for a moment. “He needs to balance out his chakras.” 

Crowley clicks his tongue. “D’you think they sleep in coffins or something?”

They’re still so close. Close enough that when Aziraphale giggles, he feels Crowley’s warm exhale ruffling his hair, his chest moving lightly under his hands.

He doesn’t want to let go. He doesn’t want to be the first to step back. 

He does, though. Because staying longer would probably mean talking about it, about something at least, and he wants that even less. “We should head to bed, actually.” He says, dropping his hands and stepping back. “This day has been… long.”

“Infinite.” Crowley drops his hands as well, lips tight. “We should, yeah.” He scratches the back of his neck. “I just don’t want to let the wanker win.” 

He’s ridiculous. He’s absolutely, utterly ridiculous. “Room service is filed under Gabriel’s card.” Aziraphale would do a million more ridiculous things if it means seeing this glimmer in Crowley’s eyes. He is absolutely, utterly hopeless. “Fancy a nightcap?”

Crowley’s grin is dangerous. “The student becomes a teacher. I might cry, angel.” 

Ridiculous. Hopelessly ridiculous. “Save the theatrics for tomorrow. It’s going to be a long day.” 

If this day felt infinite, tomorrow is going to be even worse, and so will the ten days leading up to the Christmas wedding. Ten whole days of Gabriel Fell and Rory soon-to-be Fell and his entire insane family, packed full with activities like arts and crafts and karaoke. 

Ten whole days of Anthony Crowley and his warm hands and solid arms and unbearable smile. Starting tonight, in the same room. In the same bed. 

Aziraphale looks at the stars one last time before following Crowley to the bungalow. 

At least fate chose a beautiful place for his demise. 

Chapter Text

Eden Resort, Landaa Giraavaru, Maldives - 10 days before Christmas 

One rule universally recognized about holidays is the need for a complete lack of alarm clocks. 

A holiday - or vacation, depending which side of the Atlantic Ocean one is used to - is a moment where time is suspended, a moment that exists outside reality and in which life waits just outside the door, not knocking until the very last possible instant. 

Aziraphale’s alarm clock is set for eight in the morning sharp. He won't have any trouble waking up, considering he’s already awake, and has been since five forty free, if the little clock on the bedside table is to be believed. 

They have to head to the resort main building for breakfast at forty five minutes past eight, and Aziraphale has been looking forward to breakfast ever since dinner the night before - which, after the lackluster amuse bouche, turned out to be pretty much up to his standards. Plus, he’s always been fond of buffets - the choices, the abundance, those little croissants with multiple fillings… yes, breakfast. He’s quite looking forward to it. 

Also, they have to get through breakfast with everyone if they want to have a chance at effectively skipping zumba day. If they hide the whole first day away Gabriel will definitely come looking for them, Aziraphale is sure. Or worse, he could send Rory, or another member of his… peculiar family, and that could somehow be worse. He has faith in Crowley and his acting abilities: he’s positive he will get them out of the day’s activity. 

Speaking of. 

It’s five minutes to eight now.

In five minutes, the unpleasant drill of the alarm clock will replace the quiet stillness of the room, the faint chirping sounds and the even weaker white noise of the waves rolling on the shores.

They will have to get up and get dressed and endure a whole breakfast with the rest of the wedding party and, incidentally, Crowley will have to wake up and dislodge the arm and the leg slung around Aziraphale’s waist and thigh, respectively. Aziraphale can’t say he’s looking forward to any of it, especially the last part. 

He did not expect this. Crowley has never struck him as a cuddler, by any means: every past instance of physical contact between the two of them was initiated by Aziraphale, after all, and while Crowley had reciprocated, it never lasted very long nor was it ever particularly… warm, always stained by the hinge of awkwardness between two friends who are not big on physical displays of affections. 

Yet this morning, at precisely five forty three, Aziraphale had opened his eyes and immediately felt warm. Even as he tensed at the unfamiliar hold, Crowley’s body stayed relaxed and so warm behind him, arms tightening his hold and a wet sigh tickling the back of his neck. The leg had made its appearance at six seventeen, to be exact. 

Eventually, Aziraphale relaxed. It was still a weird feeling, it was still unexpected, but it was also nice. So very, very nice. 

And he’s still relaxed, even now that they only have three minutes left. He doesn’t want Crowley to move. He’d happily stay in this position forever, actually. For a moment there, he felt his eyes grow heavy again and thought about drifting off for a while more, but then Crowley threw a leg over Aziraphale’s thigh and the relaxation process had to start all over again. 

Just two minutes now. Gosh, will it be awkward? He doesn’t want it to be awkward. He wants this to happen again tonight possibly, and every night after. He didn’t know he would crave the contact this bad, but he finds himself scooting back a little to soak up more of it, one hand on Crowley’s wrist to feel the steady rhythm of his heartbeat. 

Aziraphale closes his eyes and evens out his breathing. It won’t be awkward if they’re both sleeping, right? Nevermind the fact that he told Crowley about the insomnia and now he’ll never believe Aziraphale is still asleep at eight in the morning. Gosh but he has a big mouth, and he never thinks about the consequences of his own -

The alarm blares through the silence. Aziraphale shoots his arm forward to silence it as fast as humanly possible while desperately trying not to wake Crowley with the movement. 

He settles back into his previous positions and takes a deep breath. Two deep breaths. Three-

Crowley starts stirring behind him. His nose tickles the hair on the back of Aziraphale’s neck as he nuzzles closer, his arm tightening its hold for a moment. Aziraphale closes his eyes and breaths as slowly as he can, focusing all of his willpower into not squealing. 

“Fuck,” comes a mumble from behind him. “Fuck, fuck, fuck.”

So. A bit awkward, indeed.

Crowley starts removing his leg slowly, still mumbling profanities under his breath. They get more colourful by the second, Aziraphale notes, not unimpressed.

Normally, he’s a man whose actions are justified by days and sometimes even weeks of careful thought and consideration. Approximately a month ago, all that planning and thinking got thrown out of the window and now he’s here, in a Maldivian resort at eight in the morning, squeezing the wrist of his apparently very cuddly and definitely very distressed best friend while, unfortunately, squealing. “It’s fine!” 

Crowley’s next expletive is definitely louder. “Of course. Bloody Dracula’s awake.” Predictably, he removes the arm and leaves Aziraphale’s back cold. “Please, please, I’m begging you, forget about this.” 

It comes out muffled. Aziraphale sits up and turns around, finding Crowley buried face first in the many pillows. He rolls his eyes. “I’m serious. It’s fine.”

“Shut up.” Crowley frees one arm from under the pillows to throw the duvet over his hair. 

Aziraphale huffs. “Oh, good Lord Anthony.” He pulls back the duvet. “You are a grown man. I am a grown man. Must you be like this?”

“Shut up.” 

A gentler approach is needed. Aziraphale can be gentle. “Quit with the dramatics.” He wrinkles his nose. “I mean, you did nothing wrong. I know how cold you always are.” 

He remembers countless sleepovers in the backroom of his shop and Crowley’s requests for blankets upon blankets. He remembers how in the haze of alcohol he almost, almost suggested Crowley to just come closer. “It’s not an issue. I’m not mad. It was…” Warm. Safe. Something he didn’t know he wanted so bad until he got a glimpse of it and now he wants it again and again and again. “Nice.” 

“Nice.” Another grumble from the pillow. “I don’t do nice.”

“I do.” Aziraphale dares to touch the arm poking out the mountain of pillows. “I almost fell asleep again.” 

At that, Crowley turns his head. Half of his face is wrinkled by a night spent buried in high thread cotton sheets, his once coiffed hair is now a mess and his heavy lidded eyes are still hazy with the remnants of sleep. Aziraphale feels his ears warming up. How embarrassing. “How long have you been awake?” 

“Five forty three.” A look of horror flashes across Crowley’s features. “It’s fine. I always function with little sleep.” 

“As I said. Proper Dracula.” Crowley shifts around until he’s lying on his back. He scrubs a hand over his face, skin angry red to the tip of his ears and down his neck. “Listen, if… that happens again, kick me. I’m serious.”

Aziraphale knows there is no way he can convince Crowley that was more than fine, so he merely raises an eyebrow. The avoided meltdown is already a sounding success in his book. Time to shift the subject. “I have something for you.”

Crowley freezes with his hand over his cheeks. “Uh?” 

Aziraphale is already up, heading towards the walk-in closet. The staff unpacked their bags for them, but he’s pretty sure what he’s looking for is still in the secret compartment of his suitcase, where he purposefully left it. “Do you remember all those stores you dragged me to because you deemed my summer wardrobe unfit?”

It had been another impulsive decision. Aziraphale seems to be getting more comfortable with them, later. But when he saw the two things next to one another on that unassuming shelf in that even more bland shop he now cannot recall the name of, something started itching in him. He needed to buy them. So he did.

“I - you would have shown up in a 1960s vintage bathing suit.” Crowley’s voice sounds clearer now. “What are you doing?”

Aziraphale finds the hidden zip and lets out an excited sound. These are the perks of vintage luggage he’s always talking about. “I initially thought I could give this to you on Christmas Day, but you decided to wake up all grumpy today.”

“Oh, shut up.” 

Aziraphale ignores him, walking out of the closet with his treasures. “Ta-da!” 

Crowley is now sitting up against the headrest, and he’s glaring. “Absolutely not.” 

Aziraphale merely smiles wider. “Isn’t this absolutely darling?” 

“No.” Crowley shakes his head so fast his hair flies out in all directions. “Nope. Not happening. Forget about it.” The glaring intensifies. “Where did you even find that thing?” 

Still beaming, Aziraphale makes a beeline for the bed and sits back down in front of Crowley. “Right next to where I found mine!” With a giggle, he perches the straw hat on Crowley’s head. “I didn’t know they came in black, but when I saw it -”

There’s a pillow in his face. “Absolutely not. I am not wearing a straw hat.” 

Removing the pillow from his face, Aziraphale notices he’s wearing it now. “Oh, come on. We can match!” His own hat, a classic summer staple in the usual beige, is waiting for him on a shelf in the closet. It’s got a black band around the top, the reason Aziraphale selected that specific one over the million other options in the store. “Also, your skin is way too fair to parade around without a hat.”

“I can wear a normal hat. You know, the ones normal people wear.” Crowley points a finger to the hat still on his head. “One that doesn’t make me look like a goth pensioner.” 

“You look very fetching.” Aziraphale says. He flushes immediately. “The hat. It looks very fetching.” He bites his lip and feels his cheeks heat up even more. 

Crowley looks at him for a moment, cheeks still a bit pink from the whole… waking up debacle. “Is this seriously my Christmas present?” 

“Of course not.” Aziraphale waves a hand. “I hid that one way better.” It’s in yet another secret compartment. He does love his vintage luggages so much. 

As the silence drags on, he finds himself pouting. “If you hate it so -”

“Oh, shut it. You know damn well -” Crowley cuts himself off with a deep sigh. “I hate you. Thank you for the stupid hat, you seriously shouldn’t have.” 

Aziraphale smiles. “Does that mean you’ll wear it?” 

Crowley only glares some more. “I hate you. You’re a very evil person. Of course I will.” 

Embarrassingly, Aziraphale lets out another squeal, masking it with a cough and a neutrally pleased look. “Marvelous. I wouldn't want you to burn on the first day.” He points to the closet. “And I have a matching one.”

“So you’ve said.” Crowley deadpans. “As if my day could get any worse.” 

Aziraphale doesn’t remember when he started being able to read Crowley like a well loved book. He supposes it’s what ten years of steady friendship does to the relationship between two people, but the way he just knows how Crowley scrunches his nose just so is a dead giveaway of the smile he’s actually hiding is still… surprising. It is a nice surprise, being so in tune with another person’s moods and feelings, but it still is a bit … much. A lot to realise, a lot to think about. 

He gives Crowley a small smile. “So, we’ll head over to breakfast and then…”

Crowley falls back down on his mountains of pillows. The hat slides down his head to rest upon the slight crook of his nose, covering his eyes. “I’ll get us out of zumba, don’t you worry.”

“Do I…” Aziraphale drags his fingers on soft cotton. “Do I get the story now?” 

Crowley uses one finger to lift the hat above his eyes. “If you’re good, maybe later.” He ignores the way Aziraphale huffs and rolls his eyes as his mouth twitches up into a half smirk. “Now go and do your ten steps skincare routine or whatever. I need to get in character.” 

“How do you know about -” His words trail off, eyes narrowing where they’re watching Crowley. He knows. Of course he knows. How many other things has he noticed about Aziraphale, during the years? How many other things are synonymous with Aziraphale, in Crowley’s mind? The thought puts a weird tingle in his stomach. “It merely has six steps, actually.” 

Crowley’s half smirk blossoms into a full smile, his first of the morning. “Did you leave the face masks at home?” 

Aziraphale did, actually. He figured packing two different types of sunscreen was more important, especially since he knew Crowley wouldn’t even think of protecting his poor skin. 

He knew. How… exciting. That’s what this weird tingling is. He’s excited. Delighted. Almost giddy about it. “No comment,” he says to Crowley. “You’ll only be jealous of me when we’re old.” 

“We’re already old, angel.” The nickname is slipping into their private conversations more and more. Aziraphale ducks his head and smiles down at his hands every time he hears it. “Now shoo. I need to focus.” 

Aziraphale is closing the ensuite door, small smile still on his face, when Crowley speaks again. “Erm, Aziraphale?”

“Yes, dear?” 

“Thanks,” he says to one pillow, one pink cheek hidden by a hand scrubbing lightly at his morning scruff. “For - uhm, just thank you.” 

He’s not talking about the hat. Aziraphale knows. “Anytime.”

The flip flops have not disappeared overnight, despite Aziraphale’s most ardent wishes. They are proudly cladded around Crowley’s feet in all of their pink plastic glory. Today, the look is completed by a pair of boardshorts (black), a linen shirt (unsurprisingly black, though the golden buttons are a nice and surprising touch) and gold-rimmed sunglasses (Lord knows how many sunglasses Crowley packed). 

Aziraphale glances at his white linen trousers and light sage green shirt as they walk the small trail to the resort main lobby. They’re truly a study in contrasts. He has no idea how anyone could have bought their whole… charade, but it went surprisingly well the night before. 

“Wouldn’t have pegged you for a foot guy.” Crowley interrupts his thoughts with a little kick in Aziraphale’s shins. 

He rolls his eyes. “Perhaps if I think about it hard enough they’ll end up at the bottom of a volcano somewhere far away.”

Crowley barks a laugh and pulls the glass door open, letting Aziraphale in with a flourish of his hand. “You’re holding me back. Tampering with my self expression.” 

Aziraphale waits for him to shut the door before scanning the room. The space where they’re hosting breakfast is large and airy. He happily spots a buffet bursting with fresh fruits of all kinds and various pastries set up along both sides of the room. Round tables covered in white table cloths and decorated with bouquets of exotic flowers fill the rest of the floor space. 

Crowley whistles beside him. “How much budget do they have, exactly?”

“How would I know?” Aziraphale notices a glass sculpture depicting two flamingos at the end of the center of the buffet table. “Best not to question it.” 

“Good morning sirs!” A young woman wearing the resort uniform greets them with a smile. “May I have your names so I can escort you to your table?”

“Can’t we sit down wherever?” Crowley asks, as Aziraphale sighs. As if Gabriel would ever let them sit someplace he did not previously decide. 

“I’m afraid not, sir.” The woman keeps her polite smile in place. “The grooms have a rather strict sitting arrangement for all events.” 

“Nutters.” Crowley mumbles. Aziraphale takes one of his hands and squeezes. “Aziraphale Fell and Anthony Crowley, dear. Thank you very much.”

Their table turns out to be at the right of the grooms’ one, still - thankfully - empty. They’re sitting with the rest of Rory’s family, though only Anathema is currently present, pursuing the menu with a frown on her face. 

Crowley plops down with a frown, massaging his right hand. “Did you have to tore my ligaments on day one?” 

“Hush, darling,” Aziraphale raises his eyebrows in Anathema’s direction. “Say good morning to Anathema.” 

At the mention of her name, she looks up and eyes the both of them with raised eyebrows. “Oh, thank God. Hello.” She puts down the menu and her large black reading glasses. “Sorry for the bluntness, but I think you two are the only normal people in this whole wedding party. I’m glad Rory didn’t let me sit with one of those creepy looking cousins.” She grimaces in Aziraphale’s direction. “Sorry.” 

Crowley barks a laugh. “Nah, you’re right. One of them has a gold tooth.” He looks at Aziraphale. “She’s right. He’s the creepiest.” 

Aziraphale sighs. “That would be Sandy. The only time he saw my bookshop he asked me if I sold any pornography.” He shudders at the memory. Somehow, Crowley drops a spoon onto a delicate looking porcelain plate while Anathema laughs loudly. 

“Remind me to never interact with him, please,” she says. 

“I cannot believe you just said that out loud.” Crowley examines the plate for any crack. “At breakfast. Jesus.” 

Aziraphale is pretty surprised with himself as well, actually. There is just something about this place making him brutal with his honesty, apparently. “Apologies.” He pats Crowley’s hand lightly. “So, uhm, Anathema. Are you alone this morning?” 

“Ugh, Newt is useless when he’s jet lagged. He woke up at three in the morning, bothered me until I almost killed him with a pillow and then fell back asleep. Hasn’t woken up since.” She shrugs. “I think Granny is off flirting with some inappropriately young employee, while my parents are probably trying to avoid Granny being charged with sexual harassment.” She picks the menu back up, unbothered. 

Aziraphale raises both eyebrows. Crowley mumbles a cuckoo family in his ear. “Well. This should be a… fun wedding.” 

“I’m hoping you two will put on another show today.” She adds, not lifting her eyes. Aziraphale immediately blushes. “Seriously, it’s the only way I can survive this.”

He glances at Crowley, who’s looking back at him with raised eyebrows. He sees a corner of his mouth slowly, slowly lifting up. Trouble. It means trouble. 

“He’s not actually in the mob, despite what, erm, transpired.” Aziraphale blurts out. “And he doesn’t have a cat. Though there would be nothing wrong with owning a disabled pet, it would actually be a noble, precious -”

“Angel.” Crowley kicks him under the table. “Shut up.” 

“I figured.” Anathema smiles. “You’re both good people. I can see this kind of thing.”

Ah, right. Witches and auras. “Well, thank you then.” 

“You’re also fun, so please keep it up.” She rests her chin on one hand, menu forgotten. “Oh, and you’re the only couple in this party who actually love each other. Besides me and Newt, of course. I can also see that kind of thing.”

Aziraphale freezes. Crowley starts coughing, squirming in his seat and punching his own chest. 

It’s not - it’s not a revelation. Of course they love each other. They are best friends, for Heaven's sake.  Friends love each other, it’s normal and healthy and definitely not worth choking over or freezing up with a slight manic smile still in place. 

Aziraphale shakes himself and starts rubbing a soothing hand up and down Crowley’s back. He only coughs more. “That is, erm, that is a very nice thing to say.” Aziraphale raises his voice to be heard over Crowley’s choking sounds. “A very nice thing indeed.”

Anathema just laughs some more. 

A waiter comes up to the table and inquires about the breakfast specials. Aziraphale, who hasn’t even come close to thinking about picking up the menu, copies Anathema and orders the special artichoke omelet. 

Still a bit breathless, Crowley declines any special and mumbles something about the buffet. 

“Do you want some hot beverages with your breakfast?” 

“He’ll have a double espresso,” Aziraphale says. “Tea for me.”

“One splash of milk.” Crowley adds. “Bring sugar but don’t put it in.”

There’s the tingling again. Aziraphale rolls his lips not to smile too wide. “Precisely. Thank you.” 

He ignores Anathema’s knowing smile, focusing on something infinitely more pleasant. “Will you accompany me to the buffet, dear?” 

“Not a bloody promenade, Miss Bennet,” Crowley grumbles, already getting up and offering Aziraphale his hand. “I think I see those flaky pastries you like so much.” 

He does not squeal in reply, thank you very much. 

They indeed have a nice selection of flaky pastries, fresh and still warm. Aziraphale chooses a pain au chocolat and a buttery almond croissant that smell heavenly and look straight out of a parisian patisserie. Crowley declines any pastry, picking up a banana and some grapes before heading back to the table. 

Aziraphale frowns. He’s always after Crowley’s horrible eating habits: the man doesn’t know what a protein is and usually has more caffeine in his veins than red blood cells. He balances his pastry plate on his wrist while filling another one with a spoon of scrambled eggs and two slices of bacon. 

Crowley actually lifts up his glasses when Aziraphale places the plate in front of him. “Uh?”

“You need some protein,” he replies. “And the bacon is as crispy as you like it.” 

Crowley opens and closes his mouth. His eyes dart around the plate before boring into Aziraphale’s face. He’s frowning, as he usually is, but they’re soft. So soft. “Is the bacon smiling at me?” 

So what if Aziraphale artistically arranged Crowley’s breakfast? Feeding him is like feeding a toddler, after all. “Hush,” he smiles. “Don’t let it grow cold.”

He bites into his pain au chocolat. It’s warm, soft, deliciously buttery and not overbearingly sweet. Oh, it tastes just as perfect as it smelled like. He closes his eyes to lose himself in the swirling flavours, and he almost - almost - misses the shifting movements next to him. 

He doesn’t miss the sudden press of a pair of cold, dry lips on his cheek, quick as lightning. “Thanks.” Crowley awkwardly clears his throat, sunglasses back in place, and shuffles back to his own seat.  

Before Aziraphale can do something - choking, for example, and wasting a perfect pain au chocolat - the same waiter from before comes back with their drinks, and a carafe of orange juice for the whole table. Anathema immediately fills her glass, smiling at them above the rim. “My, my. Matching sparkles.” 

They both ignore her. 

Suddenly, the peaceful piano music in the background is replaced by the sounds of drums. From hidden doors behind the buffet table, two couples of dancers emerge in a swirl of orange, violet, blue and pink fabric. Aziraphale thinks the beat currently blasting is a rumba. The skirt of a dancer hits his back when she and her partner swirl around their table. 

“Christ on a bicycle.” Crowley mumbles. 

The drums pick up the tempo. The hidden doors open again and Gabriel and Rory enter the room, wearing matching yellow suits and meeting in the middle of the room in a… rather… passionate… embrace. 

“I should have poisoned him when we were ten.” Anathema comments. Aziraphale shares the sentiment. 

With a final crescendo, the cymbals stop and the dancers strike their final pose at opposite corners of the room. Gabriel dips Rory twice more before striking their very own final pose, which Aziraphale is pretty sure is copied from some ice dance performance, definitely more fitted for the Winter Olympics than Eden Resort. 

He swallows, throat dry, joining the timid claps of the rest of the guests. Crowley puts a hand on Aziraphale’s wrist and lowers his hands. “Don’t. Just - just don’t.”

“Hello!” Rory yells into a microphone. 

Various groans harmonize around the room. Crowley puts his napkin on his head. 

“Oops, sorry, amplified! I forgot,” he giggles. “Hello! Are you ready to kick off day one of the Roriel Fest?” He grins, not waiting for a reply - probably for the better. “Remember my beautiful flowers, food is fuel, and you’ll need your fuel for today’s adventures!” 

“Never a dull moment in Eden!” Gabriel adds. “Be ready to be amazed!”

“I’m ready to be euthanized.” Crowley mumbles. 

Aziraphale clenches his eyes shut, sipping his tea. “Beautiful flowers.” 

“Be grateful he didn’t start calling you with a flower name.” Anathema adds, smiling around her forkful of omelette. “I was Anthurium all throughout high school.” She glances over at her brother, now smooching Gabriel while ignoring a poor waiter trying to serve them orange juice. “I can’t believe I didn’t poison him.” 

Again, Aziraphale shares the sentiment. Thankfully, the same piano music from before fills the room again, and he can resume his breakfast in relative peace. The omelette special is as good as the pain au chocolat; if anything, the food in Eden is excellent. Crowley complains about his coffee not being strong enough, and orders another double espresso, ignoring Aziraphale’s pointedly raised eyebrows. 

Anathema’s husband makes his appearance a few moments after, looking just as unremarkable as he did the evening before, but with messier hair. “Sorry, sorry, hi.” He pants. “What did I miss?”

“Nothing babe,” Anathema shoves an empty plate in his hands. “Go get us some more of those french pastries, won’t you?” 

Crowley snorts as Newt obediently runs to the buffet table. Anathema grins. “He’s a good one.” 

Aziraphale returns her smile. “You too, my dear.” 

As Aziraphale discorvers shortly after, she’s a connoisseur of books, especially ancient prophecy ones, and they launch into a conversation rhythmically interrupted by Crowley’s groans and moans. “Of course you had to find the other book freak in the room.”

Aziraphale tuts. “Oh, hush darling. We met because of books. Specifically, old books.” 

“Oh, how did you meet?” Newts asks around a mouthful of eggs. He blushes immediately. “Sorry, can I ask? Sometimes I ask inappropriate questions and then Nath gets mad at me.” 

“Jesus Newt,” Anathema breathes. “Why would you say that?”

Aziraphale and Crowley exchange a glance. They knew this moment would come. They practiced for this. They know what to do, and that is just to embellish the truth a little bit. They can do this. He can do this. “It’s fine, dear. Not inappropriate at all.” 

“We met at a book fair. I attend them sometimes, for work.” 

Newt swallows. He probably still thinks Crowley is in some kind of criminal organisation. The dark glasses and the all-black outfit paired with the ever present frown now directed at him probably don’t help. Aziraphale clears his throat. “I hired him to find a book I thought was unfindable.” 

“Found it, obviously.” Crowley bumps their knees under the table. “He kept me around after that.” 

“We became friends. Best friends.” Aziraphale says. He can hear the fondness dripping in his voice, and doesn’t dare looking at Crowley. He takes a deep breath: this is the part where the truth stops and the embellishments begin; in his case, this is the part where he needs to voice something he only dreamed about out loud. “And after a while, well, I - I wanted something more.” 

He doesn’t remember the exact moment he started wanting something more. He thinks there wasn’t a specific moment in time, a triggering event, an epiphany of sorts. His affections for Crowley were there from the very beginning. They deepened little by little, gift after gift, bottle after a bottle. He was in the middle without knowing when it began. Absent-mindedly, he reaches over to take Crowley’s hand. “Luckily, he felt the same.”

“Luckily,” Crowley echoes, intertwining their fingers. “Yeah, luckily.” 

Anathema bumps Newt’s elbow. “See what I meant, babe? Sparkles.” 

Aziraphale feels the sparkles where their hands are joined. He doesn’t feel inclined to let go. When he dares to shift his gaze over to Crowley, he finds him looking down at their laced fingers, expression unreadable. How he loathes the damnable glasses. 

Whatever moment they were having is broken by none other than the grooms. “Our beautiful families!” Rory’s suit is a slightly darker yellow than Gabriel’s. The eerie matching smiles, however, are the same. “How are you all this fine morning?” 

“Mom and Dad are trying to keep Gran from assaulting someone.” Anathema says in lieu of a greeting. “Yellow is so not your colour.” 

Rory keeps grinning. Aziraphale doesn’t think he ever saw him doing something else with his face, besides the sobbing the night before. Well. At least he’s in touch with his emotions. “Annie, Mom said you had to be extra nice to me. It’s my wedding.” 

“Oh my God, seriously? Annie? How many times-”

“Aziraphale!” Gabriels interrupts. “I see you’re liking our pastries selection. We flew in a pastry chef from Paris.” He adds in a stage whisper. “I know they’re your favourites.” 

Aziraphale clenches his jaw so hard he feels his teeth clacking against each other. There’s a dig there, hidden behind the pleasant smile and the breathy giggle. Anyone would have missed it, but not Aziraphale. Not the person who grew up with Gabriel, not the person who knows all of his tactics and tricks. “They are, actually.” He puts a small piece of his almond croissant in his mouth, and chews happily. “Thank you so much, brother dearest.” 

Gabriel’s nose twitches. “You had an omelette, as well? Good for you.” 

Crowley drops his hand. Aziraphale panics for a moment, before noticing Crowley is using his newly freed hand to peel his banana. He puts half of it in his mouth, grinning at Gabriel and Rory. “Nife fuit, guys.” He swallows the banana almost without chewing. “I would be careful though. Lots of waiters, lots of liquids. Who knows what might happen.” 

He bites the other half of the banana, making a show of dropping the peel right on Gabriel’s feet. “Oh, sorry. See? Anything can happen. Clumsy hands.” 

Rory gingerly bends down to pick the discarded peel. “No trouble! Oh baby, I told you my suit was banana yellow! Look!” 

Aziraphale tugs Crowley closer with his hand and presses a kiss to his still banana-full cheek, ignoring the choking hazard. They’ve kissed twice more than they ever did just in an hour of being here. Perhaps this day won’t be as horrible as he previously thought. 

Crowley doesn’t choke. He swallows the mouthful, cheeks pink, and lifts a corner of his mouth. Aziraphale wants to kiss him again, if only to lift the other corner as well.

Gabriel gets Rory to stop rambling about different yellows and clears his throat. “So, we’ll see each other shortly at zumba?”

“Zumbaaaa!” Rory claps excitedly. “Our instructor comes directly from Brazil! Isn’t it exciting?”

“For fuck’s sake Rory, zumba is colombian.” Anathema says. “Can you at least try to learn something about your heritage?” 

Rory pouts. “But we’re Mexican, Annie.” 

“We are not - oh, whatever. Nice omelette, thank the chef for me.” 

Aziraphale reaches forward to pour her some more orange juice. She winks at him, and Aziraphale thinks he made a friend. 

“Actually, we are not attending zumba.” Crowley says, placing the napkin on his plate. “Sorry guys, we have a previous engagement.” 

Rory lets out a horrified gasp, while Gabriel merely freezes his smile in place. “Previous engagement? In the Maldives?” 

Aziraphale would like to ask the same questions, actually. He decides to just keep his mouth shut and busy with his tea. 

Crowley nods. “Yeah. One of my clients had to, well, leave London a few years back and fuck off to some exotic island to open a restaurant or whatever. You know, sometimes one needs a change of scenery.” He waves a hand. “And no extradition.”

Newt starts coughing. Aziraphale smiles into his tea. “Oh, poor Mikey.” 

Crowley snaps his fingers. “Yes, yes, Mikey. That was his name. Thanks angel.”

“I like him.” Aziraphale sighs wistfully. “Such a talented artist. Deeply misunderstood.” 

“Anyway,” Crowley continues. “Turns out, this is the island he fucked off to. Can you believe it?”

“Small world.” Anathema says, eyes twinkling. “So you decided to pay him a visit?”

“Oh, it was my fault.” Aziraphale deeply enjoys the way Gabriel’s jaw is twitching. “I forgot to tell Crowley about the schedule and he already made the call.” He squeezes Crowley’s bicep. “You know how I am. I’ll forget my own head next.” 

“Yeah, and the poor bastard only gets one call to and from England per month, you know how it is. So.” Crowley shrugs, downing the rest of the orange juice in his glass. “Sorry guys, no zumba.” 

Aziraphale beams. “We are devastated, of course. I hope you can forgive us.” 

There are two beats of silence. Crowley grins and bumps their knees again. Aziraphale finishes his tea and gently dabs his lips with the napkin. After another beat, Rory bends down and wraps his arms around the both of them, squeezing their heads together. “I’ll miss you so much, my brothers.” He smacks a kiss on each of their cheeks, for good measure. “So, so much.”

Aziraphale pats his hand. “You’re very sweet, Rory.” Crowley wipes his cheek with the napkin. 

Gabriel doesn’t say anything, jaw still twitching. His eyes (very blue, very cold, very different) stay focused on Aziraphale and he nods once before grabbing Rory’s hand. “Come on, baby. Let’s finish our greetings.” 

Crowley salutes them with two fingers. Aziraphale keeps looking at Gabriel even as they move away. His smile is so painfully fake. 

Some things never change. 

“I think this is the first time I’ve ever seen your ankles.” Crowley fixes the hat on top of his head, angling it down. “Or your knees.” 

“You told me to wear my bathing suit.” Aziraphale replies, smiling as he fixes his own, matching hat. “We never had a reason to see each other’s shins before.” 

Crowley lets out a few inarticulate sounds and walks faster. “Come on. We’re almost there.” 

Much to Aziraphale’s surprise, Crowley actually had a plan beyond the zumba lie. There is no mysterious asylum seeker friend involved, but there is a private beach, still managed by the resort, on the other side of the atoll.

“Apparently the nutters only rented half of the Resort for the Nutter Fest.” He’d said as they were changing in the bungalow. “The other half of it is populated by hopefully normal people.” 

He made a few calls and managed to reserve two spots at what Aziraphale has started to call The Other Beach in his head. Apparently, this Other Beach has a bar service as well, and Aziraphale is very excited about the cocktails. 

This side of the resort turns out to be just as pretty as their own. The beach club is a strip of white sand with various chaise longues artfully arranged, turquoise waves rolling lazily under the bluest sky Aziraphale can ever remember seeing. 

One employee comes up to them with a big smile. Everyone is always smiling in this place.

“Two seats under Crowley. I called this morning.”

The employee nods and leads the two to chaise longues one foot away from the rolling waves. Aziraphale takes the offered menu and begins to peruse it as Crowley leaves his horrifying shoes by his chaise and goes to dip his toes in the ocean. 

Aziraphale orders them both a frozen daiquiri, and inhales the sea salt air with a pleased smile on his face. To think there was a risk he would be sweating during zumba, right now. 

Crowley comes back with a spring in his step. “It’s still so warm,” he comments. “It’s unfairly pretty.”

Aziraphale hums, getting more comfortable on his chair. He digs around in his beach bag to retrieve his sun cream. “I ordered you a drink.” 

Crowley is checking something on his phone. “Oh?”

“Frozen daiquiri.” He unbuttons his shirt, carefully folding it on the top of his bag. “Banana. I believe it’s your favourite.” 

Crowley nods, not lifting his gaze. “Nailed it. Thanks.” 

Aziraphale rubs the cream into his skin, focusing on his collarbones and his underbelly. He always burns there, the most embarrassing of places to get sunburnt, and he particularly wants to avoid it this time, so he lathers double the amount of sunscreen he normally would use. With a final dab on his nose, he leans back and sighs contentedly, relaxing into the soft pillows under his back. “What a wonderful morning.” 

He’s met with silence. “What a marvelous beach.” He tries again. More silence. He cranes his neck to look at Crowley, who’s staring into nothing with his phone dangling precariously between his fingers. “Crowley? Is something the matter?” 

“Uhm. Nnh. N- yes. Yes. No, I mean. I’m fine.” Crowley shakes his head so fast his hat almost falls. “I’m - I’ll - nap! I’m taking a nap. Napping.” With that, he flops down on his chair, on his belly, phone discarded somewhere near his flip flops. 

Aziraphale raises his eyebrows. “Are you sure? It’s not even noon.”

“Never too early for a nap.” He cradles the small pillow meant for neck support  in his arms, smashing his face into it. “Night.”

“You still have your shirt on.” Aziraphale notices. “And your hat. And your sunglasses. You can’t be comfortable.” 

With a choked sound, Crowley lifts himself high enough to remove his shirt with one swift motion. He crumples it and throws it on top of his cotton tote bag, keeping both the glasses and the hat in place, plopping back down right after. “There. Happy?”

Oh, Aziraphale definitely is. “Do I need to put some sunscreen on your back?” 

“No.” He buries his face in the pillow again. “Goodnight.” 

“Don’t be silly.” Aziraphale tuts, squeezing some cream into his palm. “Your skin is very fair. I’ll be quick.” 

Ignoring Crowley’s weird sounds, he sits up and leans over Crowley’s back, rubbing the cream with gentle movement, squeezing the tense muscles of his back, and admiring the view. There’s a particular tension near Crowley’s shoulder. “My, you are very tight.” 

Crowley starts squirming, more muffled sounds coming from the pillow. Aziraphale moves down, digging his thumbs into the small of Crowley’s back. “Relax, my dear. And stay still for a second.” 

“Oh god, Aziraphale.” Crowley groans. “I’m all sunscreened. I promise, my skin is safe, thank you for your service.” 

Aziraphale ignores him and rubs some more cream onto his shoulders. “There. Now I’m done.” 

The same employee from before comes back with a tray and two identical drinks on it.

Crowley lifts himself up and downs his glass like a shot before Aziraphale can even say thank you. The waiter gives him a weird look, but Aziraphale merely smiles and waves him away with a soft thank you. 

“You are so weird sometimes, dear.” He chuckles, sipping his drink and relaxing back into his own chair. “Oh, this is so good.”

Crowley buries his face even deeper. “Goodnight.”  

Aziraphale ends up dozing off as well. He wakes up on his back, an open book on his stomach and his left arm bent over his head. The breeze gently ruffles the pages of the book, and he is pleased to note he’s not unbearably hot. His skin feels pleasantly warm, there’s only a bit of sweat pooling in the small of his back. 

“Crowley?” He calls out. 

“Mmh?”

Crowley is on his back as well, sipping on another drink, straw dangling from his mouth as he turns to look at Aziraphale. “Good morning princess.” 

He rolls his eyes. “How do you feel about a swim?” The ocean looks even calmer than it did in the morning, waves so gentle they’re basically caresses on the sand. 

“Lemme finish this one.” Crowley says, then proceeds to discard the straw and down the rest of his drink in one big gulp. “Alright. Let’s go.” 

Aziraphale shakes his head. “I do wonder about your sanity sometimes.” 

He gets up and extends one hand. Crowley looks at it for a moment, then removes his glasses and bolts towards the ocean. Aziraphale chuckles as he watches him launch himself into the water, face first, while he takes a much more calm approach and waddles around until the water reaches his waist. 

Crowley swims back up to him, flipping his hair back and rubbing a hand over his eyes. “Fucking fuck. It stings.” 

“Ah yes, the marvel of salt water.”

He gets a splash of salt water in his face for it, and he very maturely doesn’t reiterate. 

They float around for a bit in a comfortable silence, the warm, calm water lulling Aziraphale gently. He could doze again, if he closed his eyes. 

“What’s on the program tomorrow?” Crowley asks after a while.

Aziraphale thinks back at the glittery pamphlet. “Day Two, Pottery Pavillion.” He recites. “I’m afraid we’ll have to attend at least one activity per day if we don’t want to attract Gabriel’s wrath.” 

“I want to attract Gabriel’s wrath.” Crowley grins. “Bring it on. What are the most inappropriate shapes I can create in the Pottery Pavillion?” 

Aziraphale has to close his eyes when a vision of Crowley superimposed over Patrick Swayze floods his mind. “Phalluses.” Damn his mouth. “I mean, a few years back, I would have suggested phalluses. Now, however…” His words trail off, and he decides to card a hand through his hair, wetting his hair to hopefully cool down his brain. 

Crowley is laughing though, low and throaty. “Why does he always feel on the brink of committing a hate crime? He’s marrying a man.”

“Part of his general aura, I believe.” Aziraphale says. “You cannot take the homophobia out of the man, or something like that.” 

Crowley barks another laugh, loud and big mouthed. A mother with her kid throws a dirty look in their direction and swims further away. Aziraphale ignores her. He ignores pretty much everything else when Crowley is smiling, especially if it’s because of him. “How about… oh, what if I mock up the pottery class so badly the instructor has to kick me out?” 

Aziraphale giggles. “How would you even do it? It’s just clay.”

“Oh, angel. You don’t know half the things I can do with just clay.” Crowley grins and, great, Patrick Swayze is back. 

Aziraphale decides to submerge himself, lowering his knees until they touch the sand and squeezing his eyes shut, enjoying how cool the water feels on the heated skin of his face. He comes back up, laughing as he scrubs a hand over his eyes and the other one in his curls. “Oh dear, it does burn.” 

He expects another splash in retaliation, but it never comes. When he manages to open his eyes again, Crowley is staring at him, a small smile on his face. Aziraphale smiles back, feeling a bit of heat in his cheeks. 

“Your eyes are so blue,” he blurts out. His smile drops immediately. “I mean, they’re always blue. It’s not like they change - but they do actually sometimes, uhm, but not the point. It’s- they’re blue-er, here. In the water.” 

Now Aziraphale’s cheeks are definitely pink. “Oh. Thank you.” 

There are two more beats of silence. “Crowley?” Aziraphale threads the water with his hands and focuses his gaze on the movement of his fingers. “Do you think - have we got the same eyes? Me and Gabriel?” 

“No.” Crowley’s reply is as immediate as it is firm. “Absolutely not. Not a chance in hell. Not even close.” 

Aziraphale looks up, and smiles. Crowley smiles back. 

Eden Resort, Landaa Giraavaru, Maldives - 9 days before Christmas

Aziraphale scrubs his fingernails with a brush, squirting way more soap than necessary into his palms. The magic of cinema, making clay look dreamy and romantic when it is just, frankly, gross. 

“What a pretentious twat.” Crowley whispers beside him, aggressively scrubbing a particularly stubborn spot. “I can’t see the spirit, Anthony, where’s the spirit?” 

The pottery instructor, an eclectic looking woman named Marjorie, did not seem like Crowley’s biggest fan. “To be fair, it’s not like you put any real effort into it.” 

Aziraphale grins down at the suds-filled sink, recalling the sad lump of clay Crowley tried to call a vase. It looked more like a brick, to be completely honest. Crowley finishes scrubbing and splashes a few droplets on Aziraphale’s nose. “Apologies, teacher’s pet. Look at those perfect lines, Aziraphale!” 

Aziraphale’s creation is actually very pretty, and even has two smaller companion pieces he built with the remnants of Crowley’s monstrosity. He is actually proud of it, he even made arrangements with Marjorie to have it shipped to London. He’s always liked arts and crafts, growing up, and has always been somewhat good at it. For a few weeks, in another life, he debated with himself about actually doing something with this talent of his, but it never worked out. 

He never regretted it: books and literature are his life and his passion, but it was nice to get a bit creative again. “I’ll give the smallest pieces to you once we get back home,” he says to Crowley, drying his hand with a cloth who’s seen better days. 

“I’d actually make money if I sold them,” Crowley smiles at Aziraphale’s horrified gasp. “Not that I would. It was a compliment.” 

“Brothers!” Rory comes up between them and shoves his hands under the water. “That was beautiful. Wasn’t it beautiful? I felt so connected to Mother Earth, clay is so magical.” 

“Would love a bit less connection,” Crowley mumbles, drying the same spot from before with renewed vigour. 

Aziraphale looks around and over his shoulder to check for any sign of his brother, normally attached to Rory’s hip. 

“Gabey is knackered. He wanted to lie down a bit and felt like skipping lunch.” Rory says cheerfully. There’s a drop of clay on his cheek. “Can I join the two of you for lunch? We can eat fruits and get to know each other’s secrets!” 

Aziraphale immediately looks over at Crowley, who’s shaking his head fast enough to displace the sunglasses. “Erm.”

Rory’s eyes light up, leaning closer to Aziraphale and hiding his mouth behind a hand. “Also, Annie says it’s my turn to be on Gran Watch, but I don’t want to! It’s my wedding. I should spend the time getting to know my guests! Can I?”

Aziraphale sends a panicked glance Crowley’s way, who just keeps shaking his head. The glasses are now halfway down his nose, eyes wide behind them. “Oh, erm, well, actually-”

“Thank you!” Rory chirps and throws his arms around Aziraphale. Crowley lifts his arms and mouths a profanity. Aziraphale can only stand still. “I’ll go get us the prettiest table!” Rory adds drawing back, kissing Aziraphale’s cheek before running away. 

They watch him go in silence until they’re sure he’s out of earshot. “What the hell, Aziraphale?”

“Did you hear the word yes come out of my mouth, Crowley? Did you?” Aziraphale drags the heel of his hands over his eyes. “At least he’s not Gabriel.”

Crowley slams the cloth against the sink. “Alright, here’s what we’re doing.”

Aziraphale huffs, but Crowley ignores him. “You’ll order a fruit plate or whatever, you scarf it down in under five minutes, then I make up an headache and we bolt out of there, alright?” 

“Why do I need to order a fruit plate?” 

Crowley raises an eyebrow. “Because you love your little fruit plates. Especially when they include the green melon.” 

Well, he’s right. They’re incredibly refreshing, and the green melon is his favourite. Still, his face twists into a grimace. “I do not think I’m able to survive a conversation with Rory Device soon to be Fell.” 

“Wanna know what’s worse?” Crowley fixes his glasses and the cuffs of his faded grey t-shirt (a new colour - Aziraphale dropped his comb this morning upon seeing it for the first time). “Zumba. Remember we survived zumba day without actually participating. Let’s go.” 

That makes Aziraphale crack a small smile. “And you still did not tell me the full story.” 

Crowley drags him away by his wrist. “Come on. Five minutes start now.” 

Rory is already sitting down at the supposedly prettiest table at the resort's beach restaurant, a tiny one right at the end of the dock, overseeing the shore. Obviously, he’s waving with both hands and grinning like a maniac. With a quick glance around the room, Aziraphale spots Anathema having a heated conversation with her mother, Newt vibrating beside her, and Muriel reading a book while the rest of their cousins argue about something at another table.

He still hasn’t checked in with her, and he needs to do it. He’s just being a bit too focused on… other things. Namely, the hand now giving his own clammy one a squeeze. 

“I ordered us some bubbles!” Rory says as soon as they sit down. 

“Thank you,” Aziraphale replies politely. “You shouldn’t have.”

“Really.” Crowley mumbles. Aziraphale kicks him. 

“So!” Rory claps his hands and giggles excitedly. “Are you having fun? Is Eden Resort everything you thought it would be?”

Aziraphale didn’t actually have much expectations before coming here. His brain was just in survival mode, and he didn’t actually hope to enjoy himself. 

He should have known better. He looks at Crowley for a moment and smiles before turning back to Rory. “It’s been fun. This place is wonderful, truly.” 

Rory looks elated. “I’ve looked for the perfect place for so long, you have no idea. I’ve been so worried it wouldn’t be up to anyone’s standards but it’s been good right? It’s pretty and everyone looks happy. I hope it-”

The waiter comes up to their table with the bottle Rory ordered and cuts off his ramble. Aziraphale exhales through his nose, a smile still plastered on his face, and sends a prayer vaguely upwards to ensure Rory stops talking at least while eating. 

They order matching fruit plates, Crowley waving down the waiter to ask for extra green melon on one of them. Aziraphale’s belly tingles again. (The tingles have been pretty much non-stop til the first breakfast, but somehow they only grow stronger, harder to ignore, even harder to hide.) He reaches over and squeezes Crowley’s wrist, trying not to give in to temptation and press a kiss on his barely lifted cheekbone.

His trance is broken by a sniff on the other end of the table. Rory is dabbing under his eyes with his pristine napkin. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,” he breathes out. “It’s just just - I’m absorbing so much love I don’t know where to put it. My - my soul feels a bit unbalanced.” 

Crowley squirms and reaches over to the bottle to top off Rory’s glass. “Here. Bubbles help.” 

Aziraphale downs his own glass. “It is a, uhm, very romantic setting.”

There are thin veiled sheets flowing around the veranda where they’re currently sitting, and a bouquet of white lilies and baby’s breath on each table. The light blue sky and turquoise sea in the background add to the scenery. 

“Yes, yes, it is. I love what they did with my vision and I’m glad the lilies could be shipped here in time. God knows what I would have done with anemone.” Rory sighs wistfully. “But it’s actually you two. I can’t look at you without overflowing.”

Aziraphale puts down his glass. Crowley tops it off and adds some more champagne in his already full one, throwing it down in a single gulp. “Thanks.” He says. 

“You have no idea - oh, look, I’m tearing up again.” He dabs his eyes with the other hand of his napkin. “I’m just so glad fate brought you to me.”

“More Emirates Airlines’ doing, but thanks.” Crowley says, pouring himself another glass. “Cheers.” 

Rory blinks at him for a few seconds before dissolving in a loud, open mouthed laugh. “He’s funny, Aziraphale! He’s funny, you lucky puppy.” 

As soon as his plate is placed in front of him, he pops a grape into his mouth, hoping the sweetness will make him forget the words lucky puppy uttered in his direction. 

Crowley puts the extra green melon on his plate and he has to take a moment to drown the tingles with more bubbles. What a lunch. 

“I’m so glad I’m getting married.” Rory says, apropos of nothing. “I know we didn’t have a conventional beginning, but as soon as I saw him… I just knew, you know? I had this feeling in my chest that he was the one.” Leaning forward on the table, he takes one of Aziraphale’s hands into his own. “Gabriel and I are becoming a family, and you’re part of it as well. I’m so glad you’re part of my family, Aziraphale, and I hope you like me.” 

Good Lord. 

Aziraphale is used to feeling annoyed by his future brother in law by now, and that is definitely the most popular of his feelings right now. But there’s also something about those shiny brown eyes and that unwavering smile that lets him know how - unfortunately - sincere Rory is being. 

And that is - that makes Aziraphale think about his brother, the best liar he’s ever known, the man Rory is marrying. It makes him slightly uneasy, and it is that uneasiness which makes him smile at Rory. “You seem like a very kind person,” he chooses to say. “We’ll be fine, I’m sure.” 

It’s enough for now, as the beaming smile is back and even a giggle. Rory seems happy to dive into a rant about fruits and vitamins, while Aziraphale struggles to focus. 

Gabriel is not a kind person, nor is he sincere. And Rory may be annoying and weird and definitely not a good therapist, but Aziraphale thinks there’s a certain genuinity to him that Gabriel misses and, frankly, does not deserve. 

It’s not his business, actually. He should just forget about it. He bites into a piece of cantaloupe and tries to swallow down the sudden sadness. 

Rory cuts himself off mid ramble about the properties of pineapple to point a finger at Aziraphale. “Oh! I’ve been meaning to ask you for ages!” He even puts down his fork. “Is your hair real?” 

Aziraphale doesn’t know whether he is more offended by the question or by how Crowley immediately starts laughing. No, actually, he’s guffawing; he’s loud and boisterous, spitting bits of mango in his napkin and bumping the table with his knees with how hard is shaking. 

He takes a moment to dab his lips before carefully folding the napkin in his lap. “Yes, Rory, I’m afraid it is. Before you ask, no, I do not know where it came from either.”

Given the short duration of his parents’ marriage and he and Gabriel’s age difference, he’s always had suspicions, but that is a whole different story. 

“I knew it!” Rory says, loud enough to be heard over Crowley’s snickers. Aziraphale kicks him hard enough to shut him up. “It’s just so - bouncy. And full, as well. Bleach doesn’t do that, you know I went through a phase a few years back -”

“Yes, I’m lucky enough.” Aziraphale subconsciously runs a hand through his slightly flattened curls. 

“Blond curls, blue eyes. Aren’t you dreamy?” Rory winks, plopping a grape into his mouth. 

Crowley sits up straighter, and that makes Aziraphale laugh. “Why, thank you.”

“So,” Crowley clanks his fork against his plate, making a few heads turn in their direction. “Excited about getting married? To Aziraphale’s brother?” 

Aziraphale smiles down at his plate, while Rory launches himself into a rant about wedding vows and doves and butterflies, of all things. Crowley oohs and aahs at the right times, while making a show of playing with Aziraphale’s fingers, throwing an arm around his shoulder, even obnoxiously fluffing up his hair at one point. 

Ridiculous. It’s all absolutely ridiculous and Aziraphale needs more champagne. Possibly a whole other bottle of it, but he settles with one more glass. 

“Sirs? Would you like anything else?” The same waiter from before asks as the table is getting cleaned. 

“No!” Aziraphale decides, making an executive decision. He uses the hand Crowley has now wrapped around his waist to hoist him with him as well. “This has been a delightful lunch, Rory, thank you so much.”

Rory’s big brown eyes blink at him confusedly. “Are you going already? I was just getting to the good part of the florist tale-”

“Headaches!” Aziraphale folds his used napkin on the table, because he’s always anything but impolite. “You know how it is, all this… sun and excitement! Not as young as I used to be!, I’m sure you know the feeling.”

Concern washes over Rory’s face. “Do you need something? Advil? Are you skipping Arts and Crafts this afternoon? I have a stash of homegrown in my nightstand if you want to -”
“Thanks, bye!” Crowley drags him out again, as it’s become his habit. Aziraphale doesn’t think he minds. 

Dinner that night is accompanied by the ocean themed movie marathon. 

The wedding party is spread out over picnic tables spread on the sand, tiki torches lit around the perimeter of the space. On a large stage, a screen just shy of being as big as a cinema one is currently projecting Titanic - which wouldn’t have been Aziraphale’s first choice in ocean themed movies to play during a wedding, but it’s not his wedding, so he lets it go. 

Since it's not his wedding, he also doesn’t look over at Rory and Gabriel and he certainly doesn’t focus on his brother’s eyes as he watches his groom talk. He merely lets it go. 

“Fancy some popcorn?” Crowley says, stretching his arms over his head and pointing at the little stand beside a tiki torch. “Apparently there is more than one flavour. I want to see what the nutters could have possibly come up with.” 

Aziraphale pats his belly, tugging the hem of his baby pink shirt down - another one of Crowley's choices he doesn’t really mind. “I don’t think I can take another bite.” Dinner was a barbecue: guests were served kobe beef hot dogs and wagyu burgers and Crowley, long time meat-hater, only had a lobster tail. “You go and have a look dear. It’s not like you’ll miss much.” He gestures at the screen, where Jack is currently painting Rose like one of his French girls. 

Grimacing at the screen, Crowley slowly gets up and hops to the popcorn stand. Aziraphale watches him as he frowns over the selection, enjoying the way he glares at everyone who talks to him without even meaning to. 

He left the glasses in the room for once, which means Aziraphale can take his fill of his expressive face properly, drink in the way his deep brown eyes warm up in the gentle light of the sunset, slightly tanned skin emphasized by the gold seams in his shirt. 

He jumps as someone sits down on the bench next to him, engrossed as he is in his ogling. 

“Hello, hello, hello.”

Aziraphale smiles, genuinely for once. “Oh, Muriel. How are you?” 

“I’m good. I don’t think I’ve ever spent so much time doing nothing.” She looks down at her hands, stained with some blue material Aziraphale is thankful he doesn’t know the origin of. “Well, apart from Rory and Gabriel’s activities. They planned so much, didn’t they? I wouldn’t even have half of these ideas.” 

They skipped Arts and Crafts for a headache induced nap which actually was another visit to what Aziraphale has started to think of as ‘their’ beach. He smiles at Muriel. “No, dear, me either. They certainly are… original.” 

She smiles, taking a sip of her drink. “It’s been so long since we last saw you! What have you, uhm, been up to?” 

With a soft smile, he looks over to their cousins’ table, where Sandy does a poor job of looking away at the last second. “Were you sent over here to investigate?” 

Muriel’s face drops immediately. “I’m sorry! Aziraphale, I’m sorry, I didn’t really want to, but then Michael started saying all those things and Sandy is being so mean and Sarah just sighs and nods at random times and I really, really wanted to talk to you but -”

“Muriel, dear, it’s fine, take a deep breath.” Aziraphale puts a placating hand on her back. “I know how it is, no apologies needed.” He looks over at Sandy and waves when he finds him looking back. “What did you want to tell me?” 

Muriel needs to take another sip of her pink drink before replying. When she does, she doesn’t ask a question. “You look happier. He makes you laugh a lot, doesn’t he? I - I don’t think he’s as bad as Michael says.” 

Instinctively, Aziraphale looks over at Crowley, now heading back with two popcorn bowls awkwardly balanced in his arms. “People who love you should make you happy.” Muriel says beside him. 

He squeezes her shoulder. “You are so right.” 

“Bloody fucking hell.” Crowley launches himself in his seat, popcorn flying everywhere on the table and few shushing sounds coming from the neighbour's table. “Of course they couldn’t have named them normally. What on Earth is Rory's Afternoon Delight and why the hell would I want to know about - oh. Hi.” 

Muriel offers him a timid wave. “Hello hello. I’m Muriel, Aziraphale’s cousin.” 

“I know, he told me about you.” Crowley offers her the pink bowl, glancing at her drink. “Want some? They’re cherry flavoured.” 

Aziraphale loves him. Again, it’s old news, but he does. Crowley trusts his judgement enough to drop the rudeness and the cover of his aloof persona just because he told him Muriel is a good egg. As he watches Muriel smile and take the offered pink corn, he just loves him more. 

“Will you stay with us for this movie?” He asks Muriel. “You’ll just say you’re gathering some more information.” 

Crowley’s eyebrows shoot up immediately, but Aziraphale crosses their ankles together and shakes his head. Muriel beams, clearly excited. “Oh, could I? I mean - it’s not like I’m bored or -”

“Please, do stay. And tell me everything I missed about your doctorate.” 

None of them pays attention to the rest of the movie. Muriel happily babbles on about anthropology and academic fundings, Aziraphale divides his focus between her and all the point his skin and Crowley’s are touching, while Crowley silently listens to the conversation, cutting in to ask Muriel a question about the ethics of smell in literature and smiling at Aziraphale when she gets so excited she squeals, prompting more shushing sounds. 

Aziraphale merely loves him more. 

He only notices when the movie’s over because Gabriel’s voice suddenly disrupts the quiet of the beach. “Well, it’s a classic for a reason, isn’t it my lovely guests?” He laughs into his microphone. “Now, for our next movie, you may want to suspend your judgement and just open your heart. I did as well, only because I love my Rory-cakes so much -”

He doesn’t get to finish the sentence because Rory runs up to the stage and crashes into Gabriel. “I thought you vetoed Finding Nemo!” He yells, then proceeds to snog him as if his parents and Grandmother aren’t sitting at the table in front of them. To be fair, Gran is cheering, so everything must be right. 

Crowley drags his attention back to his own table tapping two fingers on the back of his hand. “I am vetoing Finding Nemo.” 

Aziraphale nods. “You and me both.” 

Muriel hugs him goodnight, whispering, “He’s really not bad,” in his ear before reuniting with the rest of his family. If Crowley notices his pinkening cheeks, he doesn’t say anything, merely waving a hand in Muriel’s direction. 

They head back towards their bungalows without saying bye to anyone else, Aziraphale giggling as Crowley recalls the weird popcorn names he unfortunately memorised. 

Inside, they both head for the en suite, Crowley eyeing the long row of products on the countertop. “Do you seriously need all that?”

“I have a routine,” Aziraphale replies, unclasping his detergent and dropping a dollop on his palm. 

Crowley splashes some water on his face. “This is mine. Done.”

Aziraphale ignores him as he follows his usual step. He rubs moisturizer onto his skin with rhythmic circular motions, enjoying the pleasant flowery smell.

Crowley spits toothpaste in the sink and rinses his mouth with a loud gargle. “Right. Have fun, I’ll be in bed.” 

Aziraphale only has two steps left: eye cream, even though he did not escape the genetic curse of crow’s feet, and hand lotion, because the sand dries his knuckles terribly. 

He’s still massaging the almond smelling cream into his palms as he steps out of the bathroom and finds Crowley building a pillow forth in the middle of the bed. He rolls his eyes. 

He tried to convince him it’s absolutely not necessarily the night before, to no avail. Tonight, he’s loving him a bit too much to put up with it. 

Unceremoniously, he hops on the bed and drops the pillow to the ground. 

Crowley freezes with a smaller pillow in his hand. “What are you doing?” 

“Acting my age.” Aziraphale pulls the duvet all the way to his chin, humming contentedly at the cold cotton hitting his warmed up skin. “Turn off the light and go to sleep.” 

“But, Aziraphale-”

“Anthony. Turn off the light and go to sleep.” 

It takes him a full minute to actually comply, but in the end he drops the pillow and plunges the room into semi-darkness, moonlight blaring into their room through the glass patio door. He settles on his stomach with his arms under his head. “You’re not my boss.”

“Of course.” Aziraphale sighs, shifting around to get properly comfortable. “I had a weird thought today.” 

Crowley barks a laugh. “Ground breaking news.” 

“Well, goodnight then.” Aziraphale turns onto his side, giving Crowley his back. “Sweet dreams.”

“Come on, it was a joke.” Crowley says, smile clear in his words. “Tell us your weird thought.” 

“Enough chit chat. Goodnight.” 

“Drama queen.” He hears Crowley whisper. A foot pokes his own repeatedly under the cover. “I am way more annoying than you are, remember that.”

With a huff, Aziraphale rolls back in his previous position and angles his face towards Crowley. “I felt sad for Rory Device.” 

Crowley rubs his cheek on his pillow. “Because he’s marrying your awful brother?” 

“He’s way less awful than Gabriel.” Aziraphale continues. “He’s weird, I’ll give you that, but he is also… sincere.” 

Crowley exhales deeply, pushing hot air out of his nostrils. “Two thoughts,” he says, freeing one arm to hold up two fingers. “One, he’s not just weird, he is completely batshit. But he’s also old enough to make his own decisions.”

“I didn’t say that.” 

Crowley shushes him. “That said, I guess I could feel bad for him too. I mean, Gabriel is awful. With that evil glint in his eye and all that botox in his forehead.” 

Aziraphale breathes out a laugh. Seeing the way Gabriel’s face twitches in annoyance is even funnier now that he can’t move his eyebrows properly. “And the second thing?” 

Crowley puts his free hand on Aziraphale’s shoulder, lightly thumbing his collarbone, and everything tingles. “You’re too good for the lot of ‘em.” 

They hold each other’s gazes for a while, pale moonlight shining on the cheekbones Aziraphale so desperately wants to touch. Before he can do anything about it, Crowley drops his hand and turns to the other side, angling his face away. “Night then,” he mumbles. 

Aziraphale looks at the back of his head for a moment before staring at the ceiling. “Dream of whatever you like best, darling.”

He never dreams, but knows what he would dream about if he could. 

Chapter Text

Eden Resort, Landaa Giraavaru, Maldives - 8 days before Christmas

The room lights up as the sun rises. It’s early still, much too early for the alarm clock and for anyone on holiday to be awake. 

Predictably, Aziraphale is. Unpredictably, he opens his eyes with the sun.

Sunlight warms the wooden floors, as the air conditioner kicks on and gently blows on the linen curtains, cool air teasing the tip of his nose. 

He blinks his eyes open slowly, drinking in the golden-pink light coming in from the glass door. He’s awake enough to know the arms wrapped around him aren’t his own. His hands are loosely curled on the mattress in front of his chest, Crowley’s palm flat on the top of his stomach. 

He closes his eyes, soaking up some more warmth now that he can. Before Crowley wakes, before he moves away in a hurry of choked sounds and heatened cheeks. 

He shifts his head back against the pillow, Crowley’s nose brushing the curve of his neck, shifting with him. 

Oh. Aziraphale forces himself to be still. 

It is hard, though, because once his body is awake, it seems to be unable to stop moving. First his fingers, tapping the covers in a semi-rhythmic motion, then his feet, shuffling under the heavy duvet and creating a low, whooshing sound Aziraphale hopes is not too loud. 

Behind him, Crowley makes a sleepy sort of sound. Aziraphale wills his feet to stay still, and breathes out deeply as he cuddles his face against the pillows. 

He shuts his eyes again, as Crowley makes another sleepy hum, the sound higher and louder as his bare feet too start to shuffle under the covers. 

“Bloody hell - again?” 

His hand starts to move, but Aziraphale’s own hand has other plans, much as he did the first day, and he grips Crowley’s retreating wrist. “Stay. Please?” He crosses his ankles and keeps his eyes firmly shut, focusing only on the warmth pressed against him and the gentle hum of air conditioning. “I’m very comfortable.” 

Aziraphale feels Crowley tense up, his arm still halfway gone. “Are - are you sure?” 

“Please.” Aziraphale repeats. “It is way too early anyway. You could fall back asleep.” 

“I - you - ngk.” Whatever Crowley was about to say is forgotten, as his arm and the rest of him relaxes again, a warm puff of air blown against Aziraphale’s nape. “Alright. Alright.” 

“Thank you.” Aziraphale opens his eyes once again, taking in the details of their sunlit room, their pottery creations lined up on their shared drawer. Crowley’s little blob of clay looks even worse all dried up. He smiles. “Are you ready for day three?” 

“Depends.” Crowley whispers. “What madness am I going to be subjected to?” 

Aziraphale thinks about it for a moment. “I believe today is the Winter Wonderland Day.”

Crowley hums, the sound deep in his throat. “Of course it is. Did they rent a snow machine or something?” 

“You never know with Roriel. Best not to ask too many questions.” Aziraphale starts to stroke the bony top of Crowley’s hands, the touch too light to be anything they should talk about. 

“Are you?” Crowley whispers again, his nose so close it tickles when he breathes against Aziraphale’s skin. “Ready, I mean.”

Aziraphale sighs. “As I’ll ever be.” 

“One week left after today,” Crowley says. Aziraphale nods, though Crowley can’t properly see him. One week left. He wonders what will happen once they leave Eden, how he’ll go back to his empty flat and even emptier bed and sleepless nights followed by cold, cold mornings. He wonders if they should, perhaps, talk about something. 

He shifts a bit against the pillow, settling Crowley’s hand on his chest underneath his own. “Go back to sleep. Roriel Fest attendants need their rest.” 

Crowley snorts, his words already a bit slurry. “Sounds ominous.”

Aziraphale agrees, hiding his small smile in his pillow. Moments later, the room is filled with Crowley’s soft snorts. Lulled by the cool contrast between the chill of the air conditioning and the sunbeams warming his skin where they hit, Aziraphale closes his eyes and lets his body melt into the mattress. 

Day three is upon them. Lord knows what it’ll bring. 

They did, indeed, rent out a snow machine. Aziraphale has lost count of the environmental tragedies happening in this resort by now. 

They meet on the beach right after breakfast, where a bunch of guests are occupied with a snowball fight, of all things. 

Aziraphale sighs. “I told you it was better not to ask too many questions.” 

“I feel like I have to donate to the WWF or something,” Crowley mumbles, picking at the fake snow with his bare foot. “What the hell.” 

They’re greeted by a Rory who looks even more cheerful than usual, which is apparently possible, clad in a pair of tight red swim trunks and matching mittens. “Welcome to the Roriel Winter Wonderland, brothers!” 

“Rory,” Aziraphale greets, smile tight. “This is so… very…”

“White.” Crowley finishes. “Very white.” 

“Quite.” Aziraphale nods. “Nice, ah, nice mittens.” 

Rory beams. “Thank you!” He gestures wildly for his hands for a moment before settling into pointing at something in the distance. “You can get yours from our goodies stand. They’re handmade!”

Of course they are. Aziraphale is not even surprised to know they have more handmade wooden goods ready to be worn by half naked guests snowball fighting on a beach in the Maldives. Of course they do. 

“You know what?” Crowley says, clasping Aziraphale’s hand. “We’re going to have a look. Bye.”

Aziraphale smiles as he lets himself be dragged away, which is now a leitmotif of their holiday. 

He knows Crowley has no interest whatsoever in handmade mittens, but the fact that he’s actually walking towards the stand and not in the complete opposite direction amuse him.

“Excited about handmade mittens?” He has to make two little jumps to keep up with Crowley’s long strides.

“I was not supposed to see that much of Rory Device so early in the morning.” Crowley replies, glancing backwards before increasing his rhythm. “I’m excited to forget about it.”

Aziraphale grimaces. Those swim trucks were very… tiny. And the oil coating every single centimetre of exposed skin was just too much, honestly. Uncouth, he would say. “I know. And I was having a good morning, too.”

Crowley stops.

He doesn’t slow down, doesn’t give Aziraphale any kind of warning. He just stops, dead in his tracks, a few steps away from what he supposes is the mittens stand - if the glittery, red and green sign that reads ‘Roriel Handmade Goodies’ is anything to go by. Aziraphale, of course, crashes into the side of his arm, where their hands are still joined. “Ouch.”

“Were you really?” Crowley asks. His free hand lowers his glasses til they rest on the tip of his nose, big brown eyes looking at Aziraphale unblinkingly. “Was it a good morning?” 

Aziraphale knows rolling his eyes would be counterproductive, at this point. There’s sweat at Crowley’s temples, and a restless gaze darting all over Aziraphale’s features, so he keeps them schooled in a neutral, if somewhat pleased, expression. “Yes,” he says, voice firm. “A very, very nice morning. Now, since we’re here…” He’s the one doing the dragging, this time. 

“Are we seriously looking at - of course. Of course we are.” Crowley mumbles, but Aziraphale ignores him. 

See, there are a few things Aziraphale likes more than books. If he were forced to make a list, it would more or less look like the following: Crowley; the pastries at the bakery down the street where the nice lady at the till always gives him a discount; the little stands at Christmas markets with the free samples customers can try. 

Now, this is a resort in the middle of the Indian Ocean and the snow crunching his feet is fake and this particular stand does not offer free samples, but if he must skip the London Christmas markets this year, this will have to do. 

There is a large variety of mittens, of course - plain colours, with Christmas themed and also more exotic patterns, even a hot pink pair that unfortunately reminds Aziraphale of the horrors on Crowley’s feet. He’s surprised to see some scarves and hats as well, some with cute little pom poms on top and others with - oh. 

Oh. 

Following the direction of his grin, Crowley groans. “No. No, don’t even think about it.” 

Aziraphale ignores him, flashing a brilliant smile to the young man at the stand. “Good morning dear. May I see that one up close? No, yes, yes on your right.”

“Stop it,” Crowley warns. “I’m serious. You think I can’t shove you head first in the fake snow?”

Aziraphale would very much like to not think about Crowley shoving him anywhere. Instead, he focuses on the soft material under his fingers. “But dear, it’s perfect. The dark green would look amazing with your hair and complexion.”

Hair and complexion, Crowley mouths, shaking his head. “What’s with you and your obsession with putting ugly things on my head?”

Aziraphale cradles the little beanie in his hands, smiling softly while stroking one of the many tiny snakes in Santa hats embroidered on it. “It’s perfect,” he repeats. “Look at it!”

“I am, unfortunately.” He says on a whine, but he’s doing the thing, the one he thinks Aziraphale can’t read, the one he believes can hide his tentative smile much better than it actually does. 

Aziraphale has him. He leans forward, and taps on the side of Crowley’s face. “I do believe this little guy agrees with me.”

“Did you - did you just boop my face tattoo?” Crowley says, more incredulous than resentful. 

Aziraphale taps the little snake again. A drunken mistake, Crowley said one day, unprompted - Aziraphale would have never asked. A drunken mistake who’s cost him jobs and the relationship with his mother, a mistake he’d come to regret but got used to, during the years. He said all that while stroking the faded tattoo in an absent minded caress, and Aziraphale discovered three things: Crowley had a soft, delicate heart, even though he fought hard to hide it; Crowley was not a good liar; he’d like to kiss the little snake very, very much. 

“I did.” Aziraphale says. He lets his fingers linger for a moment. “I’ve always been very fond of him, you know?”

Crowley puffs out a breath, licking his lips in a slow, controlled motion. “Have you now?”

Aziraphale nods. “I have. And now, finding this in the middle of nowhere, isn’t it serendipitous?”

Crowley flashes a smile. Quick as lightning, it’s gone before Aziraphale can gloat. “Angel, honestly, look at me.” Oh, Aziraphale is looking. He has been looking for a long time. “Do I look like someone who wears something with snakes in Santa hats on his head?”

Aziraphale knows this means convince me. Crowley gets this little tremble in his upper lip when he wants to do something he cannot voice aloud, lest he loses points in coolness. He gets the tremble anytime he points at a book and comments off-handedly about Aziraphale’s reading voice, or every time they order Indian food and Aziraphale goes to put away the leftover yellow curry without asking him if he wants an encore. 

Aziraphale glances down at Crowley’s lips. Convince me, they’re telling him. “Well, there is only one way to find out, isn’t it?”

Crowley takes a step back. “Don’t you dare.”

He is taller than Aziraphale, but only just so. If Aziraphale lifts his arms fast enough and stands on his tiptoes at the same time - Crowley ducks his head and takes a step to the side, leaving Aziraphale’s hand hanging over nothing. He huffs. “You’re a child.”

“Oh, am I?” He can see both of his eyebrows over the hem of his sunglasses - a bigger model today, very Roman Holiday of him. “You’re forcing a - ah, nice try, you wish - hat on me, for the second time might I add, but I am the child.”

Aziraphale follows the steps to this improvised dance, two to the right, one to the left, one back. “You took the first one willingly - will you stay still for a moment, you insufferable-“

Crowley bends his knees and jumps back. “Willingly, he says, as if he didn’t manipulate me with his big blue puppy eyes - nice, that was close.” 

Aziraphale lets out a giggle, lowering his arms for a moment. “Big blue puppy eyes? Are you serious?”

“Trust me, I am.” They’re standing two steps apart now, Crowley openly grinning. “Giving up, angel?”

Any other moment, in any other place, Aziraphale would just lower his arms, glare at Crowley and effectively give up with his head held high. 

Now, though - now he is, in a strange and unexpected twist of fate, happy. Giddy, almost, joy bubbling up in him like the pearly champagne served at all hours here in Eden. 

And apparently happiness makes him childish. He launches forward, carelessly and thoughtlessly, arms outstretched. He completely misses the goal, his hand ending up on Crowley’s shoulder, the poor hat caught between their chests. 

Crowley has to take a step back to steady them both, the arm not holding onto Aziraphale’s back flailing wildly all around them. “You absolute nutter,” Crowley’s saying, laughing actually, and Aziraphale lets out a giggle. “This is totally your fault!”

“Aziraphale!” 

Oh, Lord in Heaven. What is with Gabriel and his penchant for ruining good moments? Aziraphale could have… done something, right now. He would have, actually. He just needed to decide… what he wanted to do. But they were almost doing something, and now Gabriel’s loud voice and somehow even louder steps are getting closer, and it’s ruined. 

“You don’t have to turn around,” Crowley flattens his palm on the small of his back. “Maybe if we ignore him he’ll go away.”

Aziraphale smiles, but like all things concerning Gabriel, there’s a hint of sadness there. “He won’t. Believe me, I tried.”

Gabriel, with Rory in tow, is already upon them, wearing (Sweet Mother of God) matching tiny swim trunks and reindeer antlers on his head. “Baby brother! I feel like I haven’t seen you in ages!”  

They went a decade without seeing one another, but apparently the new Gabriel draws the line at twenty four hours. “Here I am.”

“How are you enjoying our Winter Wonderland?” Gabriel smiles, all shiny white teeth, his eyebrows completely unmoving. Aziraphale has to stifle a laugh. 

“Not as much as Granny is,” Crowley comments. 

Aziraphale follows his gaze with a frown, spotting Rory’s Grandmother enjoying an… intimate slow dance with someone dressed as a snowman. 

“Oh, dear.” Rory giggles. “I should - we really can’t afford another lawsuit, see? Sorry, sorry beautiful flowers.” 

Aziraphale tries to look at anything else that’s not Rory’s retreating back, but those swim trunks really are tiny. Crowley pinches the side of his waist. 

“Well,” Gabriel claps. “Gran is definitely… a character, isn’t she?” 

Crowley merely hums. “Right. Best be off.”

“Definitely. We have lots of things to… see.” It’s not Aziraphale’s finest work, but it’ll work if he starts walking away right now, without looking back. 

“Actually, Aziraphale, may I have a moment?”

No. The reply is on the tip of his tongue, ready to stumble out as soon as he opens his mouth. So he keeps it shut, raising an eyebrow at Gabriel’s direction. 

“Just a quick chat between brothers,” Gabriel marches on, looking at Crowley now. “You understand, I’m sure.” 

“No, actually.” Crowley’s hold on his waist grows tighter. Gabriel’s jaw twitches. 

Aziraphale sighs. The only thing he wants less than a chat with Gabriel is a glaring contest between his brother and his… his… his Crowley. 

He covers Crowley's hand with his own, glancing sideways at him. “It’s fine, darling. Just a few minutes.” A few minutes will suffice. It’s not like Gabriel has ever found something to tell him. 

Crowley is not pleased. “Aziraphale-”

“I promise. It’s alright.” Aziraphale would like to look through the dark lenses and see Crowley’s eyes, but he settles with a tiny nod. 

Crowley wants to say more, Aziraphale is sure. Even his nose is twitching, frown settled deep between his brows. “Fine,” he grits out. “I’ll - I’ll be over there.” He points at somewhere indefinite behind his back. “There. Alright?” 

Aziraphale nods, turning to face Gabriel. He doesn’t expect Crowley to snatch the hat he forgot he was still holding and push it onto his head. “Must not forget your hat,” Crowley whispers, brushing a few stray curls off his forehead. 

And then he’s off, and he’s ridiculous and Aziraphale rather thinks he needs to kiss him if he doesn’t want to go completely mad. 

“He’s rather protective, isn’t he?” 

Oh, bother. He forgot Gabriel was there. “What’s the matter?”

“You could tell him to relax a bit, you know? We’re family.” Gabriel opens his arms and for a terrible instant Aziraphale thinks he’s about to pull him for a hug, and he has to take a step back. 

“Gabriel.” He says again. “What’s the matter?”

It’s going to be something utterly ludicrous and about himself and just a waste of time. 

“I’ve had a chat with Sandy.” 

And honestly, Aziraphale can only laugh. “I’m sure you did.”

“He is, and the rest of the family is as well, a little worried about you.” 

Aziraphale holds up both of his hands. He was prepared to lose some time, but not like this. Not about this, again. “Gabriel, Crowley is not in the mob. Tell Sandy and Michael to relax a bit, will you? Oh, and move Muriel to our table. Thank you.” 

Gabriel curls a hand around his wrist to stop him from leaving. Aziraphale cannot hold in his eye roll, this time. “Baby brother, come on, you know they just worry. It’s what family does. And I love Crowley, you know this! This is not personal.”

Nothing is ever personal with Gabriel: getting uninvited from Christmas and Easter lunches was not personal, not getting a single call or text on his birthday for a decade was not personal, maybe even the poorly veiled death threats Gabriel treated him with twice were not personal. “Why are they even here?” He doesn’t really want to talk about this, but his mouth has started running now and he cannot close it back up. “Do you remember what they always said to me?”

“We’re changing and growing, Aziraphale. Everything flows.” Gabriel is so maddeningly calm, and Aziraphale shouldn’t have let Crowley go. 

“Of course.” He breathes out. “Do you even remember what you always said to me? Does anybody?” 

He regrets the words as soon as they leave his mouth. Gabriel, of course, doesn’t drop his placid smile. The only telltale of something wrong is the twitch in his chiselled jaw. He takes that after their father. “Come on, Aziraphale. I’ve apologised countless times. We’re moving forward, aren’t we?”

He didn’t actually. Not even once, from what Aziraphale recalls. Not that he cares. “You were awful,” he says, strangely calm. “Do you have anything more to say? We should go back to enjoying your wedding bash.” 

They stare at each other for a few seconds, and Aziraphale is suddenly thirty five and brotherless again, holding a crumpled up piece of paper in his hands that cut all ties to his family, feeling nothing and everything at the same time. Gabriel cracks first. “Of course, of course, you’re right. Just - do you confirm he’s not actually mafia?”

Aziraphale laughs. “Have a nice day, Gabriel. Oh, and think about the Muriel thing, will you?”

He does not wait for a reply. He lost enough time as it is, and with every step further from Gabriel he takes he feels more and more like his present self. 

He finds Crowley at the sidelines of the still ongoing snowball fight, glaring at something as he usually does. 

“There you are,” he closes the distance between them with a long stride. “Was starting to get worried. It’s absolutely bonkers out there, by the way. I think Anathema’s husband just tore his retina or something.” 

Aziraphale wants to take his spot at Crowley’s side and judge the other guests snowball fighting in swimming attire, he wants to laugh at the way poor Newt is holding his eye and Rory is running after his Grandmother, and he will, they will. 

He needs a moment first. 

If Crowley is surprised to feel Aziraphale’s head against his shoulder, he doesn’t show it. “Ah, alright, we’re doing this.”

“I need a moment.”

“Capital M Moment?” He holds him, of course he does. Aziraphale breathes. 

“Yes. I suppose.” 

Crowley hums, cheek pressed against Aziraphale’s temple. “I could make it look like an accident.”

“My cousins already think you’re in the mafia.” Aziraphale snorts at the absurdity of it. “Good Lord, they had a chat about it.”

“Little old me? Flattering,” Crowley sounds unironically pleased. “I could do worse. Add a little satanism as a treat.”

Aziraphale believes him. He can even picture the scene, that same night during dinner, scandalising his family with a few sentences in Latin they are too dumb to know. “I told Gabriel he was awful.”

“Good.” Crowley says. 

“As in, past tense.” He should have used the present. “He really was.”

“Still is.” Somehow, Crowley manages to hold him closer. 

There are so many things he doesn’t know, things Aziraphale hasn’t told anyone: the letter informing him he wouldn’t be welcome at his childhood home anymore; the impersonal telegram notifying him of his mother’s death; drunken calls in the middle of the night where a slurring Gabriel told him exactly what he thought of Aziraphale. Nothing ten days in paradise could ever fix. 

He lets himself be held by his dearest friend instead, just a moment longer. When he lifts his head, Crowley is already looking at him. “Alright?”

It will be. “Is there someone selling hot chocolate in this subpar Winter Wonderland?”

Eden Resort, Landaa Giraavaru, Maldives - 7 days before Christmas

“This is what I’m talking about, Mr. National Geographic.”

One thing about Anthony Crowley is that he’s competitive, but he absolutely tries to play it cool. Anthony Crowley is too proud to admit he’d rather die than lose this Trivia Night. 

It’s not night - it’s actually just after lunch. They’re at the resort’s beach bar, soft breeze cool on the sweaty skin of Aziraphale’s neck. He gets sweaty when under pressure, and he’s unfortunately wearing a baby blue shirt. He should have known linen and pub quizzes don’t match well, but Crowley complimented his eyes again that morning, so it’s worth the little embarrassment. 

“Hot damn, Aziraphale!” Anathema whoops, the fabric of her purple sundress acting like a makeshift fan. Aziraphale wills himself to get as many points for their table as he can, if only to get her to wave her arms again. “You’re a machine.”

“He’s always been the best at these things.” Muriel sits in front of Aziraphale today. Evidently, Gabriel thought about it. Muriel is obviously ecstatic about the change, vibrating in her seat with her usual, endearing enthusiasm - she even managed to make Newt laugh twice, immediately becoming Anathema’s favourite person. “He’s like a walking encyclopedia.”

“That is not true,” he says now. There’s only so much praise he can take. “I’m useless with the sports questions.” 

“You just told us the scientific name of three different types of fish. Shut up.” Anathema laughs, glancing at the groom table. “Your brother is seething.”

“Let him seethe.” Crowley rests one arm on the back of Aziraphale’s chair. “And we still haven’t touched literature.”

“Oh, no one will beat me then.” If Crowley is competitive, Aziraphale is protective. He will not let anyone else answer a single literature question, thank you very much. That is his specialty. 

“We know, angel.” Crowley grins. “We’ve basically already won this thing.” 

“How do you even know so much about marine biology?” Newt asks. He’s the other person at the table wearing sunglasses today, hiding his still swollen eye. Aziraphale thinks a doctor should check it out, actually. 

Crowley snorts. “He’s obsessed with my fish.”

Aziraphale swats his chest. “I like Miss Lola very much,” he says to the rest of the table. “I may have read a lot about her, well, her kind, after -“

“After becoming obsessed with my fish.” It makes everyone else laugh. “She’s cute though, I’ll give you that.”

“She’s very pretty.” Aziraphale smooths the edges of his table cloth, a bit of pink dusting his cheeks. “Have you checked on her lately?”

“We can look now.” Crowley fishes - aha - his phone out of his back pocket, tapping fast on the screen. “Here you are.” 

“Oh, hello there.” Aziraphale coos at the purple fins floating around the screen, and he doesn’t have to look up to know Crowley’s rolling his eyes. 

“Can I see her too?” Muriel nearly squeals. 

“Sure,” Crowley hands her his phone. 

When Muriel first moved to their table that morning, Crowley had raised a single eyebrow and when Aziraphale nodded, Muriel was immediately a friend to him. 

It’s overwhelming, this kind of faith. 

“Want a refreshment?” Crowley points at Aziraphale’s empty glass. He starts walking to the bar before Aziraphale stops nodding (not asking anyone else of course - he can only sustain a certain amount of politeness in a day).

Once Crowley’s out of earshot, Anathema winks at him. “Very serviceable.”

Gosh. 

“Jesus, Nath,” Newt hisses. “You can’t just say that to strangers.”

“Oh, shut up. Aziraphale is my friend now. I was merely congratulating him.”

“On what?” Muriel, bless her soul, asks without lifting her eyes from the screen. 

“Nothing,” say Aziraphale and Anathema, one with a pleased smile, the other taking a long sip of icy lemon water as if it’s a shot. 

It’s not like he hasn’t thought about the words service and Crowley in a very specific context. He’s thought about it too much, actually, especially since his mornings now consist of waking up in warm arms, surrounded by sleepy hums and gentle breaths tickling his skin. 

Sometimes he feels like he thinks about little else. Sometimes he feels like he doesn’t know what to think about when he’s not thinking about Crowley; almost as if in four, short days his neurons have been rearranged to take Crowley’s shape, firing out endorphins at every half smirk, every lopsided grin, every raised eyebrow. 

But what was he doing before, alone in his bookshop, if not waiting for him to come back? What were his favourite days, if not the ones spent with him? Did his heart not speed up every time the bell above the door chimed, hoping to hear the familiar drawl he spent days missing?

“A Pinkity Drinkity for Barbie Marine Biologist here.” Crowley plops down on his chair, immediately taking a sip of his Gin and Tonic. His arms reassumes his previous position at the back of Aziraphale’s chair. “What did I miss?”

Aziraphale swallows, sending him a grateful smile. 

It’s always been there, that Crowley-shaped hole in his life. Now that it’s always full, he’s starting to notice all the times it wasn’t. 

All of a sudden, Rory yells into the microphone, on the little stage built right next to the bar. “Alright, ladies and gentlemen, break’s over. Are you ready for the next round?” Someone gave him a little bell to ring. Someone who was sent directly from Hell to torment Aziraphale, probably. 

“You don't yell into a microphone, you idiot!” Anathema, quite ironically, yells at her brother, who merely giggles and blows her a kiss. 

“So, for this next round someone might have a little bit of an advantage,” he winks in Aziraphale’s direction. Crowley, obnoxious as he is, loudly drags Aziraphale’s chair closer to his own, until he’s practically in his lap. 

“Welcome to the Arts and Literature section of our quiz. Get ready to play!” 

“Focus, angel.” Crowley drawls close to his ear. “This is your moment.” 

Aziraphale cracks his neck. He cannot wait to see Gabriel’s jaw twitching as he uses the one thing he constantly mocked him for to absolutely destroy him at his own wedding. “Bring it on.”

“Question one.” Rory asks for a drum roll no one in the audience provides. He clears his throat instead. “‘I have no notion of loving people by halves, it is not my nature.’ Where does this quote come from?”

Aziraphale almost laughs. “Northanger Abbey.” 

“Correct!” Rory trills. “Ten points for the Siblings Table!”

“‘M gonna get you a first edition of that,” Crowley squeezes his shoulder. 

“You already did.” As if he doesn’t recall every single gift Crowley ever got him. Northanger Abbey was his last birthday gift. 

“Question two.” Still no drum roll. “In Shakespeare’s tragedy Romeo and Juliet, what is Romeo’ last na-“

“Montague,” Aziraphale answers with a bored huff. He expected actual competition. Across the room, Gabriel’s left eye vibrates. 

“Another ten points baby!” Anathema cheers. 

“Question three. Last one before the Golden Question, which is twenty five points worth. Anyway, in Nathaniel Hawthorne’s historical fiction novel “The Scarlet Letter”, what was the letter?”

“A, for adulteress.” He adds that little detail to gloat a little, he’ll admit it. No one has even tried to answer a question since the round started. 

Crowley squeezes him close again. “I’ll buy you a hundred Pinkity Drinkities.” 

“Gabriel is buying them, darling.”

“Even better.”

“Now, the Golden Question. Twenty five points, folks, oof. Are you sweating? I am sweating.”

Aziraphale discreetly checks under his arms. Damn his sudoriferous glands and his baby blue shirts who gets him compliments from pretty men. 

Rory makes a show of clearing his throat multiple times. “Here we go. What is Mary Shelley’s maiden name?”

Crowley slaps his Gin and Tonic on the table. “Oh, come on, who would ever know -“

Aziraphale allows himself a smirk. “Mary Wollstonecraft Godwin.” He doesn’t even try to hide the smugness. “Born in Somers Town, London, 1797.”

“Correct!” Rory shouts, once again. “This round goes to the Siblings, again!”

Anathema cheers, downing the rest of her Cosmo and pressing a wet kiss on his cheek. “Aziraphale, I want to do unspeakable things to you.” It makes him laugh out loud, even more when Newt splutters his water everywhere and Muriel just keeps clapping, looking more confused than anything. 

Crowley presses a drier, infinitely sweeter kiss to his temple. “Such a show off.” Aziraphale wants to drink the fondness dripping off his voice, wraps himself in the warmth and never let go. 

Most of all, he wants to get used to this kind of closeness, these absent minded displays of affection. He doesn’t want to let this go, he doesn’t want to leave it in Eden.  

He also doesn’t want to use his words, and burst this bubble. So he just beams and leans his head on Crowley’s shoulder and for now, it has to be enough. 

The winners of Roriel's Trivia Night are rewarded with massages at the resort’s spa. Aziraphale is, frankly, giddy at the prospect. Not even Crowley’s sudden grumpiness can dampen his mood. 

He loves his deep tissue massages. 

At the spa, they’re greeted by two women named Mary and Lily. They’re wearing the resort’s uniform in a soft pink variant. “Welcome,” Lily says, a voice a soft, calm coo. The perfect spa voice.

She offers them two frosty glasses, something creamy white inside. “Care for a drink? Fresh coconut with lime infused ice.”

“Yes please.” Crowley reaches for the glass, downing it in one go with a satisfied smack of his lips. “Refreshing, thanks.”

Aziraphale politely declines, the Pinkity Drinkities still swirling in his stomach. 

“Please follow us,” Mary holds her hand straight towards a skylit hallway. “We’ll be in the Love Suite.”

“Of fucking course.” Crowley grumbles. Aziraphale’s stomach drops a little. Still, he smiles at her therapist and follows her down the hallway. Mary opens a door and steps aside, bowing her head as they pass. 

“This is your private locker room. Please shower and dress in the robes you’ll find inside. There are soft clothes too if you feel more comfortable during your massage.”

Lily walks further into the locker room, opening a glass door to a large sea blue tiled shower lit by another sky light. “Feel free to use all of the samples.”

Aziraphale beams. He loves his little samples. “Excellent, thank you.” 

Mary and Lily smile at them. “We’ll see you when you’re both finished.” 

Once they’re out and the locker room is locked, Aziraphale lets out a happy sigh. “This is very nice.” 

Crowley hums, lingering by the small bench under the wooden shelves. “Mind if I go first?” 

“Oh, of course.” He sits down on the bench, starting to toe off his moccasins. 

Crowley hovers near the shower door, arms halfway to top of his forest green t-shirt. 

Aziraphale’s stomach drops some more. “I can leave the room if you’re uncomfortable.”

“No!” Crowley yelps. Then, at a much more subdued volume. “No. You’re fine. I’m mental, just ignore me.” He takes his shirt off with a grumble. 

“I don’t want to ignore you, Crowley.” Aziraphale says, voice firm and eyes focused in Crowley’s eyes. “I mean it. I’ll leave you alone, give me a shout when you’re ready.” 

“Don’t, Aziraphale, Jesus.” Crowley blocks the door with his body. Aziraphale tries really, really hard not to linger on the view. Crowley drags a hand across his face. “You never have to leave the room when I’m concerned. Never, alright? Just - maybe turn around when I -”

Aziraphale lets out a snort at that, his stomach back to the pleasant tickling. “I would have done that regardless. Do you think I’m some kind of voyeur?”

“God, shut the hell up.”

Aziraphale giggles as Crowley shoves him, obediently facing the door as Crowley gets ready for the shower. He hears the swooshing of clothes being haphazardly folded, and the glass door opening. He focuses on thinking about nothing in particular, counting the wood veins on the door. “That is not how you talk to a Trivia champion.”

The water starts, and the glass door closes once again. “Ah. Brilliant stuff. I think old Gabe broke one of his teeth with the way he was grinding that jaw - oh, this smells nice.” 

“I did have an advantage, though.” Aziraphale thinks about what kind of wood this door could be. What kind of trees are there in the Maldives, besides palm trees? What kind of soap is currently on - no. Focus on the trees. 

“Bullshit. You knew Mary Shelley’s maiden name, fuck’s sake. Who does that?”

Aziraphale smiles, quite pleased. “She is one of my favourite authors.” 

The water turns off, and Aziraphale hears the glass door opening. “All yours, angel.” Aziraphale closes his eyes and thinks about trees very, very hard. 

Wrong word. Wrong word. 

“The scrub salt stuff is nice, though perhaps a bit harsh.” Crowley continues, ignoring Aziraphale’s turmoil, all fluffed up in his new robe. “And this is, like, outrageously soft. Think I’m going to steal it.” 

Aziraphale steadies himself and points at the door. “Your turn to talk to her.”

“Did you assign a gender to a door?” Crowley laughs, as Aziraphale quickly disrobes. He folds his own clothes much better.

He gets in the already fogged shower, turning the mist setting on. “Oh, it does smell very nice.” 

“Can we steal it? This thing’s pockets are deep.” 

Aziraphale chuckles as he soaps himself up, opting for the less harsh body wash, smelling equally nice. “I think they check the shower afterwards. What would they think of us?”

“Angel, we’re here with the Roriel Fest. Every single staff member already thinks we’re nuts.” 

Aziraphale can’t really argue with that. 

The robe is indeed incredibly soft, and he tells Crowley as much. When he turns around, his now uncovered eyes take in Aziraphale’s whole figure. “We’re definitely stealing this,” he says, then clicks the door open and makes his exit.

They meet Mary and Lily in the hallway, and they lead them in the Love Suite. Lots of candles, a low, crooning voice singing a cover of L-O-V-E: very predictable, all in all nice. 

Aziraphale slides on top of the nearest table, letting his robe fall once he’s settled, helped by Mary. He sighs happily, mushing his face into the pillow. 

“Sir?” He hears Lily’s voice. “You need to get on the table.”

“Ngk. Nnh. I know.” There’s some stumbling, some profanities leaving Crowley’s mouth, and finally the sound of the sheets on the table shifting around. 

“Are you all set, dear?” 

“Yeah.” Crowley mumbles. “All set.” 

“Are there any areas you’d like special attention to?” Mary asks him, oiled hands already scrubbing up and down his back. 

“My legs, if you wouldn’t mind. I spend a lot of time sitting down.” He gets more comfortable, finding a nice position in the head cradle that doesn’t hurt his neck. “Glutes, especially.”

“Are you alright, sir?” Lily’s voice asks. “You just…jumped. Is the oil too warm?”

“No, no. It’s fine, you’re fine. Ticklish.” He hears more shifting from Crowley’s tables. 

“You should focus on his shoulders.” Aziraphale comments. “He’s so very tight.”

“Are you sure, sir? You just did it again.” 

“I’m fine! Fine. Just - just do it.” The shifting finally comes to a stop as Crowley lets out a long exhale. “Lord knows I need to relax.”

Mary starts working her magic on Aziraphale’s calves, and he exhales as well. “Too right, darling. Too right.” 

Eden Resort, Landaa Giraavaru, Maldives - 6 days before Christmas

When Aziraphale first drifts awake, he sneezes. The left side of his body feels hot, too hot under the duvet and weighed down by something heavy. He opens his eyes, and sees red. Red hair, to be precise. 

Crowley is curled on his side this morning, one foot snug under Aziraphale’s ankle, upper body laying half on Aziraphale’s chest. It’s a new sleeping arrangement, and Aziraphale blames Mary’s magic hands and how relaxed she made him last night, when he fell asleep as soon as his head hit the pillow for the first in - forever, probably. 

It’s not quite dark outside, but it’s not morning either. Aziraphale reaches his right arm backwards, blindly slapping Crowley’s bedside table to feel the hard plastic of his phone. Thirty minutes past five. He puts the phone back down, tentatively wrapping his arm around Crowley’s shoulder. His lips slap softly, nose sniffling, but he doesn’t wake. He rubs his cheek on Aziraphale’s chest, fingers curling on top of his stomach. 

There is no way he can even think about going back to sleep. There is, also, no way he’s waking Crowley up before six in the morning, especially now that he’s making his little sleeping hums, warm air rushing over Aziraphale’s neck. 

Aziraphale wonders what he’s dreaming about, if he’s even dreaming.

Perhaps he’s dreaming about him. What a selfish thought. If anything, Crowley is probably dreaming of home, of speeding in his car, of something nice he’s seen during his travels. 

But if he’s not, Aziraphale hopes he’s dreaming of him. 

Maybe of an alternate reality where they meet in a coffee shop, Crowley as the business man with his coffee always ready on the go, Aziraphale as the somewhat struggling author seeking a change of scenery to overcome a writer’s block. Crowley would trip over those long legs of his, spilling his coffee on Aziraphale’s brand new shirt, and he would forgive him the moment they’d lock eyes but would still demand the payment of the dry cleaning bill.

Maybe of their days on the beach, here or in Brighton, all those years ago. How their noses were red for the opposite reasons, how Aziraphale’s hand brushed his shoulder to wrap in a scarf one time and cover him in suncream the other. 

Maybe of a world where everything is the same, but they’re not here to pretend. A world where they kiss behind closed doors and Aziraphale doesn’t have to avoid any mistletoe he spots, a world where his wishes and his actions align, a world where best friends who sometimes cuddle and sometimes platonically kiss could maybe be more. 

It’s too early in the morning for these kinds of thoughts. Somewhere along the lines Aziraphale started to think about what he would like to dream about, so he closes his eyes, and listens to Crowley’s breathing, and hopes it’ll be enough of a lullaby. 

The next time he wakes, he doesn’t even realise he’s waking up. One moment he has his eyes closed, his mind silent in a cottony kind of way, and the next he’s blinking, taking in Crowley’s fuzzy outline. He is sitting against the headboard, tilted towards Aziraphale, and has one hand in his hair. The light scratching is actually quite pleasant. “Oh, dear.”

“You were asleep.” Crowley says around a grin. “Count Dracula himself, sound asleep before my eyes.” 

“I woke up at five.” Aziraphale rubs his eyes. “And then I - I don’t exactly recall what happened.”

“You evidently fell back asleep.” Crowley keeps a hand in Aziraphale’s hair. “I thought I would die before seeing the day I woke up before you.”

“I don’t think I was actually sleeping,” Aziraphale muses, rolling to his side. “More like a deep drowsiness.” 

“Tomato, tomahto.” Crowley snorts. “You were snoring.” 

“I was not.” Aziraphale does not snore. He’s sure of very little things and that is one of them. 

“Was too.” Unfortunately, Crowley removes his hand to snatch up his phone. “I made an executive decision while you were sleeping.” 

Aziraphale hums noncommittally, stretching his arms over his head. Now that he’s more awake, he’s starting to notice things. How Crowley changed out of his night clothes to wear a soft looking, matching burgundy cotton set, his shorts a bit crumpled where he’s been sitting. How the light coming in from the glass window is brighter than it usually is in the morning. 

He sits up so fast his eyesight blurs for a moment. “What time is it?”

“Don’t freak out,” Crowley says, eyes glued on the phone. “It’s half past ten.” 

Aziraphale freaks out. “What?”

“Hold your horses. You were sleeping, you haven’t slept in forty years, I wasn’t about to wake you up just to subject ourselves to your brother’s awful singing skills.”

Day Five. Karaoke Day. Gabriel’s favs. Oh, God. 

Initially, Aziraphale thought he would have been subjected to a karaoke night, which was daunting in itself, but apparently Roriel wanted to treat their guest to a full karaoke day. 

Breakfast, lunch, afternoon snack and dinner all accompanied by more or less drunk guests singing very poor renditions of Gabriel’s favourite songs, which Aziraphale knows are either from the worst musicals known to mankind or girl groups from the early 2000s. 

“Oh, God.”

“Yeah,” Crowley drawls, stretching out the vowels. “So I decided to skip it. I know you’re annoying and eventually want to show your face, so I told Gabe we would be there at dinner. Now, I’m ordering room service. Want some crêpes?” 

Aziraphale head spins. He does want crêpes, actually, but his brain has decided to focus on something else. “You - you told Gabriel?”

“He showed up a little after breakfast. He’s wearing a blue sequin suit today, I don’t even want to think about the matching one.” Crowley says around a grimace. “What does suzette mean?”

Aziraphale blinks. “He came here? And I didn’t hear him?” 

“Yeah, asking after you. Probably thought I murdered you or something. I told him to leave us alone today without yelling, hope you’re proud.” The phone in his hands pings. “There. Crêpes added to your cart. Want something else?” 

It is probably the first time in history an insomniac said this, but Aziraphale wishes he would have been awake to see that interaction. He would have liked to see the hardness of Crowley’s stare, the biting sharpness of his words, the tension in Gabriel’s fake smile. 

He sent him away, and Aziraphale was blissfully asleep, dead to the world. Of all the days his brain decided to shut off - 

“Oi, you there? Want tea or juice?” 

Aziraphale swallows. He leans forward and cups Crowley’s cheek, pecking the other one feather light. He draws back with a final swipe of his thumb against a heated cheekbone, met with a wide eyed stare. “Wh - what was that for?” 

Everything. Everything since that day in the bookshop where Crowley sat down with him and didn’t flee and booked their flights in business class because he knew Aziraphale is fundamentally a snob. Everything since he first took his hand in front of Gabriel on their first day here. Every cup of tea, every drink, every trip to their beach, every single thing. “You got me crêpes,” he says instead. And he needs to get away. Just for a moment. “I’ll go and freshen up a little bit.”

He’s already sliding the ensuite door shut when Crowley speaks again. “Angel?”

He peeks his head out of the door. “Yes?” And when did the pet name start to feel so natural?

Crowley toys with the hem of the duvet, frown firmly in place. He opens his mouth twice before looking up, face relaxing at once. “You’ve got like ten minutes before the food gets here.” 

Aziraphale knows it’s not what he was about to say. Crowley knows Aziraphale knows. He sighs. He really needs a moment to himself. “Thank you.” 

If when he turns the shower on he spends a few minutes with his forehead pressed against the glass, unmoving and unblinking, no one can really blame him now. 

Today’s dinner is a chill affair, guests sprawled on lounge pillows and blankets thrown on the beach at the bottom of a simple wooden stage, where one of Rory’s friends is doing an ear-bleeding cover of Man! I Feel Like a Woman!, having no respect whatsoever for poor Shania Twain. 

Totally crazy, indeed. 

“Are you tapping your foot to a Shania Twain song?” 

Aziraphale rolls his eyes. “Contrary to popular belief, I don’t listen exclusively to Debussy.” 

Crowley narrows his eyes. He uses his chopsticks as daggers and digs into a California Roll. Aziraphale shudders, gently picking up a piece of sashimi and dipping it in soy sauce. 

If it weren’t for the screeching sounds in the air, this would be his favourite dinner. 

“You once called The Velvet Underground bebop.” Crowley talks over his mouthful. 

“Swallow before talking, you animal.” Aziraphale dabs a bit of soy sauce from his chin, giggling at the way Crowley goes cross-eyed at the gesture. “And I did that to annoy you.” 

Aziraphale turns towards the sound of a camera shutting. He finds Muriel smiling at them, a big camera hanging around her neck and still half covering her face. “Oops. You looked cute!” 

Crowley stops chewing, watching her with his mouth agape. “Thanks?”

“I didn’t know you took pictures.” Aziraphale says, noticing the camera she’s holding actually looks kind of professional. 

“It’s a new thing.” Muriel waves a hand. “Well, kind of. I’ve had this camera since my first year in uni. But it’s just a silly hobby!” She smiles, she’s always smiling, but he can see the hint of something akin to sadness in her eyes.

And - and that is just their families talking. Aziraphale knows it is, because he’s been the one with the silly hobby before, the one being told to put down the books and go do something useful, the one whose job was not important enough.  

“It’s not.” He blurts out. He can’t stand the same happening to Muriel, sweeter and infinitely more trusting than he was. “If it’s something you love, something that brings you joy, it is never silly.”

Muriel stares at him wide eyed. “But I should focus on my doctorate.”

“Sure,” Crowley pipes up. “If you want to, that is. The two things are not exclusive.”

“They’re right, you know.” Anathema, who Aziraphale forgot was even there, puts a comforting hand on Muriel’s shoulder. “I’ve seen your pictures, El. You’re very good.” 

Where did the nickname come from? He’s only missed a day of karaoke, could it really have been that eventful? 

Muriel frowns, looking down at her hands. “Well, it’s what my father always says. Don’t fall for distractions, young girl.” 

Aziraphale shudders at the rather impeccable impression of Uncle Matthew. Gosh, he hasn’t seen him in years, decades even. The last memories of him are even worse than those of his own father. “You are exactly just that. Young.” Briefly, he covers Muriel’s hand with his own. “Young and with plenty of time for good things to happen to you, both in academia and outside of it. And no matter what happens, joy is never a distraction.” Muriel looks up at him, eyes round and very brown. A different brown still, not close to the golden hue of Crowley’s eyes. He swallows, and keeps going. “You will be a wonderful doctor, an incredible professor even, down the line. You could also be an extraordinary photographer, or just a young woman who likes to take pictures. The choice is always yours.” 

He’s a little embarrassed once he’s done talking. This conversation was meant to be had behind closed doors, not in the middle of a karaoke night in which his brother is now on the stage belting out Macavity. The contrast is so strong it makes him want to giggle, but he can’t laugh in front of Muriel’s glassy eyes. 

“Fuck, Aziraphale.” Anathema breaks the silence. “Where were you when I was twenty five? You made Newt cry.” 

“No I’m not,” Newt sniffles and that makes Muriel giggle, at least. 

He smiles gently at her. “You always know where to find me.” 

She knocks over the soy sauce when she leans over their table - more of a tray, really - to wrap him in a bear hug. It’s over before Aziraphale can react, Muriel squeezing him once with surprising force before retreating into her seat, trying to clean up the mess with her napkin. 

“Alright, alright.” Anathema stills her frantic movements. “Let’s go back to making fun of my brother now, please. I told him so many times that neon colors do not suit him.” 

Glancing at the stage, Aziraphale notices Rory now joined Gabriel on stage for the last chorus. Seriously, Cats? He would have almost preferred The Sound of Music. 

Suddenly, Crowley stands up. Aziraphale realises he’s been silent for a while. “Let’s take a walk.”

Aziraphale eyes his outstretched hand. “Now?” 

“Now.” Crowley nods. “Come on. You prefer Cats?” 

Aziraphale takes his hand. He truly, truly doesn’t. He glances at Anathema, finding her already grinning. “We truly don’t want to know. Goodnight.” 

Crowley is taking him to see some rocks. Boulders, he supposes, if he wants to be precise. 

They’ve been walking for a while now, their bare feet tickled by the sticky, wet sand, occasionally soaked by the lapping waves. The sun has set almost completely now, immersing the beach in a hazy purple light. 

“Are we looking for something?” Aziraphale asks for the tenth time. 

Crowley huffs. “There’s supposed to be - like, the rocks should have formed a sort of shallow mini pond and there should be, erm, little whirlpools?” He wiggles his fingers in a circular motion. “I don’t know, the guy who brought us breakfast mentioned it this morning.”

He sleeps once and misses more things than he does when he’s actually working towards missing them, apparently. “How did it even come up?”

“Shut up,” Crowley replies. “We should be almost there.” 

After another couple of minutes, Aziraphale spots the tiny natural pool Crowley must have been talking about. Indeed, little rocks mark the perimeter and the shallow water just a few feet from the shoreline is twirling in tiny whirlpools. Not the most remarkable thing about it, though. “It’s glowing.” 

“Yeah,” Crowley breathes out. “Little living things go through a chemical reaction and start glowing. It’s called-”

“Bioluminescence.” 

“Of course, know-it-all.” 

Aziraphale lets out a breathy giggle. “I’ve read about it. I didn’t think I would ever -” He would have never sought out this kind of thing on his own. He would have never seen it had he been here alone. The mere thought of being here without Crowley by his side manages to make him shiver. “Thank you.”

“Don’t touch it, though. These algae can be poisonous, I googled it.” 

“I can manage.” Aziraphale straightens up. “It’s still beautiful to just watch.” 

Crowley nods. He has a complicated look on his face, as if he’s on the verge of saying something but stops himself at the last moment. It’s the same look he had this morning, just after Aziraphale kissed him. 

He swallows. “It’s our fifth day here.”

“Halfway through.” Crowley mumbles. “Kind of crazy.”

“I’m - I’m actually - it seems crazy to say but -”

“Having fun?” Aziraphale nods, turning to face Crowley properly. “That’s good. That’s the goal.” 

“Are you-”

“‘Course.” Crowley scoffs, like he does when he deems Aziraphale’s questions silly. “I’m with you, am I not?” 

Oh, how he thanks the night for hiding his school boy blush.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale says then, inhaling through his nose. He needs to say something, because this is getting ridiculous, and he spent too much time in his life denying himself of things he wants. And right now he really wants to kiss Crowley, the proper way, and he’ll have to use his words, which is always dreadful, but it’s necessary, and -

“You’re gorgeous.” Crowley’s words cut through the fog in Aziraphale’s mind, silencing everything else, even the waves. “Fuck, I’m sorry. I’m - shit. I’m mucking this up.”

“What?” Truly, what else could he say? Thank you, you too? 

Crowley holds up his hands, palms facing Aziraphale. “Shut up for a second, will you? I - I have something to say. To you.” 

Aziraphale, obediently, doesn’t reply. He doesn’t even nod, just keeps staring at Crowley with wide eyes, having to remind his body to blink.

“Alright, alright. Here goes nothing. Shit,” Crowley digs the heel of his hands into his eyes. “I thought I could survive this, you know? I thought, it’s ten days, you’ve spent ten years like - whatever. It doesn’t matter, because I thought wrong.” He’s panting, and Aziraphale knows he’s not pacing merely because there’s nowhere else to go. “I can’t survive this, it’s day five and I feel like I’m losing my mind. You’re just - do you know how blue your eyes look in the sun? And we’re always under the bloody sun, always near some kind of body of water that just makes things worse. And then you had to go and be a bloody real life angel at dinner, and the kisses and the sunscreen and the whole waking up business - I can’t survive. I’m sorry, I can’t. I need to tell you I -” Crowley actually bends down, hands on his knees and head hanging low. “You’re my favourite person. I know I never told you, but you are. You’re my best friend, and I’m sorry, I didn’t want to come here just to trap you, I thought I could hide it, but I-”

It is very impolite to interrupt, Aziraphale is aware. Still, he can’t help himself, just as he can’t even begin to formulate a coherent thought, or a response. He stands on the ball of his feet, gripping the back of Crowley’s hair. He angles his head and nudges his face forward, finally, finally slotting their lips together. 

Crowley makes a sound into the kiss, but his arms act immediately, hands coming to rest at the small of Aziraphale’s back, fingers digging into the softness and making Aziraphale sigh into his mouth. He lets his tongue tease into Crowley’s mouth, tilting his face in the opposite way to guide their kiss.

“Angel,” Crowley breathes. Aziraphale shakes his head, palms flattening onto Crowley’s chest before kissing him again.

Crowley’s hands move up and down his back, shaking and trembling, before settling onto his jaw, tilting his face up to kiss him deeper still, soft, whimpering sounds replacing the silence in his mind. It takes him a moment to realise they’re coming from him. 

They break apart, both panting. Aziraphale feels the dopiest smile blooming on his face, as Crowley just stares, mouth agape, hair all messy. He did that. “That was a thing.”

“I was in the middle before I knew that I had begun.”

Crowley whines. “We’re not playing Trivia.” 

“Shut it,” Aziraphale laughs. “I’m trying to tell you something.” 

Crowley’s thumbs are still grazing Aziraphale’s cheekbones. His own arms slide up to wrap around his shoulders. “Oh. Oh, alright then. Be my guest.”

Aziraphale promptly forgets what he was about to say. “I don’t know when it started for me, really. I think I just looked at you one morning as you were sleeping on my settee and thought about kissing you.” He does it now, just a brief peck, just because he can. “I haven’t really stopped ever since. Though it’s been harder these past few days.” 

“Harder,” Crowley wheezes. “You dragged me to a couple’s massage and let me stand there while that lady rubbed oil on your legs. You did a strip tease on a beach and then almost killed me with your sunscreen.” 

“You are so dramatic,” Aziraphale cannot stop giggling. “You told me my eyes were pretty, multiple times. And - and you’re wearing colours now!”

“Oh, my fashion sense gets you going? Nice to know.” Crowley lets out a laugh, finally, as Aziraphale rests his forehead on his collarbone. “Since the first book,” he whispers after a while.

Aziraphale looks up. “What?”

“That first Bible, the one you thought did not exist. I didn’t want to find it for you out of the goodness of my heart.” Crowley cards a hand through Aziraphale’s hair, playing with the tighter curls at the back of his neck. “My plan was to find the damn book and then ask you to dinner.”

“Why didn’t you?” Aziraphale manages, heart heavy at the thought of having this ten years ago. 

“Well, first of all, it’s been proven countless times that I am an idiot. Remember what I said to you, that first time? When you couldn’t stop thanking me?” 

Aziraphale frowns. He does not remember a dinner invitation, that’s for sure. “I remember being very enthusiastic.”

“Yeah,” Crowley smiles gently. “And I said, stop thanking me, that’s what friends are for. And you - angel, you lit up. I thought I was being blinded, you were smiling so big, so bright. And I didn’t want to ruin it.” 

Oh. “Oh, Crowley,” Aziraphale tugs him closer, kissing his cheek, his jaw and finally his lips. “You are an idiot.”

“Oi!” Crowley draws back. “You could have said something too.”

“You should have said something first!”

“I’ve been courting you - oh no, no, forget I said that.”

It’s too late now, Aziraphale grinning so wide his cheeks are starting to hurt. He tightens his hold around Crowley’s shoulders, bringing them closer. “Have you been courting me?” 

“Shut up.” He looks up at the sky, where the first stars have started to appear. “I’m already starting to regret this.” 

“No, you are not.” Aziraphale presses two rapid kisses to Crowley’s top lip, smiling as he feels the lips underneath his own stretching as well.

“No, I’m not.” Crowley sneaks a hand under Aziraphale’s shirt, tickling the warm skin of his back while still brushing curls away from his face. “You have no idea -”

“I do, darling. I do.” 

Their next kiss is different. It’s still sweet, it’s still everything, but it’s also more. More insistent, more heated, more demanded. It’s a different Crowley, the one who’s kissing him now. Freer, relaxed, confident. He knows where to squeeze, where to tease; he learns fast what spots make Aziraphale whimper, how to tease his tongue into his mouth to make him sigh; he makes Aziraphale feel desired, loved, safe above all, and he knows now, right as it’s happening, that nothing has ever felt like this, nothing ever will, and he doesn’t want to feel anything else, ever again. 

“O- Oh!” They break apart at the sound of a voice coming from much closer than Aziraphale would like. “Anathema told me this would happen.”

Aziraphale takes a second to come back to himself. He looks at Crowley, lips spit-slicked, chest heaving with panting breaths. His right hand is still under his shirt, knuckles dragging over his spine. Aziraphale’s hands are tangled into Crowley’s hair in a white knuckled grip he should, probably, relax. Crowley grins, not even bothering to turn in the direction of the voice, merely hiding his reddened face in the crook of Aziraphale’s neck, pressing featherlight kisses there and definitely not helping the situation. 

Muriel. The voice belongs to Muriel. He needs to focus. “Ah, well, erm. Apologies.” He doesn’t even recognise his own voice. “Did you - oh, stop for a second, will you? Did you need something, Muriel dearest?” 

Muriel is already retreating, shaking her head. “Nope, no, absolutely not. Just wanted to let you know they’re serving dessert.” She lets out a nervous giggle. “Not like you need it! But you did make me lose a bet.” 

Crowley finally detaches himself from Aziraphale’s collarbone. “Did you bet on us snogging?” 

“And I lost,” Muriel replies as she keeps walking backwards. “Anathema said something about bedroom eyes.” 

Aziraphale laughs. Crowley groans. “I’ll pay you to tell her you didn’t actually see anything.”

Muriel frowns and quickens her steps. “I’m a terrible liar. I’m so sorry! Have fun!”

Aziraphale keeps chuckling softly, even as Crowley dramatically sags against him. “Stop it.”

“We traumatised the only member of my family who likes me.” In the back of his mind, he thinks about doing all this in front of Gabriel. He doesn’t necessarily want to put on a show, but it is a tempting thought. 

As always, Crowley seems to be reading his mind. “We should have done this in front of the nutters.” 

Aziraphale lifts Crowley’s head, kissing him softly. “I like that we did it in front of glowing algae.” 

Crowley bites his bottom lip. If the goal was to annoy him, it has the opposite effect. “It sounded more romantic in my head.” 

“It was the most romantic moment of my life.” It’s not even a lie.

Nothing has been a lie, ever since landing here. Not a single kiss, not a single squeeze, not a single hug. If anything, it has been the truest, realest thing in Aziraphale’s existence. 

“Shit.” Crowley grins. “I need to up my game then.”

Aziraphale shuts him up. Quite thoroughly. 

Chapter Text

Eden Resort, Landaa Giraavaru, Maldives - Day One of the rest of their lives, 5 days before Christmas

Aziraphale is awake before sunlight has the chance to stream through the flowy white curtains of the room, once again. He’s now grown accustomed to the way the moonlight softens the edges of the furniture, a dreamy, pale blue haze that grounds him and relaxes him more easily than sleep ever does. 

This time, though, this particular time is different from any other late night (or, more aptly, early morning) he experienced in this bungalow. 

First, he’s not the only one awake. Second, the sounds filling the room are not sleepy hums and little sniffs, but heavy breaths and throaty whimpers. Third, he is being looked at by his very favourite person, and not by his alarm clock. 

They’re panting. They have been panting for what feels like hours, their eyes locked, a shifting mixture of shock and awe transmitted between their wide-eyed gaze and breathy non-sounds. Aziraphale cradles the back of Crowley’s neck, pressing small kisses on his cheek. Crowley keeps breathing heavily, eyes wide as anything. Burning gold. 

“Oh, God,” Crowley whispers, feet flexing against the mattress and hands shaking uncontrollably where they’re skimming over Aziraphale’s sides. “Jesus. Christ on a bicycle. Sweet Mary, Mother of God, Joseph and Baby Jesus.” 

Aziraphale giggles. “I believe you’re forgetting someone.” 

Crowley manages to roll both his eyes and body, settling down on the pillow next to Aziraphale, still staring at him. “The sheep. The - the star thingy.”

Aziraphale chuckles. “Quite the ensemble.” He rolls onto his side as well, grimacing at the feeling of cooling sweat clinging to his naked skin. He reaches out and cups Crowley’s cheek, thumb stroking his cheekbone featherlight. “You should draw me a bath.” 

“Can’t get up.” Crowley says breathily. “I’m not - I’m not kidding. If I get up, I - ngk. I can’t.” 

Aziraphale finds himself unable to stop giggling. He supposes there’s something to the words blissfully happy, after all. “Ridiculous.”

“D’you expect me to - I don’t know, get up and brush my teeth after - after -”

“I would expect you to.” Aziraphale sniffs. “Hygiene is extremely important after -”

Crowley puts a finger on Aziraphale’s mouth. “No. Don’t say it.” 

Aziraphale merely grins. “After coitus.” 

Crowley groans, kicks Aziraphale in the shin, and then rolls again until his face is buried in the pillow and the only thing Aziraphale can see of him is a shock of red hair and the tan skin of his back, still glistening with sweat. 

This demon of a man. Absolutely, endearingly ridiculous.

Slowly, he puts a hand between Crowley’s shoulder blades and drags it down, counting the knobs in his spine, memorizing the way the skin rises in goosebumps under his fingertips.

“I have been very good tonight,” he says, voice low in pitch but soft in volume. “Wouldn’t you agree?” 

Crowley makes a sound that does not sound very nice in the pillow, before lifting his head to glare at Aziraphale, still smiling placidly. “Oh, I don’t know. Didn’t the whole bloody resort hear how good you were? Should we ask around tomorrow at breakfast?” 

As if on cue, Aziraphale’s stomach grumbles. “You should also feed me.” He pouts. “But you’re choosing to be mean instead.”

Crowley hides in the pillow again, for five full seconds in which Aziraphale actually starts to get a bit worried. Before the little tingling in his stomach can turn into a proper knot, Crowley moves, in a surprisingly smooth motion, draping himself heavily across Aziraphale, one leg thrown over both of his. Aziraphale sighs, and keeps moving his hand. Up and down. Up and down. 

“I can’t do normal things,” Crowley mumbles, warm breath tickling Aziraphale’s collarbone. 

“I gathered as much.”

He gets a pinch on his side for that. “I - you don’t get it, angel.” Crowley angles his face so it’s even more hidden into the crook of Aziraphale’s neck. “Ten years of - of increasingly embarrassing wants and now we’re here and - you expect me to go and have a shower? Like this is normal?” 

Aziraphale is trying. He knows this is Crowley being vulnerable and open and actually voicing his thoughts, and since the only reason they’re here right now is because of how incredibly brave he is and the last thing he deserves is being laughed at, but. But. 

He’ll blame the endorphins still flowing in his bloodstream for the giggle he lets out. “Darling.” 

Crowley huffs and shakes his head, lightly kicking Aziraphale’s leg again, for good measure. 

Aziraphale clears his throat, and resumes his soothing motions. “You know, this is where the book begins.” 

“I’m not partial to early 2000s one hit wonders, angel.” 

Aziraphale frowns. He doesn’t always understand Crowley’s humor, and makes a mental note to get better at it. “Erm, so, as I was saying.” He ignores Crowley’s little snort. “This book doesn’t end as the dashing knight swoops the heroine into his arms.” 

“Are you the swooper or the swoop-ee in this scenario?”

Crowley is the one getting pinched this time. “What I mean is, we are here now. Tomorrow - well, today really, we’ll go and subject ourselves to Roriel’s nonsense and we’ll come back here and have all of this again. It could be normal, if you want. We could be…”

His words trail off. There are so many words he could use. Happy, but they already are, already have been; he does not remember time spent with Crowley when he wasn’t happy, and he’s sure it doesn’t even exist. 

Together, but they both know that’s the goal. Last night on the beach and in their room after has been pretty convincing in this regard. They’ve lost enough time as it is, there is no point in dilly dallying now that they are finally, finally on the same page. 

Good, but he already knows they are, oh so good, like he knew they would be, on the rare, late night occasions where he allowed his mind to wander, where he let his imagination run free. 

He takes a deep breath and exhales slowly, smiling fondly as the air he lets out ruffles the top of Crowley’s hair. Aziraphale, connoisseur and protector of words, cannot find the right one. 

And as always, Crowley helps. “Us,” he whispers. “We could be us.”

Aziraphale has a vision then, twenty, thirty years down the line, when his mind will have lost some sharpness and the words may not come easily and Crowley will be there with him, finding them for him, and he has to blink back against the sudden tingling in the corner of his eyes. “Us. I think I’d like that very much.” He says softly, not trusting his voice to raise to a normal volume without wobbling. “So let this be the prologue, then.”

The duvet falls off the bed as Crowley lifts himself up, the swooshing sound reminding Aziraphale of the gentle waves he can hear through the open window if he focuses hard enough. Crowley looks down at Aziraphale, propped up on his forearms, his fringe a mess and his thighs shaking slightly where they’re hugging Aziraphale’s. “Sometimes I think,” he stops, going a bit cross-eyed as Aziraphale brushes some hair off of his eyes. He’s still glaring, of course, but in that impossibly soft way only he can master. “Sometimes I think you’ve been put on this planet just to destroy me.” 

Embarrassingly, Aziraphale giggles again. He finds he doesn’t even care much anymore. “All because I’ve asked for a bath. So nicely, too.” 

“Jesus Christ,” Crowley says, rolling his lips. It will not be long before he cracks a real smile, now.

“Oh, is he already back? Is it not a bit soon?” 

Thankfully, Crowley has very recently found a new way to shut him. Quite thoroughly. 

So thoroughly, actually, that once they separate, they’re panting again, perhaps even harder than before. But this time, the smile is there. “Shut. Up,” Crowley mumbles, pressing one last kiss on his cheek. “Lavender or eucalyptus for your bath, your highness?” 

Aziraphale settles into the pillow, arms crossed behind his head. “You know I do love a good surprise.”

“Why on Earth aren’t we skipping this thing?” 

Aziraphale is used to sleep deprivation, as is expected. His brain does not require many hours off to come back on the next day, just a bit of cold water and a very strong tea. 

Crowley, evidently, functions a bit differently.

“I was a bit, aehm, distracted this morning. I couldn’t recall today’s schedule.” Aziraphale says, ignoring Crowley’s ever deepening frown. “Darling.” 

“Angel.” His jaw is set so hard Aziraphale worries for Crowley’s poor teeth. 

“It’s just a morning, my dearest.” Aziraphale has never properly dealt with a sleep deprived Crowley, but he still has a few tricks up his sleeve to deal with a grumpy Crowley. 

He stops right in the middle of the main lobby, just behind the closed wooden door leading to today’s activity. Crowley stops as well, given their joined hands, and just keeps glaring, brows set in a deep line between the dark lenses. “Just a morning? It’s bloody Bake Off.” 

“Just a morning,” Aziraphale repeats, sneaking his hands on Crowley’s chest, rubbing small circles in the way he’s starting to notice Crowley particularly… likes. “We’ll bake some muffins and then we can do whatever we want.”

“I’ll show you muffins.” Crowley clicks his tongue. “I hate baking. You know how much I hate baking.” 

Aziraphale has known ever since breakfast, two hours ago. And he has heard a lot about it. “Afterwards, we could go to our beach.” A hand creeps up and rests behind Crowley’s neck. “Or back to our room.” A sneaky kiss is pressed on a - rather warm - cheek. “Have a little nap.” 

“Ngk.” Crowley says. Aziraphale smiles. “I hate you.”

“Of course.” 

Unfortunately, in all of his smugness, Aziraphale forgot that Crowley now knows a few tricks as well. Namely, how Aziraphale’s traitorous body reacts when his waist is squeezed and a voice in his ear is whispering, low and urgent. “I know so many innuendos, you have no idea what I can do with two hours of rising dough and preheated ovens and -”

The door behind them swings open. “There you are!” Rory thrills, without batting an eye at their position. This morning, he’s wearing an electric blue chef uniform, hat included, and he’s grinning at them with his too-wide smile. “We’re just about to start! Come on, my little water lilies!” 

The flowers weren’t a phase, as Anathema tried to warn them. Before he can think of a retort, he’s being dragged inside the room with surprising force, Crowley stumbling behind him in a cloud of profanities. 

The room is - well. He should be used to extravagance by now, nearly a week into their stay at Eden. But to see an actual, honest-to-god Bake Off set in what was previously an unassuming common room on the resort main building is still a bit baffling.

There are about a dozen cooking stands with guests already standing behind, with double food processors and double ovens and, actually, double everything, from spatulas to cookie cutters to butter sticks, all elegantly arranged on the light wooden countertops. White, pink and yellow flowers decorate the ceilings and the four columns at the corners of the room, while linen curtains flow gently in front of the open glass windows. 

“Oh, Christ,” Crowley mumbles from beside him. “They’re going to make us bake a Victoria Sponge.”

“I do like a good Victoria Sponge.” Aziraphale whispers back, ignoring Rory’s babbling about sugar and cinnamon and something else he is too overwhelmed to actually absorb. 

“And this is your stand.” With a flourish of a hand, Rory shows them to the last stand in the left row, on the opposite side from the door but thankfully right next to an open window. In front of them, Anathema is fixing Newt’s apron and Aziraphale realises there is no way he can convince Crowley to wear matching aprons for Roriel’s version of Bake Off. “Thank you Rory, very nice.”

Rory gives them one last smile. “Best be off, the almost-hubby needs me!” Indeed, Gabriel is standing in the only cooking stand faced the opposite way, smiling towards all the guests and wearing a matching blue chef uniform, sans hat. Their stand has a golden food mixer, because obviously it does.

“Aziraphale,” Crowley drawls. “Our spatula is pink.” 

Aziraphale drags a hand over his face. “I’m drawing you a bubble bath afterwards.” Crowley drops the spatula. “With all the nice bonuses you included last night.” There’s a loud thud when Crowley’s head hits the countertop, spatula back in his hand. 

“Hello my lovely guests, and welcome to the Great Roriel Baking Bash!” Gabriel’s booming voice fills the room, overpowering the waves outside. Aziraphale hides a wince. 

“Today we’re combining two of our favourite Christmas traditions,” Rory trills beside him, fixing his chef hat. “Baking cookies was always a staple at my house during the Holidays.” 

Anathema turns and finds Aziraphale’s eyes. “Don’t believe a word he says,” she huffs. “The only one who was doing any baking was our personal chef.”

“Merry Christmas,” Crowley comments. Aziraphale, despite everything, hides a snicker behind his hand. 

“So we decided to mix that tradition with one of mine,” Gabriel is saying now, and oh. Oh, there is no way. Aziraphale’s smile drops immediately. “Today we’re baking my Nan’s famous Christmas biscuits!”

Apparently, there is a way. There is always a way with Gabriel, and he should have just known. Why, indeed, is he not skipping this thing. 

“Erm, angel? I know they look similar but this countertop isn’t your brother.” Crowley’s fingers cover his own, trying to peel them off the wooden top they’re currently gripping, knuckles white and everything. Aziraphale takes a breath. Two. There’s a finger under his chin, lifting it up. “We can leave now. You know I don’t care.” 

Crowley. Crowley who’s looking at him with wide eyes, naked and unguarded for once so Aziraphale knows it’s real. Crowley’s who’s letting him crush his hand without even flinching. Crowley who would make a run for it without even knowing why just if Aziraphale asked. 

In the front, Gabriel is listing off ingredients and necessary steps and oven temperatures.

He swallows. “I know the recipe.” He tries for a smile. “Pass me the butter, will you? We can be out of here in two shakes of a lamb’s tail.”

Crowley doesn’t move. “Aziraphale.”

“Just a morning, isn’t it? This will take me half an hour.” Aziraphale drops his gaze, and his hand, and reaches for flour and butter. “Have you seen the sugar somewhere? Oh, and the cinnamon too.” He lets out a little laugh. “We cannot forget about the cinnamon.” 

Crowley doesn’t say anything else, and Aziraphale can see how badly he wants to in the way his jaw positively vibrates. Still, he keeps silent. He passes Aziraphale the sugar and the cinnamon and only lets out a small sound when Aziraphale starts kneading. He preheats the oven, joke-less, and obediently fixes the parchment paper on the tray. He doesn’t even comment on the shapes chosen for the biscuit cutters, safe for a little scoff at the unicorn. 

The biscuits take fifteen minutes to bake. He still doesn’t say a word, but never once stops touching Aziraphale. A hand on his back, on his shoulder, on his bicep, curled into his palm. A hip pressed against his own, an ankle locked behind his while they sit and wait for the oven to ding. A feather light kiss on the back of his hand once the biscuits are out of the oven and placed on a plate. 

A smiling resort employee offers them quite a pretty pink box to put their creations into. “Oh no, thank you.” Aziraphale waves a hand. “Gift them to the grooms. My treat.”

Crowley is already dragging him away. 

Aziraphale walks into the bedroom with a purpose. He sits down on the bed, dragging Crowley on top of him, linking their mouth together before his head even hits the pillow. 

Crowley allows it for one glorious minute. “Oh - shit - fuck, alright, alright.” He pushes himself up, forearms trembling. “Not that I’m complaining -”

“Then put your back into it.” Aziraphale surges forward again, but Crowley moves at last second and lips end up smacking his nose instead. 

“I think - don’t you want to talk about whatever that was?” Crowley’s eyes are nearly black, pupils blown wide, and his cheeks are almost as red as his bitten lips.

He’s beautiful. And Aziraphale doesn’t want to talk about it. “I should,” he says, tilting his head up. “I don’t necessarily want to, though.” He uses his thighs to hug Crowley’s hips and roll them over. 

“Angel-” Crowley croaks, almost pleadingly. 

Aziraphale leans down and kisses him gently, much more gentler than he has ever since stepping foot back in the room. “I know.” He presses his lips on Crowley’s forehead. “Later, please.” He keeps them there. “I - I need you. Now.” 

Crowley looks up at the ceiling, searching for answers in the pristine white wall. A ray of sun coming in from the glass window lands directly in his right eye. It looks gold. “Later then.” 

Aziraphale nods gratefully. “Yes.” Crowley sits up, rolls him onto his back again and begins to unbutton his once perfectly pressed cream shirt. “Later.” 

It’s later. Not much, but enough. 

Aziraphale draws the promised bath. Crowley says he’s cheating a bit, but in his defense, they haven’t used the hot tub right on their patio, and it is such a nice day still, too pretty to be wasted inside. 

Bubbles are also always a good idea, working wonders on his sore muscles. 

“You know I’ll need at least two days to recover after that,” Crowley says, chin resting on his knees. “The mind is willing, but the body is weak.”

Aziraphale quirks an eyebrow. “No weakness to report on my side.” 

Crowley splashes him in the face. He laughs. 

He listens to the wave for a moment more. Distantly he wonders where the little birds he met the first night are right now. He remembers they were pretty, almost looked like they were wearing lipstick. They had the word banana in their name, Crowley had said. He hopes to see them again before they leave. “You know when my birthday is.”

Crowley stares. “I hope so. The present in my suitcase would be very embarrassing otherwise.” 

“It wasn’t a question.” Aziraphale sighs. “It was me stating a fact.” 

He doesn’t know how Crowley knows. Seven years ago, on Christmas Eve, he found a parcel on the step of the bookshop’s door. It was a collection of Walt Whitman poems, a beautiful edition with a deep burgundy cover embroidered with golden leaves. The card on the parcel simply said, Happy birthday Mr. Fell. Please provide the wine on New Year’s. Aziraphale didn’t need a signature to know the sender. 

Every Christmas Eve since then, Crowley got him a birthday present, never sticking around after, sensing Aziraphale’s reticence in talking about or even acknowledging the day. He never asked him how he came to know about it, but Crowley never said. And the gifts are always, somehow, the most beautiful gifts he could ever think of. 

“Anyway, it’s not the easiest day to have a birthday fall on.”

Crowley scoffs. “I’m not saying anything. Go on.” 

Aziraphale blushes. “It’s just - it’s silly, really.” He plays with some bubbles underwater. “I never had a cake when I was a child.” 

Crowley immediately frowns. “You love cake.” 

“I know!” Aziraphale clears his throat. “I know. But Christmas traditions were more important than a birthday.” 

Think about the family, his mother used to say. We have a bigger plan. As an adult, he supposes he can understand. He shouldn’t have expected double the gifts or double the attention - seriously, he was grateful for the lack of it on most days. 

As silly as it is though, the lack of cake always bothered him. It wasn’t much to ask, wasn’t it? 

“So, let me get this straight.” Crowley unfurls himself, stretching his legs until his feet tickle Aziraphale’s thighs. “You blew out your candles on Nan’s Christmas biscuits?”

The thought makes him laugh. “There weren’t any candles, Crowley. The biscuits had to be decorated in a very precise manner.” He skipped the bit today, at Roriel’s Bake Off. Some things are just too much to ask, and a trip down memory lane of Christmas Eve’s filled with sticky, too-sugary frosting is one of them. “I never even liked cinnamon that much.” 

“Listen,” Crowley starts, his mouth set in that way it sets when he doesn’t allow Aziraphale to fight back. “Your brother is a gigantic piece of shit, which is not surprising. You won’t allow me to kill him, which is whatever, but we -” He leans forward then, the distance between their mouths barely an inch. “We are skipping whatever the nutters have planned for Christmas Eve and getting you a cake.” 

Aziraphale giggles. “Darling,” 

Crowley slaps a hand over his mouth. “Not a word. I’m serious.” 

And he is, actually. Aziraphale knows.

He also knows he is too old to have a cake, and that the plans for Christmas Eve are a pre-wedding brunch and a whole rehearsal dinner, and that there is no way he can drag Crowley through it. With somewhat of a start, he realises he doesn’t much want to. 

He doesn’t protest. He kisses Crowley’s hand, and lowers it with two fingers. “No candles. Please.”

Crowley smiles. Finally. “Wait and see, angel. Wait and see.” 

Eden Resort, Landaa Giraavaru, Maldives - Day Two of the rest of their lives, 4 days before Christmas

There is something to be said about mad geniuses, apparently. 

Today, on the Roriel beach, all chaise longues and deckchairs have disappeared, making space for tables and chairs made of white wood and two rather large flower sculpture right at the entrance: King and Queen of chess. 

Apparently, Rory Device-soon-to-be-Fell is somewhat of a chess prodigy. According to his Grandmother, at least, who whispered to Aziraphale at breakfast that he had everything in him to become a Grandmaster before high school, save for motivation. 

The next best thing is a chess tournament on the beach he reserved for his wedding, it seems. 

Aziraphale made it to the quarter finals, but it doesn’t matter much to him for two particular reasons: firstly, Gabriel didn’t even make it to the round of sixteen, being knocked out by Newt of all people; and secondly, and arguably more importantly, Crowley is currently playing the final game, against prodigy Rory Device himself. 

Aziraphale takes a sip of the drink he got for Crowley, enjoying a few moments of respite from the sunshine under the flower-made Queen. 

“See El, this is something interesting you could use for your anthropological research.” Anathema is telling Muriel, fanning herself with a lacy black fan that looks a bit like a spider web. 

“What is?” Muriel is wearing a wide brimmed hat too big for her, which keeps sliding down to her nose. “The final?” 

Anathema shakes her head. “Two male apes fighting for dominance.”

“Good Lord.” Aziraphale comments. 

They've been playing for two hours now. He’s seen before how competitive Crowley can get, so he’s not surprised by the sheer look of concentration on his face, or by the way he ignores the droplets of sweat on his nose and on his upper lip in order to focus everything he has on the chessboard and his opponent. He even ignored Aziraphale perching the black straw hat on his head, one hour ago now. 

It’s just - this is not only healthy competitiveness. Aziraphale is sure that had he been any other opponent, Crowley would have made do with the second place, preferring a dip in the ocean or a soak in their hot tub to hours under the sun on a tiny chair just to play chess.

But then Rory winked at Aziraphale this morning at the pastry station at breakfast and, really, it all went downhill from there. 

When he steps out of the shadow, he immediately feels himself sweating. Gone is the pleasant breeze of the day before. Today is unforgivingly and relentlessly hot. Aziraphale had to wear a t-shirt, for someone’s sake, and the worst thing is that Crowley is now down to a simple black vest. Rory - and Gabriel of course, always matching - are now half naked, oiled up skin on display for everyone to see. Aziraphale doesn’t count himself among people who want to see. 

His brother is giving Rory’s shoulder a rub, murmuring something in his ear that’s making Rory giggle. He hopes it’s distracting enough. 

Crowley doesn’t even lift his head when Aziraphale approaches, merely opening his mouth to take the offered straw. With a roll of his eyes, Aziraphale kneels down beside him, squeezing a bit of sunscreen onto his palm. 

“‘M already wearing your stupid hat,” Crowley mumbles.

Aziraphale gasps. “He lives!” 

“Don’t distract me.” 

Aziraphale rubs the cream on Crowley’s nose first, then moves to his cheekbones and neck. “I’m not letting you burn out there.” He fixes his hat for good measure. 

“‘M close now,” he whispers. “He’s cracking.” 

Rory, on the other side, is laughing breathlessly while kissing up Gabriel’s wrist. He averts his gaze. “I can see that.” 

He stands up, focusing his sunscreening efforts on Crowley’s shoulders, already reddening in a way he doesn’t like. “You do know you don’t have to win this thing, do you?”

Crowley barks a laugh. “You don’t know what you’re talking about, angel.” 

Right. Aziraphale sighs. At least he can say he tried. “Drink some more water then, please?” 

Crowley downs the whole glass, slamming in on the table with a satisfied sigh. Then, louder, he says, “We both know this could end in a draw.” 

Rory stops chuckling, turning his usual eerie smile on Crowley. “Oh, definitely, little petal.”

The quirk of an eyebrow. Aziraphale keeps his hands on Crowley. “Little petal?” 

“This is why we find ourselves at an impasse,” Rory explains. “We’re too stubborn to admit it.”

Crowley leans back almost imperceptibly, leaning into Aziraphale’s touch. “Or, we’re too scared to lose to make a bold move.” 

“Rory is definitely not scared.” Gabriel pipes up. “He’s a pro. He could have been a Grandmaster when he was thirteen, isn’t that right Rory-cakes?” 

Oh, Aziraphale knows what Crowley is doing. Thankfully, he’s always been a much better poker player, so he schools his features into his most neutral expression. “How lovely,” he comments. Under his hands, Crowley’s muscles are so very tight, but he refrains himself from rubbing anything. “Two excellent players who are never scared to be bold.” 

Crowley’s throat clicks when he swallows. He should have gotten him more water. “Never, angel.” 

Rory beams happily at the chessboard. “You’re right, my favourite Fell brothers.” He makes his move. “Never ever scared.”

Aziraphale rolls his lips. Crowley rolls his shoulder, tilting his neck side to side and cracking his knuckles. “Never ever,” he says. A flicker of his fingers. “Check mate.” 

There’s a whooping sound coming from the shadowed sidelines that sounds suspiciously like Muriel, and a round of more contained applause. Rory’s smile drops for a second, before his face morphs into an incredulous expression. “My stars, you played me!”

Gabriel’s face is the best thing Aziraphale has ever seen. “H-How? Rory, how?” 

“I do love a good game,” Aziraphale breathes out. “Such a thrill.” 

Crowley is already standing up, ignoring Rory’s outstretched hand to turn around and dip Aziraphale, kissing him full on the mouth right in front of everyone. He’s pretty sure the whistles come from Rory’s Grandmother now. 

“Thanks for the water, angel.”

He’s ridiculous. Aziraphale loves him tremendously. Right now, he just laughs. “Anytime.” 

Aziraphale hums happily, sipping his coconut drink, something Crowley ordered for him. He looks to his left, where the newly crowned chess champion is peacefully snoring on a white cabana bed. 

The pool is not particularly crowded this afternoon, people opting for the cooler - and free - option to have a dip in the ocean. Still, Aziraphale felt they needed a break from salt water and, especially, the rest of the wedding party. 

The poolside is hidden from the sun, a canopy of palm trees shadowing the cabana beds and sun chairs. The water glitters in the sun, the blue mosaic reflecting the light in a pleasant, almost magical way. 

Aziraphale sighs and relaxes on his back. He cards one hand in Crowley’s hair, who sniffs and slaps his lips twice, but doesn’t wake up. He takes another sip of his pearly white drink and thinks he’d quite like another holiday like this, just the two of them this time. 

No wedding, no brother, no pretending. Just them and the sun and sweet cocktails under his tongue. They only have four days left now. 

He is looking forward to going back to London. He misses his bookshop, his routine, even the grey skies and the almost ever present drizzling rain. He wants to finally experience being together with his favourite person in his favourite city, getting his biggest wish at last. 

Yet, there is a little uneasiness coming with that. What if this thing they built in this glittery paradise won’t last in the harsh, grey reality? What if the magic of free drinks and room service and hot tubs runs out and they find out everything between them was nothing more than a fantasy, nothing more than the consequence of forced proximity?

Aziraphale knows it’s not true. He knows he’s just being ridiculous. Still. His brain rarely quiets down, especially when he’s particularly happy. And he is happy. Blissfully so. He does not want it to stop. 

Crowley wakes himself up with a particularly loud snore. He grunts something under his breath and turns around, nose burying into Aziraphale’s bicep. “‘S nice.”

Aziraphale keeps petting his hair. “Crowley?”

Crowley blinks one eye open, still half asleep. He’s softer, in moments like this. No frowns, no glares, just a soft smile tugging at his lip. “Yeah?” 

Aziraphale never wants it to end. “Would you like to accompany me to dinner once we’re back home?”

Crowley pushes some air out of his nose, opening his other eye as well. “Should bloody hope so.” 

“Oh,” Aziraphale smiles. “Very well.” 

Crowley grumbles some more, twisting and turning until he settles sideways on his bed, head in Aziraphale’s lap and feet dangling on the sandy wooden floor. “Very well,” he snorts. “I can’t believe you.”

Aziraphale scoffs, and sips his drink. He buries his free hand into Crowley’s hand once more, closing his eyes. He thinks about London and dinner spots and keeping the things he loves close, and if he manages to doze off, it’s with a smile on his lips. 

Eden Resort, Landaa Giraavaru, Maldives - Day Three of the rest of their lives, 3 days before Christmas

“See angel, the choice is yours.” Crowley is walking backwards on the narrow path leading to Bungalow 1941, sunglasses up in his hair. “You can choose to see whatever indoor activity the nutters have planned for today, or you can listen to me and -”

Aziraphale lunges forward and catches Crowley’s by the wrist before he can hit the ground. “And trip on some pebble because I insist on acting like a rascal?”

“Rascal,” Crowley mouths incredulously. “I can’t believe you are what gets me going.” 

A thunder in the background covers up Aziraphale’s gasp. 

A rainy day was bound to happen, actually. The weather has been almost unrealistically nice these past few days. The sight of the grey, heavy looking clouds had been almost welcome by Aziraphale, earlier that morning. The ocean is dark, angrier than it has ever looked in the week before, and the wind is picking up. 

Gabriel and Rory have - quite obviously - everything under control. While water polo had to be unfortunately cancelled, guests are awaited in the main building in an hour for a surprise indoor activity to ensure no one is bored. 

Crowley drags him inside the bungalow, walking normally this time. “Come on, think about it. What could have they possibly planned? A game of twister? Puzzles? Crosswords?”

“I’m rather good at crosswords,” Aziraphale muses. Crowley groans.

He already knows they are skipping whatever the indoor day ends up being. It doesn’t mean he’s going to let Crowley win quite so easily. “What do you propose instead?” 

Crowley’s arms flail wildly. “Uh, bed? See that big, fluffy thing over there?”

It is a very good bed. Aziraphale pouts. “But I’m not sleepy.” 

“Well, I am.” Crowley slides the door of the ensuite open. “Go play crosswords with your brother.” The water turns on, and Aziraphale pout deepens. He used to win these things. 

“I’m losing my touch.” He comments as he follows Crowley in the ensuite. He turns the water off, Crowley freezing with his shirt halfway off his head. “If I’m to give up crosswords, we might as well try the eucalyptus salt this time. Wouldn’t you agree?”

Crowley bumps his head against the shower glass. “Eucalyptus,” he croaks out.

“Yes?” 

“I hate you.” 

Aziraphale beams. “Of course.” 

They learn that rain in the Maldives comes in bursts. Thunder and lightning and the skies pouring down on them for a few minutes, then a light drizzle, barely perceptible, until the next round of storm. 

It is almost soothing to watch. Then again, Aziraphale has always loved the gothic side of things; a tropical storm may not be gothic, but it is gloomy and melancholic enough to sustain his fascination. “I think this is quite romantic.” 

He feels more than he hears Crowley’s answering hum, pressed as they are back to chest. His warm breath tickles Aziraphale’s ear when he speaks. “In the literary way or in the general way?” 

Aziraphale leans further back, smiling pleased as he feels Crowley’s arms tightening around his middle. “Very good answer.” 

They’re reclining on the chaise longue on their patio, fluffy stolen bathrobes warm against the chilly breeze accompanying the light drizzle. The sea is calmer now, but has lost the glittery surface he’s been spoiled with, rolling grey and lazy towards the shore. Whenever he feels a chill, Aziraphale can just lean further into Crowley's warm chest, getting a pleased hum in return. It’s a very nice day.

“Y’know, I did a thing.” Crowley says, after a while. 

Aziraphale tries to crane his neck to look at him properly, giving up at the slight twinge of pain. He truly is too old for this much excitement. “What thing?” 

Crowley shifts. “Well, you know how this is not the only resort on this island?”

“What did you do?” He asks, uselessly, willing his heart to stop beating so fast. He has no doubt Crowley can feel it, as his hands have now found their way under the front of Aziraphale’s robe. 

“Apparently the nutters have reserved Eden’s main restaurant for their rehearsal thing, and the other one doesn't work on Christmas’ Eve, but even if it did, we would have definitely run into someone from this wedding, so…” 

Crowley trails off, perching his chin on Aziraphale’s shoulder, who’s already trying (and failing) to control the force of his grin. “So?”

“There’s a Ritz-Carlton on the other side of the island. We’ll have to take a car and I may have bribed the reservation guy but if you’re willing to ignore it -” 

Aziraphale doesn’t say anything. He snakes out of Crowley’s arm, turns around on the chaise longue, and straddles him on top of his thick robe. He cups his face with both hands and kisses him deeply, humming as Crowley’s arms flail around a beat before wrapping around his lower back. A thunder rolls into the background. 

“I - I take it you’re on board?” Crowley says, voice croaky. 

Aziraphale surges forward again, hands fumbling down to the belt of Crowley’s robe. “Oh, hush, you fiend. Dining at the Ritz -” 

“Baby!” 

They break apart, heads turning toward the sound. It is definitely not thunder. 

From the corner of his eye, Aziraphale can spot two figures walking down a beach, wearing suspiciously matching baby pink lounge sets. Well, walking may be incorrect: one figure is stomping on the beach, angry little fast steps, and is followed by the second one, closing the distance with longer strides. Not thunder then, just the grooms to be.

“Oh, shit,” Crowley whispers, urging Aziraphale off. “Come on, quick, hide.”

“Hide?” Aziraphale wheezes out. “Where on Earth -” 

Crowley is already crouching down behind the chaise longue, aggressively patting the space beside him. “Come on. I’m not missing this.” 

Aziraphale quickly glances at the figures on the beach, and he can now see Gabriel is the one running after Rory. “Baby! Come on, stop, my teeny tiny Rory-cakes!” 

Aziraphale kneels down as well, eyes peeking out the top of the chair. “This is the best day of my life,” Crowley breathes. “Hush, I can’t hear them.” 

Rory suddenly stops, Gabriel colliding with his back and almost falling backwards. “Why do you always flirt with other people?” 

Aziraphale cannot make out Gabriel’s face from the distance, but he can hear his outraged gasp - and Crowley’s as well. “Baby! I didn’t! I was showing him how to do the child pose-” 

“To a waiter?! He’s not even in the wedding party?”

So this is what the unexpected indoor activity was then. Yoga. He should have known from the memories of Gabriel’s earliest call this year from some kind of holistic retreat, where he apparently found out yoga was the door to open anyone’s soul. Or something. 

“He seemed interested enough,” Gabriel is saying. “Also, I should be mad at you!” 

“Why?” Aziraphale whispers at the same time Rory yells it. 

“He’s been flirting with you,” Crowley replies. “Fucking wanker.” 

“You’ve been flirting with my brother!” Gabriel yells back, as if on cue. Crowley elbows him in the ribs. “I can't believe I agree with him.” 

“He’s not - oh, Heavens, what is he doing?”

Rory is currently - kneeling in the wet sand with his head in his hands. “You’re hurting my head!” He’s grunting out. “You’re attacking me, and my chakras are picking up too much of your negative energy and oh, it hurts.” He ends up on his hands and knees, as the rain picks up in intensity. 

“He’s not denying it!” Crowley whispers urgently, hand now wrapped around Aziraphale’s bicep. “I knew it, I knew it.”

And well, it is true. The notion is just too ridiculous to be even entertained by Aziraphale’s mind, who just laughs. “He’s also talking about chakras-”

“You’re not even denying it!” Gabriel shouts, hands on his hips and foot tapping nervously in front of him. “At least I had an excuse for the waiter.” 

Muriel should be here to see this. This is exceptional material for anthropological research, Aziraphale thinks, which is rather maudlin, but also mildly and weirdly amusing. 

“You didn’t tell me he was blond!” Rory throws a bit of wet sand at Gabriel. “And that wasn’t even the first waiter you fondled-” 

Aziraphale just snorts, hiding his snickers into his palm. Crowley is definitely not laughing. “I should have put the damn horse in his -” 

“Darling,” Aziraphale cuts him off. “Are you even hearing this?”

Gabriel is now kneeling down as well. “It wasn’t fondling, it was just a guiding hand - why does it matter if he’s blond?” 

“What I’m hearing is, I was right.” Crowley grits out. “I could make it look like two accidents.”

Aziraphale grips his chin and kisses him, just a peck. “You don’t need to.”

“I do.” He’s facing Aziraphale now at least, but the frown is very much still present. Aziraphale kisses it as well. “Look at them,” he whispers, glancing at where Rory and Gabriel are now on their knees facing each other, occupied in a rather vicious looking sand throwing battle. “This is so sad,” he laughs. 

Perhaps, if he were a better person, he would feel bad. And in the back of his mind, he does. He feels bad for the Aziraphale who thought there was some goodness in Gabriel and for the one who thought his fiancé was a man nice enough to deserve honesty. He also feels bad for both of them, especially when he glances at the man before him, because they will never get to experience what it’s like to be cherished like this. 

Happiness overpowers any other feeling. Maybe Gabriel has always been right, and the only thing Aziraphale is is selfish. Maybe it’s time to be selfish, for once.

Crowley pokes him in the chest. “You felt bad for the arsehole!” 

“I thought Gabriel was using him!” Aziraphale reasons. “I’m an empath!” 

“And what did I tell you? I told you, angel, bloody hell, he’s not -” 

Aziraphale enjoys this new way he has of shutting Crowley up. “You stubborn, lovely, silly man,” he whispers, their lips brushing. He lets his smile widen, feeling the crinkle by his eyes deepen, and hugging Crowley tighter, arms curling around his shoulders and face pressed to the side of his neck. “I could not care less,” he kisses an exposed collarbone. “Why would I? My beau is taking me to the Ritz.”

Crowley stiffens. “Don’t ever say that again.” 

Aziraphale pulls his head back, giggling a touch louder. “Stubborn? Silly? Lovely?” 

Crowley’s throat bobs, Aziraphale kissing his hammering pulse point. In a flash, he finds himself on his back, pressed against the sandy wood floor, a hand cradling the back of his head and increasingly desperate kisses pressed on the side of his face. “You’re impossible,” Crowley says. “And stubborn, and incredibly annoying, and so, so lovely-” 

Aziraphale stops him, bringing their eyes level. He holds his gaze for a moment. “There could never be anyone else.” He promises, he vows. He knows what it means, and he knows Crowley knows as well. Somehow, he always knows. 

“Of course not,” Crowley starts to smile, the corners of his lips twitching, eyes glittering. “‘M taking you to the Ritz in the middle of the ocean.” He closes the distance before Aziraphale can get any word out, clenching his fingers on the back of his head and tilting his head to deepen the kiss. 

Aziraphale stretches his lips and lets himself be kissed. On the beach, Rory and Gabriel are probably still yelling at each other. He couldn’t care less. 

Eden Resort, Landaa Giraavaru, Maldives - Day Four of the rest of their lives, 2 days before Christmas

Mini-golf. 

The last activity before Christmas’ Eve and the big rehearsal day. 

It’s mini-golf. 

It’s not even nine in the morning and Aziraphale already had to see matching golf kits in a peachy orange, donned by two grooms who are evidently back in each other’s graces, if the snog right in front of the breakfast buffet is anything to go by. 

Crowley is stifling a laugh, stuffing his mouth with cantaloupe. “No trouble in himbo paradise.” 

Aziraphale smiles at him over the rim of his glass. Just as he’s beginning to worry about the empty chairs at their table, Muriel trots into the room, sitting down with a groan. “Yoga is awful,” she says, rubbing the small of her back. “I should have skipped it.” 

“Jesus kid,” Crowley says around a mouthful, diligently swallowing after a glare from Aziraphale. “Was it acrobatic yoga?”

“I don’t know. It just hurt.” Moaning, she reaches forward to pour herself some orange juice. Aziraphale does it for her, earning a grateful smile. “What did you guys do yesterday?” 

“Crosswords,” Aziraphale replies. Crowley promptly chokes on a piece of green melon. 

“Us too,” Anathema sits down beside Muriel, dragging a sleepy looking Newt down with her. “Lots and lots of crosswords.” She winks. Aziraphale smiles and pats Crowley’s back as he spits the melon in his napkin. 

“Oh, how nice,” Muriel mumbles into her glass. “I wish I could have done crosswords as well.” 

“Alright!” Crowley says, a touch too loud for the quiet breakfast room. “Who else wants to sabotage mini-golf?” 

Anathema throws her head back with a groan. “That’s the plan for today? I’m gonna kill him.”

Aziraphale, once again, shares the sentiment. He takes a small bite of his omelette, dabbing his lips once he’s done with it. He’s going to miss the resort’s kitchen. “It’s the last real day of activities.” 

“I fear tomorrow’s going to be worse,” Newt mumbles. “They definitely have something planned.”

Crowley shrugs. Aziraphale barely hides a grin. 

Anathema turns her piercing eyes on him. “What have you two planned?”

“Nothing!” They both say. Aziraphale giggles. “Does anybody want some more juice?” 

She crosses her arm, eyes darting between the two of them, deep enough to read into their very soul. Of course, that’s the moment Muriel gasps. “It’s Christmas’ Eve tomorrow!”

“Seriously, it’s freshly pressed and very, very good-” Crowley puts a hand on his arm, shaking his head. Aziraphale blushes and avoids everyone else’s gaze. 

Anathema chuckles. “I know that, El, thank you. How could I forget?” 

“It’s Aziraphale’s birthday!” Muriel claps her hands excitedly. “I almost forgot!” 

Aziraphale winces. As always, Crowley finds his hand. “And he doesn’t like it, so if we could just drop it-” 

“Well, fuck.” Anathema comments. “Your brother is an asshole.” 

He quirks an eyebrow. Crowley hums his assent. “I mean, planning a whole Christmas wedding without even acknowledging his brother’s Christmas birthday? What an asshole.”

“Thank the Lord he didn’t,” Aziraphale lets out. He shivers as he imagines what Gabriel could have possibly planned for him. Somehow, the thought of exotic dancers coming out of a glittery cake doesn’t seem so alien. Even worse, he may have experienced his brother singing happy birthday to him, or worse, giving him a birthday hug. The almost-hug from the Winter Wonderland Day still haunts his nightmares.

“Well, that’s just how old Gabe is.” Crowley pops a final piece of melon in his mouth, throwing his napkin on the table. “Want another pastry, angel?” 

Aziraphale’s smile turns a bit bashful. “Just a small one.” 

He watches Crowley go as a small sigh leaves his lips, ignoring Anathema’s smirk and Muriel’s curious glance. 

Today, they changed the decoration into something less pastel and more Christmassy. Their centerpiece is made of golden leaves and red berries, little Christmas baubles scattered around the table. In the centre of the breakfast room, right behind the groom’s table, a proper Christmas tree is lit up with fairy lights, dozens of fake golden presents at the bottom. 

He suspects they have probably increased the mistletoe around the buildings as well. Or rather he hopes so - he spent nearly a week avoiding it, now that he can do something about it, he finds himself rather excited. 

“Baby brother!” Gabriel sits down in the empty seat beside him, as all the excitement evaporates out of Aziraphale. “I’ve been looking forward to having a little chat with you. Hi Muriel.” 

Muriel waves a shy hand, before getting up so fast she drops her napkin. “Oops, sorry, sorry. Must get pastries!” 

Aziraphale sighs. He needs to talk to her about loyalty. “So uhm,” Gabriel’s voice drops to a whisper. “I don’t know whether you usually keep your windows open, but-”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Aziraphale deadpans. “Our window is usually closed.” 

“Oh! Wonderful!” Gabriel beams. Aziraphale pinches the inside of his thigh to stifle a laugh. “You know what they say about open windows.”

Anathema snorts. Aziraphale merely smiles placidly. “Did you need something else?” 

“Well, not really.” He pats Aziraphale’s shoulder. “See you tomorrow at rehearsals?” 

And see, Aziraphale would just keep his big mouth shut if Gabriel would just stop with the insistent patting. But Gabriel keeps smiling and patting and Aziraphale says, “Actually, Crowley is taking me out for my birthday.” He even wiggles his fingers in front of Gabriel’s face. “Surprise!” 

Gabriel’s smile drops, maybe for the first time in front of other guests. “What?”

“I think it’s very romantic,” Anathema quips. Aziraphale shoots her a saccharine sweet smile. “Me too.” 

“It’s - it’s the rehearsal dinner.” Gabriel lets out a laugh, but his right eye twitches. “You can’t just miss it.” 

“Please let the chef know there will be two guests missing,” he adds airily. “We wouldn’t want to bother the kitchen. They have been excellent.” 

“Aziraphale -” Gabriel drawls, finally dropping the nonsense moniker Aziraphale had been subjected to for a whole year. He wonders what he would say if Anathema wasn’t still at the table, observing the exchange with raised eyebrows. Newt is just hiding his face behind his glass. 

“Hello.” Crowley drops the croissant in Aziraphale’s plate. “You’re in my seat, Gabe.” 

“You’re missing the rehearsal dinner,” Gabriel says in lieu of a greeting. “Care to explain?” 

“Nope,” Crowley shrugs, popping the P. “Shall we take that to go, angel?” 

Aziraphale carefully folds his new pastry in the napkin. God forbid he lets it go to waste. “It’s my birthday, Gabriel.” Once he’s done, he pats Gabriel’s face twice. “I want to spend it with the man I love. Is that a crime?” 

“I think it’s natural,” Anathema offers. “Do you think it’s unnatural, Gabriel?” 

Gabriel’s left eye twitches so bad it starts vibrating. “I never said - where are you going?” 

Aziraphale is already standing up, dragging Crowley away from the table. “Mini-golfers need their rest. Toodle-oo!” 

He spots the mistletoe right outside the breakfast room door, and he knows his smile is wider than ever as he glances at it, before his eyes land on Crowley.

“Did you mean it?” He asks, pants rather, scrambling to push his glasses out of the way. 

Aziraphale frowns. “The thing about mini-golfers?”

Crowley shakes his head. “No, god, not about - the other thing you said. About your birthday.” His eyes are almost glassy, and Aziraphale’s frown dissipates as the penny drops. 

Well. He supposes he should have planned a more romantic way of doing it. With a sigh, he takes Crowley’s glasses and folds them in the pocket of his short-sleeved shirt. “There is not a single thing I said since we landed here that I did not mean.” He cups Crowley’s face. “Didn’t you know?” 

Crowley lets out a whiny sound. “When have I ever, historically, known anything?”

Aziraphale chuckles, and kisses him softly, mistletoe forgotten. He has a more important thing to do right now. 

Gabriel is doing it on purpose. 

He could be awful at mini-golf, but Aziraphale is sure that if he is not that bad at it, Gabriel certainly isn’t worse. 

Also, only his brother could be such a child to sabotage every single one of his shots. When Gabriel’s ball hits Aziraphale’s for the fifth time in a row, effectively pushing both of them away from the hole, he is sure. Gabriel is doing it on purpose. 

Alright, maybe the impromptu mini-golf… lesson he gave Crowley in the beginning was a bit far. Rory’s grandmother whistled and gave them both thumbs up, which is a new universal indicator for having taken things too far, together with the fact that Crowley had to sit down for a minute and chug down an entire bottle of icy water. 

What can he say? Mini-golf requires a hands-on approach. 

“I think he’s sabotaging you.” Crowley mumbles in his ear, voice low. Apparently, he’s hell-bent on getting revenge on what Aziraphale did before. “Want me to sabotage him?” 

Aziraphale sighs, turning around to face Crowley properly. “I want to ignore him, and to finish this game.” He looks up through his lashes. “Then, I was thinking about something relaxing. Another massage, perhaps?” 

Crowley drops the mini-golf club. His predictability is awfully endearing. “You’re awful.”

“I know!” Aziraphale trills. “Now, will you win this game against Rory so we can leave?” 

“Look at you, angel,” he croons. “The student surpasses the master.” 

In the next game, Crowley manages to put the ball in the hole with just three shots, against Rory’s four. Aziraphale claps delightedly, while he tosses the club away as soon as the ball falls into position. “Right. Bye!” 

“Oh, no wait!” Rory yells. “We need a play-off!” 

“We really don’t,” Crowley replies. “Bye.” 

“But, Gabriel beat Aziraphale and you beat me.” Rory pouts. “It’s a draw. We need a play-off!” 

“Since when was this a competition between us?” Crowley fixes his glasses and scoffs, saying his goodbyes for the third time. Gabriel doesn’t say anything to him, but fixes his eye on Aziraphale. “Don’t mind them, baby. They’re always leaving.” 

And honestly. Honestly, Aziraphale is just tired. He’s been tired since he was twenty years old, and now he’s a grown man and his brother is still able to tire him out to the bone. 

It’s enough. He hopes Crowley forgives him as he bends down to pick up the discarded club. “One hole. You and me, Gabriel. Then we’re done.” And he doesn’t mean the game. Gabriel knows. 

He turns to kiss a groaning Crowley briefly. “Forgive me, love.” 

He gets a blush, and a small twitch in his upper lip. “Yeah well. Maybe.”

If mini-golf games can be brutal, this one certainly is. Gabriel hits the poor ball with way more force than necessary, even if it ends up bouncing off the walls and into Aziraphale’s shins rather counterproductively. “Very mature, Gabriel.”

“Oh, please.” He jumps on one foot to avoid Aziraphale’s shot. “Want to talk about maturity? You’re throwing a fit about your forty-sixth birthday!”

“I am younger than you.” Aziraphale bends down to look at the distance between his ball and the hole. Thank someone he watched golf at the Olympics this past summer. 

“By ten months!” 

“And you never found that suspicious?” 

Gabriel huffs. “Oh, I did.” 

Aziraphale’s shot ends up mere inches from the hole. “Why did you even invite me?” 

“Because,” Gabriel hits the ball way too hard, and it bounces on the walls around the final goal before rolling pathetically far away. He hears Crowley whistling. “I made an effort with you. You never-”

The ball ends up in a hole with a mere flicker of his hand. “You were awful. So, so awful. You only made an effort because you thought it was expected of you!”

“Because it was!”

“Because of how awful you were!” Aziraphale exhales, rubbing circles on his temples. Like Crowley, he tosses his club away. “You never even apologised. Not even once.”

Gabriel just scoffs. He has never looked more like their mother. “You’re overreacting.” 

Aziraphale doesn’t regret coming here. He doesn’t regret the pottery class, or the winter wonderland, or the Trivia Night. He doesn’t even regret the ocean themed movie marathon or the bloody karaoke. It gave him Crowley, his Crowley, the man he loves, waiting for him on the sidelines and glaring at everyone who’s not Aziraphale, who loves him completely and gently and blissfully and incandescently at the same time. He will never, ever regret Eden Resort. 

He does regret ever giving one more chance to Gabriel Fell. Though, in the grand scheme of things, it doesn’t even matter that much. “Bye, Gabriel. Have a nice Christmas’ Eve.”

When he steps out of the mini-golf court, Crowley’s hand is already stretched towards him. He takes it with a smile, and thinks about all the things that don’t matter. 

Chapter Text

Eden Resort, Landaa Giraavaru, Maldives - Day Five of the rest of their lives, 1 day before Christmas

Inconvenient. 

Christmas Eve has always been a grand affair at the Fell family household, even more so than the actual Christmas Day. Biscuits were baked, roasts were cooked in the double ovens, candles were lit on the table and outside the windows. 

There were traditions to be had, carolers to be welcomed and the time was always so little. The food was always a bit undercooked, the biscuits a touch too pale, the candles always melting too fast: for how anticipated of a day Christmas Eve was, it was always over before it could properly begin. 

The first time Aziraphale was called a Christmas baby - by his school teacher, a lovely woman who smelled like sugar and had kind eyes - he replied it was simply inconvenient. And if she found it weird that a six year old used words like inconvenient, she never mentioned it to anyone. 

But it was; inconvenient, that is. No one would remember a birthday falling on Christmas Eve. No one would give up Christmas plans for a day as mundane as that. Aziraphale himself never really cared: there was so much else to focus on, when he was still living at home, namely trying to survive a family reunion while trying to draw the least amount of attention to himself. 

And when he moved out, well, it was just too busy, wasn’t it? Owning a shop during Christmas, as peculiar as his bookshop is, is time-consuming and a literal nightmare, more often than not. Not to mention, forgetting about the one day every year that reminded him of the incessant tickling of years passing by was not too bad at all. 

Long story short, he never cared about the coincidence of Christmas Eve and his birthday, simply out of convenience. Every year, he listened to the carolers, lit up his Christmas lights, watched reruns of holiday classics and let the soft, crooning voice of Sinatra and Crosby fill the hall of his home, and allowed himself one slice of cake - because pettiness comes to him as natural as breathing. A merry little Christmas, indeed. No time to dwell on something as inconspicuous as a birthday. 

The dawn of his 46th Christmas Eve is pink and silent. The night before, the glass window was left open, careless of the chilly night breeze. It’s warm enough under the duvet, only the bare skin not covered by high thread cotton teased by the gentle hum of cool, salty air. 

A beam of sunlight heats up his bare shoulder. Behind him, something - someone warm is pressed against his back, and the arms wrapped around him are not his own. 

He shifts his head on the pillow, receiving a sleepy hum in response and the tip of a cold nose pressed against the back of his neck. 

It’s still early. Outside, the sun isn’t properly up, casting a pinkish, dreamlike haze and random sunbeams on their barely lit room. The one warming up Aziraphale’s shoulder is moving up, now almost caressing his neck. In no time, it’ll be in his eyes, and he’ll run out of excuses. 

For now, he shifts backwards, tilting his face in the pillow. The arms around his middle tighten, a hand flat on the top of his stomach and another, louder sleepy hum reverberating in his eardrums. 

It’s still early. Christmas Eve can wait a few minutes longer.

Crowley smiles and sits with his back against the headboard, tapping his phone until a video comes through. Aziraphale rests the back of his head on the front of Crowley’s shoulder.

“There you are,” Crowley says, voice still raspy. “As you can see, still a fish.”

Aziraphale scoffs. “Still the prettiest, Miss Lola.” 

“You know she can’t hear you, right?” Crowley taps the screen again, changing the camera angle to a frontal one rather than an overhead one. 

Aziraphale rolls his eyes. On the screen, Lola floats idly, in and out her veritable miniature underwater forest. “You are a very good fish parent.” 

“Alright,” Crowley turns the phone off and tosses it on the bedside table. “Enough for today.” 

“You are!” Aziraphale spins, smiling as he spots the telltale twitch in the corner of Crowley’s mouth. “Thank you for letting me see her.” 

“Nyeah. Whatever.” Crowley stretches his arms to the headboard, resting his hands behind his head. “You know,” he starts, before immediately closing his mouth, chewing the inside of his cheek. “You know.”

“I do?” Aziraphale smiles, wide and slowly, propping his head on his hand. “I do know a lot of things.” 

Crowley squirms, trying to push Aziraphale off of him. “How to be the most insufferable bastard is definitely -”

Aziraphale giggles quietly, sparing a thought for what has become his standards for words of affection, and leans closer, locking their eyes. “What were you saying?”

Crowley frowns and averts his gaze, only making Aziraphale smile wider. He leans closer still, pressing his lips to Crowley’s mouth. Sighing in defeat, Crowley lowers one hand and cradles Aziraphale’s cheek, holding him in place. “Could see her more, y’know. The fish. If, well.” 

Aziraphale draws back, eyes wide. “If?” 

Crowley’s hand moves to the back of his neck. “The code to my flat is 6668, which, yes, is on purpose.” He keeps his eyes focused on the corner of Aziraphale’s mouth. “Could pop by some more.”

The numbers six six six eight swirl around Aziraphale’s mind, already etched in his brain for as long as he’ll have one, right there along with his most precious memories. And, sure, a key would have been more romantic and he loathes how technology keeps depriving him of his more swoon-worthy moments, but he loves these numbers regardless, and thinks he’s never received a nicer gift. “Are you inviting me over for tea?” 

“Yeah. Tea.” Crowley says as he rolls on his side, sliding his fingers down Aziraphale’s back to rest on his waist. “All kinds of things.” 

“How nice.” Aziraphale smooths his palm up Crowley’s chest, flattening his hand on the side of his neck as their lips move together, Crowley’s palm moving dangerously lower. “What would Miss Lola say?”

“Thankfully nothing,” Crowley bites on his bottom lip, the skin rosy and slightly swollen. “You blabber enough for both of - oi!” 

Crowley will deny squealing later, Aziraphale is sure, but it’s fine. He’ll remember it for the both of us them, together with a pink sunrise, six six six eight, and a laughing kiss pressed into his equally smiling mouth. “Stop - how are your fingers so fast?! Why must you have the weirdest talents ever?” 

There are a million and one retorts on Aziraphale’s tongue. Somehow, he chooses to tell the truth. “This might be my best Christmas Eve.”

Crowley swallows, eyes suddenly heavy. He looks down at Aziraphale’s hand, drawing small circles in the centre of his chest with the pads of his fingers, before covering it with his own. His hand is soft, almost unexpectedly so. Much like this moment. Their lips bump yet again, both tilting their heads. “Happy birthday, sweetheart.” 

When the door knocks later in the afternoon, Aziraphale is in the middle of a wardrobe emergency, which is a novelty in itself. He likes clothes, he likes nice clothes, and he especially likes always knowing which ones of his very nice clothes are most fitting for specific occasions. 

Unfortunately, it’s not everyday that your… beau takes you to the Ritz in the middle of the ocean. Hence the wardrobe emergency. He’s seriously considering using the cream linen suit he packed for the wedding tonight instead where there’s a knock on the door. 

He vaguely ponders about forcing Crowley out of the shower. It’s a testament to how much he truly loves him, how he shakes his head and goes to open the door.

“Merry Christmas Eve my favorite lotus bloom!” Rory winks. “And happy birthday!” 

He should have forced Crowley out of the shower, it turns out. Aziraphale sighs. “Thank you. Did you need-” 

“Gabriel is very sad.” Rory says, eyes wide. “Very, very sad.” 

Aziraphale smiles, keeping his lips tight. “Well, praise be he has you to cheer him up.” He grips the door in what he hopes is a smooth enough motion. “Have a wonderful rehearsal -”

“But you see, he needs his brother.” Rory puts his foot to keep the door open and, honestly, when did Aziraphale’s life become tragicomic? “I wouldn’t know what to do without my sister tonight. Gabriel needs you.” 

In the short time he’s known Anathema Device, he’s heard her talk about all the spells he tried to inflict upon her brother during the years more times than he’s heard her comment anything about the weather. “I’m sure he’ll be fine.” Thankfully, he hears the water in the ensuite shutting off.

Unfortunately, Rory is still talking. “He - he knows he can be a little, erm, difficult sometimes, alright? But he tries so hard, especially with you, and it would really mean the world to him if you two could finally put your differences apart and -” 

Aziraphale holds up one hand, keeping the other firmly on the door handle. Thankfully, Rory’s eyes focus on the movement of his fingers and his mouth clicks shut. “Thank you for your generosity these past few days. I look forward to celebrating your wedding tomorrow.” He lies. “Now, however, I must bid you goodbye.”

“You can celebrate your birthday with your boyfriend every year,” Rory urges. “Your brother only gets married once.” 

Aziraphale doubts that. Highly. He laughs at the mere thought. “Yes, well. As I was saying-”

“And what about me?” Rory whines, hands clutching his heart. Aziraphale has to lift both of his eyebrows. “Don’t you want to support me?” 

Aziraphale gapes, mouth slightly open. Right now, his life feels more tragic than comic. “I think,” he starts, carefully watching the way Rory’s facial muscles fight against the botox. “You may have gotten a wrong impression, somewhere along the line.” 

Rory scrunches his nose. “Don’t think so, Zira.”

Everyone has their boiling point. Nicknames tend to make Aziraphale reach his boiling point faster, when they don’t come from a certain ginger he can now feel hovering behind him.

“Goodbye.” He slams the door closed, and if Rory’s foot was still in the way, it’s definitely not anymore. 

He even turns the lock once, for good measure, before pressing his back against the wood, sagging slightly. 

“He doesn’t think so, Zira.” Crowley is sitting on the sofa closest to the door, perched on the arm chair, wearing a stolen bathrobe and wetting the floor with bare feet and dripping hair. “Have you heard, Zira? He doesn’t think so.” 

Aziraphale’s gaze follows a drop of water disappearing behind a fluffy white lapel. “I think you may have been right.” 

Crowley clicks his tongue. “You think?” 

“And I think,” he says slowly, not moving from his spot. “He may still be behind this door.” 

Crowley uncrosses his arms, one eyebrow quirking up. “Only took you an ugly nickname to turn him into Peeping Tom?” 

“Are you being intentionally dense?” Crowley stares at him as if he switched languages mid-conversation. “Come here.” 

Crowley’s entire face lights up as the metaphorical ball drops. “Yes,” Aziraphale says, letting out a high pitched sound as Crowley surges forward and latches onto his neck with a loud smack. “Yes.” 

“I sometimes forget you’re even more insane than I am,” Crowley laughs in his ear. “My mistake.” 

“Oh, definitely yours.” Aziraphale whines before laughing quietly as he hears the sound of rapid retreating footsteps. He lowers his face to rest his cheek on Crowley’s shoulder. “That was incredibly childish of me.” 

“That was the best idea you’ve ever had.” Crowley’s hands sneak under the hem of Aziraphale’s shirt, tickling the warmed up skin underneath. “We may have to call the place and tell ‘em we’re late.”

Aziraphale blinks. “What? What time is it?” 

“Eh,” Crowley shrugs. “We should leave in like half an hour. But actually we were kind of-” 

Gasping, Aziraphale pushes him off with both hands. “Good Lord.” He strides back into the walk in closet. “I cannot believe you let that knob take up so much of my time!”

“I - you - Aziraphale.” Crowley’s half laugh-half groan follows him into the closet. 

Aziraphale smiles, and picks up his cream suit and a sky blue shirt he was supposed to wear tomorrow. Afterall, it’s Crowley’s favourite colour. 

The champagne glasses clink together with a clear, loud ping.

“You didn’t have to set this all up.” 

The ocean laps calmly mere feet away from their table, reflecting the orangey soft hue of the sunset. This beach is somehow bigger, breathier than the one at Eden. There are fewer tables, scattered around the stretch of sand in uneven rows, all decorated nicely enough for Christmas. 

Their centerpiece is similar to the one Eden chose for breakfast yesterday morning, but in white and golden tones, fairy lights sprinkled all over the shiny baubles. It reminds Aziraphale of how the ocean sparkled the night of their first kiss. 

“I didn’t set anything up.” Crowley says the words as if they were a personal offense. “I just told the reservation guy a story and left a very generous tip.”

“Still, you didn’t have to.” Aziraphale dabs his mouth with a cloth napkin. “I would be - wait, what story?” 

A waitress comes over with their amuse bouches, Crowley popping the grilled pineapple into his mouth before it even touches Aziraphale’s plate. If she’s disturbed by the enthusiasm, it’s unnoticeable. “Any preferences for the menu tonight, gentlemen?” 

“No meat if possible, thank you.” Aziraphale smiles. “And could we continue with this champagne instead of doing the wine pairings?” 

“Of course,” her eyes are kind, her accent accentuating the hard consonants. “Enjoy your dinner.” She lights up the candles on their table before retreating, as the setting sun has now almost completely disappeared under the horizon, plunging the beach in a violet dusk. 

“You didn’t have to do that,” Crowley says, fingers playing with the tablecloth. 

“Accommodating my partner’s dietary preferences? How truly wretched of me.” Aziraphale rolls his eyes, finally tasting his grilled pineapple and rolling his eyes for an entire different reason. “Oh! The sweet-savoury is always my favourite.” 

Crowley keeps his eyes down, but he hooks their ankles under the table, a corner of his mouth twitching up, and Aziraphale doesn’t know what to do with all of this fondness. He sips his wine and smiles slowly instead. “You owe me two stories now.” 

Crowley puffs air out of his nose, his foot rubbing against Aziraphale’s ankle. “You’re not forgetting about the zumba, are you?”

“I never forget anything.” He waves a hand between them. “Now, whenever you’re ready.” 

Crowley bats away his hand, a slow grin splitting his face. “If I tell you this, you tell me something too.” 

Aziraphale arches a brow. “Is this blackmail?”

“Is this - shut up!” Crowley shakes his head. “It’s the thing we were doing on the plane, you idiot!”

“Oh!” Aziraphale giggles delighted, catching Crowley’s hand and giving it a squeeze. “How wonderful, love. Then by all means,” he smiles even wider as Crowley starts grinning as well. “Tell me a you thing.” 

Crowley takes his sweet time. He finishes his glass, nodding once to the waiter immediately refilling it, then cracks his neck and rolls his shoulders, as if preparing to go into battle. Or to zumba class. Aziraphale can’t help but chuckle quietly over the rim of his own glass.

“Right. So.” He fills his cheeks with air, then exhales in a slow, controlled motion. “It’s kind of about you, as most of my things are, actually.” He sniffs. “Ngk. I mean - fuck. Forget I said that.” 

Naturally, Aziraphale wasn’t lying when he said he never forgets anything, especially when it comes to him. He doesn’t know what to do with all this fondness but, most of all, he doesn’t know where to put all this love. It bubbles up in him in an almost ticklish way. 

The only thing he can think of doing is leaning forward and pecking Crowley’s cheek. “Do go on, please.”

Crowley scrunches his nose, pink tinting his cheekbones. “Right. Uhm, so, remember the bibles? The first?” 

Aziraphale frowns. “What kind of question - yes, of course, dearest.”

Crowley takes another, longer sip from his wine glass. “They belonged to this lady. Batshit insane, as in she makes Roriel seem normal.” 

Aziraphale squeezes his hand in sympathy. “Ah.”

“Yeah, ah.” Crowley’s whole face scrunches up, and he takes a deep breath. “She just - she kept saying she wanted to see what kind of person she sold her precious books to, you know? She didn’t want her treasures to end up in some kind of heathen’s hand - and don’t make that face, I already knew you would agree with her.” 

Aziraphale pats Crowley’s hand. This is something only keepers of ancient, precious tomes understand, as much as he tried to explain it to Crowley over the years. There is a piece of his soul in every book he ever restored, in every page he carefully brought back to life: it’s not easy, letting them go. “So, what did she want?”

“For me to prove my worth by spending the entire day with her, for some reason. As I said, batshit.” 

Aziraphale doesn’t comment, being the person who asks for background checks before selling first editions. They have to let go of each other’s hand as the waitress comes back with their starters - for his joy, the dinner’s theme seems to be a study in contrast, sweet and savoury, and he smiles down at his plate. 

“Tuna with mango?” Crowley whispers, eyeing the dish with evident wariness. “Want mine?”

“Don’t be a child.” Aziraphale chides. “You like contrasts. And please don’t oversimplify it: this is not tuna with mango.” 

Crowley rolls his eyes, and his head for good measure, but obediently tries a bite. Of course, he doesn’t let Aziraphale win, but the frown immediately dissipates. Aziraphale beams, taking a few moments to properly savour it. He still has a story to hear, though. “Now, where were we?”

“Uh? Ah. Right.” Crowley clears his throat. “I mean, you can guess what happened next. Brunch with the girls, mimosas, lunch with the British Museum conservator, for some reason. Who does brunch and lunch on the same day?”

“Rory Device, probably.” Aziraphale lightly sucks his spoon into his mouth, revelling in the spicy sweetness of the mango sauce. 

Crowley exhales and puts both hands on the tables, letting his fork rest on the side of his plate, face definitely pinker, even in the candlelight. “Listen, if you want the end of the story you need to stop trying to seduce me with cutlery.” 

Aziraphale lets out an incredulous laugh. “I am most definitely not trying to seduce you!” Still, he flicks his tongue out to catch one last drop. “You would know if I was.” 

Crowley’s fork clicks against the fine porcelain, the louder sound on the beach. A few other patrons turn their heads in their direction. Aziraphale keeps smiling, calm as the sea still rolling in the background. “So, when does zumba come into this equation?” 

Crowley glares, before distracting himself with icy sparkly water. “After lunch with her dearest Gregory and a meeting with the Baroness of Bath or whatever, we had to attend her friend Edmundo’s newest class to bring some buzz to it in her society circle. Take a wild guess of what that was.” 

Aziraphale chuckles quietly. “Was it so terribly bad?”

“I don’t know, was it? Have you ever attended a zumba class full of middle aged ladies flirting with the inappropriately young instructors? Have you ever had said instructor flirt with you instead? Have you ever sprained your ankle trying to get away from both the instructor and the angry old ladies? All while Daddy Yankee was playing in the background and, for the love of god, I know you have no idea who that is, do not look it up.” 

Aziraphale hides behind his napkin, coughing to cover up the snickers. “You, well, you got the Bibles in the end.” 

“Delightful!” Crowley fake gasps. “And the person I did that for said he wanted to be my friend.” 

Aziraphale’s giggles grow louder as he lightly slaps Crowley’s hand. “I did not - that is absolutely not what happened!” 

The waiters come back to clean their tables, and Aziraphale notices some people are still looking at them. He does not particularly care, but he clears his throat nonetheless, schooling his features and holding in his laugh. “My hero,” he whispers. “Zumba-ing his way into my heart.” 

Crowley dry heaves, his subsequent hand gesture definitely inappropriate in regards to their surroundings. “Don’t ever say that again. Ever, swear it.” He taps his fingertips on Aziraphale’s wrist. “Your turn now. Tell me a you thing, and it must be embarrassing.” 

Aziraphale ponders for a moment. He chooses not to tell Crowley that he didn’t find the story embarrassing, not even a little bit, just infinitely endearing and even a bit flattering. The ends he went to just for someone he met briefly, Aziraphale of all people, and all the things he did in those ten years just because he wanted to. He truly has no idea how it makes him feel. 

(Warm. Loved. Safe, above all. He never felt anything else with Crowley.)

“Well,” he starts. He has a feeling Crowley will like this. “When I was in university, I joined a rather, erm, peculiar society.” 

Crowley’s eyebrows make a beeline for his forehead. “Is this about to get kinky?”

Under the table, Aziraphale kicks Crowley’s shin. “It was the magic society.” 

Crowley crosses his arms and leans back into his chair, mouth slightly agape. “No.”

“Yes,” Aziraphale continues. “Behold the Amazing Mr. Fell!”

“No,” Crowley repeats. 

“I had a cape and everything. Even a rabbit,” he sighs wistfully, recalling how the small, fluffy rodent kept him company during the long nights in his lonely flat. “He was called Harry.”

Crowley stares at him with wide eyes, his traitorous mouth twitching at the corners. “I genuinely can’t believe you are what gets me going.” 

“I’ll have you know I was quite good.” Aziraphale’s breath catches in realisation. “Oh my, how would you know? You’ve never had a demonstration.” 

“No, nope, nuh-uh.” Crowley shakes his head so fast his fringe plops down on his forehead. “Aziraphale. Angel. Don’t you dare. I hate magic.” 

Aziraphale rolls his eyes. He also hated the snake Christmas beanie he now keeps on his nightstand and the black straw hat he wore every day at the beach. Based on the way he’s rolling his lips in right now, he’s seriously loathing the Amazing Mr. Fell. “Be still, darling. I am a bit rusty.”

He tilts his head side to side and clasps his fingers, extending his arms out in front of his body and dragging a bark of laughter out of Crowley. Aziraphale smirks. “Now, what do we have here?”

“Please don’t. I’m begging you here.” Crowley tries to bat his hand away, but the Amazing Mr. Fell has years of experience with less than enthusiastic assistants. With a flourish, he brushes

Crowley’s hair off of his forehead and retreats his hand with a small button clasped in his fingers. “Have you, perhaps, lost a button?”

“No I didn’t!” Crowley whines. “It was in your pocket.” 

“It magically appeared in your hair.” 

“Jesus Christ.” Crowley drags the heel of his hands over his face, but not fast enough. Aziraphale has already spotted the ghost of a smile on his face. “Shall we retire the act? Please?”  

Aziraphale chuckles quietly. “I already did. I was pretty terrible, actually.” He only managed to learn sleight of hand in his last year, on his last show. He smiles at the memory. “It was pretty fun, all things considered.” 

Crowley squints and tilts his head to the left, chewing the inside of his cheek for a moment. “What if,” he says, slowly and carefully. “I kind of want to see the cape?” 

Aziraphale beams, grabbing his hand with both of his. “Oh, Crowley -” 

“In the privacy of our own house,” he hastens to add. “I don’t think I can survive another demonstration in public.” 

Aziraphale’s stomach flips at the mention of a house where they both fit. Perhaps a house with a ridiculous code instead of a key and where half of the sitting room is taken up by a tank where a purple fish floats around a forest of algae; a house where he can imagine a library and how to turn the guest room into a study and how it would feel to come home, every night, to - 

Crowley, his Crowley, who mistakes his reverent silence for something else, something that makes him frown and press a quick kiss to his knuckles. “I’m kidding, d’you know that? I would watch an entire show from the Amazing Mr. Fell if you wanted to.” 

And Aziraphale knows. Which makes, “I love you too,” the only possible reply. 

“Come on, you know how this part goes,” Crowley urges him on. “Make a wish.”

Aziraphale closes his eyes to take in the moment. He can still smell the chocolate of the slice Crowley produced from their minifridge seemingly out of nothing, and the flicker of a tiny flame behind his closed eyelids. When he opens them again, Crowley sighs. “You’re letting it melt.” 

“Did you like your present?” 

Crowley blinks at him. “Dunno, did I like my tickets to the most anticipated concert of the century?” He shakes his head. “Did I like it when you told me you hate bebop but you love me? Wasn’t my reaction clear enough?” 

Aziraphale beams. Crowley will forever deny the tears. It had been a gamble, really. He knew Crowley liked that band, but he didn’t know anything about it, nor how to get his - perfectly serviceable, thank you very much, but slightly ancient - computer to buy the tickets. Thankfully, dealing with old books results in quite a lot of people owing you favors. 

“I hate that you made me open it tonight.” Crowley grumbles. “Now will you please -”

“I loved my present.” He gently strokes the silk around his neck. “I didn’t want to stress over your gift a whole other day after opening mine.” 

Even if Crowley still didn’t give him his Christmas present, insisting this is just a birthday one. A silky white neckerchief embroidered with yellowy-gold motifs, soft as anything and already wrapped around his neck. “You can’t wear a bow-tie in the Maldives,” he’d said, carefully tying the scarf in a perfect knot. “But we can’t have you attend a wedding naked.” Aziraphale will never deny the tears. 

“Do we have to keep debriefing about Christmas gifts or can you blow the damn thing?” Crowley snaps. “You’ll get wax all over the chocolate.”

“This has been the perfect day.” Aziraphale lets out. “I just - I love you so terribly much, and today was perfect, and if I have my cake now-”

Crowley makes an executive and blows on the candle himself. He puts the plate on the coffee table, leaning closer to Aziraphale on the sofa, squishing his face between his cold hands. “If you think I’m not already thinking of ways I can top that gift of yours, you don’t know me at all.” He smiles a little, eyes softer. “But you do. You know me, and you know this won’t be our only perfect day.” He pecks him on the lips once, before letting go and retrieving his lighter. “Now, give us a nice blow.” 

“Perhaps later.” Aziraphale giggles as Crowley almost drops the cake. “Admit it, that was funny!”

“Angel, I swear I -”

Crowley almost drops the cake again, this time due to the absolute ruckus breaking out outside their windows. Their dimly lit room is illuminated by flashes of red and green lights, multiple bangs shaking the window. 

“Fireworks?” He mumbles. “What on Earth?”

Crowley is already striding outside, mumbling all kinds of things under his breath. The glass door slides open smoothly, and he snarls at it as well. “The fuck are you doing?” 

“Happy birthday, baby brother!” Gabriel yells as he lights up yet another firework. On the beach, the private beach, right in front of their bungalow. “You couldn’t make it to the show, we brought the show to you!” 

Rory laughs and latches onto Gabriel’s arm. “Happy birthday petal!” 

“Angel,” Crowley whispers beside him, unnaturally still. “Tell me I can do it. Fireworks and accidents go hand in hand.” 

Aziraphale takes a deep breath, ignoring another firework whistling and exploding over their head. “I’m going to go over there and have a word with them,” he says, hand squeezing Crowley’s elbow. “If it doesn’t work, you can do whatever you want.” 

“Whatever I want?” Crowley’s eyes are hopeful. Aziraphale just nods, before kissing his cheek and making his way towards Gabriel and Rory, who’s trying to set a firework on fire while simultaneously avoiding setting himself on fire. Crowley’s right; an accident would be so easy to simulate. 

“Join the fun!” Gabriel shouts over the whistles. “Seriously, you should have seen the show at dinner. The guys worked on the U2 world tour.”

“Masters of light!” Rory adds, clapping as he finally sets off a rather underwhelming sparkly firework. “It was totally unbelievable! They did and R and a G made out of -”

“I’m going to say this once.” Aziraphale smiles placidly. “You are going to stop with this nonsense in the next five minutes, or I will make sure to invite our friend Mikey to the ceremony tomorrow. Do you remember Mikey? Great guy, ceremonies are his forte. MI6 would know.” Rory swallows, eyes wide. Gabriel merely keeps grinning at him, more unsettling than ever, and sets off yet another, loud ecological nightmare.

Well then. Aziraphale focuses on him. “Do you want me to have a chat with Sandy, Gabriel dearest? Perhaps about the missing assets you conveniently have frozen in the Cayman Islands?” He puts a finger on his chin, tapping lightly. “Or were they the Virgin Islands? I always mix them up.”

That makes Gabriel’s smile drop. “You don’t-”

“Just because I don’t pay attention to the family business doesn’t mean I don’t know things.” He snatches the unlit firework from a still gaping Rory and shoves it in the sort of wooden box between the two of them. “Shall we retire the act, perhaps?” 

“You told me he said he wasn’t in the mob,” Rory whispers-shouts, turning to Gabriel. “Did you lie?”

Gabriel shakes his head, eyes focused on Aziraphale. “Listen, little brother.”

“Big day tomorrow!” He claps. “We should all get some sleep, don’t you agree?”

“Why do you always lie to me?” Gabriel clasps a hand over Rory’s mouth, plastering an uneasy smile onto his own face. “I, uhm, I think you may be right.”

Aziraphale turns around, throwing a “Splendid!” behind his shoulders.

Crowley’s arms are around him before he even makes it all the way onto their patio. “My favourite blackmailer,” he whispers. “I’ve never been more proud of you.” 

Aziraphale rests his cheek against his shoulder. “I’m ready for my cake now.”

“Just a second,” Crowley presses a kiss onto his head. “Oi! Rory! Maybe ask the hubby why he slipped his number to the pasty guy at breakfast. Or the pottery lady. Or the one mixing drinks at

karaoke.” He whistles. “Plenty of topics of conversation.” 

Aziraphale laughs into Crowley’s shirt, not turning around to witness Rory’s screeches. He looks up, finding Crowley already smiling down at him. “Cake?”

He finds his lips once more. “My favourite spy.”

Eden Resort, Landaa Giraavaru, Maldives - Day Six of the rest of their lives, Christmas Day 

The ceremony is, admittedly, beautiful. 

There is a flower arch, quite obviously. White and pink roses with sprinkles of gilded leaves, a white canopy flowing over the head of guests, a mirror runway that reflects the blue of the spotless sky making it look almost infinite. Guests sit on white pillowed chairs, rose petals at their feet. Aziraphale absent-mindedly plays with a forgotten petal, swirling it under his fingertips.

Beneath the flower arch, Rory and Gabriel stand with their hands linked. They are wearing matching suits, Gabriel in silver and Rory in white. A man wearing an orange robe, with a long beard and kind eyes, is saying a lot of things about soul bonding and twin flames. Aziraphale is sure he heard an incorrect quote about the red string of fate. 

Crowley fans himself with one of the provided white lacy hand fans, making sure to snap his wrist fast enough to cut through the silence with a swooshing sound. He’s beautiful as always, looking exceptionally proud of the slim-cut suit he chose for the occasion. “The colour of funerals,” he said that morning, making Aziraphale grin. “Am I not smart?”

Aziraphale is more interested in the way his slightly tanned skin looks in the deep purple, to be fair. And those trousers are exceptionally tight. And, the sheer black shirt underneath it all is not helping, at all; he had to angrily button it up to his collarbones before the ceremony started to save Crowley from Rory’s Grandmother's dirty looks.  

For his part, he’s wearing the same cream suit as yesterday. It was a bit crumpled, but the resort provided a small steaming iron and, honestly, he’s way past the point of caring. Crowley still patted his derrière before they left their bungalow, which must count for something.

The shirt underneath is crispy white, though, to match the silky neck scarf Muriel complimented earlier. Crowley blushed and tried to hide his smile in Aziraphale’s hair. 

“Body, mind, soul, essence.” The celebrant claps his hand once. “Repeat after me please.”

“Angel,” Crowley whispers. “Wanna make a bet?”

“Body, mind, soul, essence.” Rory and Gabriel say, both leaning forward to touch their foreheads. 

“What bet?” He whispers back, leaning slightly on Crowley’s shoulder to catch a bit of air. Sensing it, Crowley starts moving the fan under Aziraphale’s face. “How much will they last before divorcing? My money’s on six months.”

Rory and Gabriel are now standing still, humming at the same pitch as their flat palms mirror each other’s movements in the air. 

“I say one year,” Aziraphale decides. “They probably already paid for the anniversary party.”

Crowley hums. “Clever.” 

“And your vows?” The officiant puts his hand on Gabriel’s shoulder. 

With a deep sigh, Gabriel fishes a piece of paper from his pocket. He unfolds it until it becomes slightly bigger than his hand. Crowley clicks his tongue. “That’s how he had so many pieces of papers to slip into waiters’ pockets.”

Aziraphale snatches the fan from Crowley’s hand and hides behind it. 

“Rory.” Gabriel starts. “My teeny tiny Rory-cakes. My soul is your soul. My spirit forever in awe of yours. You found me scared and alone and gave me back my sparkle. We are but one body, one love.” He wipes non-existent tears beneath his eyes. “You taught me the meaning of love, and I promise I’ll spend the rest of my life trying to show you the meaning of devotion.”

Crowley yawns as Rory lets out big, wet sobs. “Boring.” 

“Soulless.” Aziraphale adds under his breath. “That was so generic.”

“Right? My ramble at the beach was better.” He sniffs. “Wasn’t it?”

Aziraphale turns and pecks his cheek, locking their hands. “In every single way, my love.”

He doesn’t really listen to Rory’s vows. Mostly because he’s sobbing through them and Aziraphale never enjoyed seeing snot, partly because he’s too busy thinking about what he would say, hypothetically, in a far, far away future (not too far though - ten years of building is plenty enough), if he’s lucky enough.

Maybe he’d talk about the first time Crowley sauntered into his shop, and how he started to spend his days wishing for him to come back, how his heart started beating faster every time he caught a glimpse of black and red in the corner of his eyes, how it never stopped since. 

He’d talk about how he spent countless sleepless nights perched on his armchair, trying to memorize the freckles on Crowley’s nose, only to find more and different ones in the light of day. 

He’d talk about how he didn’t really know what it was like to be known before Crowley, but now that he does he understands how it’s a synonym for being loved. 

He thinks about Crowley’s vows as well. He wouldn’t like to recite them in a room full of people, Aziraphale thinks, shy as he is and as he keeps denying. No, he would lean closer to Aziraphale and whisper them in his ear, just for the two of them, much like he did on their first night. He’d tell him about how he started to dream about him from the very first night they met; how he would have kept breaking his back on Aziraphale’s worn settee just to spend more nights with him; how he would have kept his mouth shut about his feelings forever if it meant keeping the two of them together. And Aziraphale would hold him, and thank him for being brave enough to get them there, and he would vow to never let him believe ever again he wasn’t loved just as deeply. Just as fiercely.

Crowley squeezes his hand, bringing him back to the moment. “Angel? Where did you go? You didn’t comment on his horrible grammar.” 

Smiling, Aziraphale leans his head on Crowley’s shoulder. “I was in a much happier place.” He feels Crowley’s cheek resting on top of his hair, a soft kiss pressed onto it. “And darling, he’s American. Of course he has horrible grammar.”

As the officiant pronounces Gabriel and Rory husbands, a rainbow of butterflies flies up into the crowd, swirling around clapping hands and upturned heads. 

A light blue butterfly lands on the tip of Aziraphale’s nose, and Crowley groans and calls him a bloody princess, but kisses him regardless. 

It’s a nice Christmas.

The live band is playing a mellow, tropical kind of ballad on the stage where they previously held karaoke, the Roriel Beach decked out in sheer white linens and fairy lights. Drinks have been served, food has been eaten, a first dance - with rather more snogging than what’s strictly appropriate, has been danced. The grooms are now nowhere to be seen, but Aziraphale thinks it’s best not to investigate.

Anathema’s dress is the same deep blue as the starry sky above as she lets Aziraphale twirl her. 

“You know what I learned these past few days, Aziraphale?”

“Our families own way too much money?” She laughs as he dips her toward the sandy dance floor. “Our brothers should not have access to said money?”

“Yes and yes,” she fixes her deep brown eyes on him. The same colour as her brother, yet so different. Much like Gabriel and Aziraphale. “We hit the jackpot when it comes to husbands.”

“Oh!” He blushes instantly. “Crowley and I are not -“

“Right, right, tomato, tomahto.” She shakes her head, a lock of wavy hair escaping her bun and framing her face. “Same concept though. Wouldn’t you agree?”

Back at their table, Muriel is giggling as Crowley shows her something on his phone, while a slightly intoxicated Newt leans on her shoulder, eyes almost closed. As if he senses Aziraphale’s eyes, Crowley looks up, the corner of his mouth twitching up. 

“Yes,” he breathes out. “We really, really did.”

“Also, you got moves.” She lets herself be twirled once more. “I understand the sparkles now.”

The song changes into a slower, gentler tune. Anathema laughs before letting go of Aziraphale’s hand. “Relax, red. He’s all yours.”

Crowley huffs a laugh, sliding into Aziraphale’s field of vision. “Wasn’t worried, witch girl.”

She kisses Aziraphale’s cheek before running back to their table, where Newt greets her with a lazy grin. 

“Saved me a dance, angel?” Crowley’s eyes twinkle under the fairy lights, his smile soft. 

As if Aziraphale wasn’t just waiting for him to show up. “You already know the answer.” 

They sway for a bit amidst the other couples, their cheeks nuzzling as Aziraphale spins them around the makeshift dance floor. 

“You look gorgeous, y’know?” Crowley mumbles in his ear. “Don’t think I told you enough today.”

“You tell me plenty.” At night, specifically, and always when Aziraphale needs to hear it the most, because he knows. He always knows. “And your legs look spectacular in those trousers.”

Aziraphale moves his hands lower, a smile stretching his face as Crowley squirms a little. “Minx.”

Aziraphale lifts his head, finding Crowley’s eyes already locked on his. “Merry Christmas, darling.”

“Merry Christmas, angel.” Crowley pecks his forehead. “Love you.”

“I had no idea weddings make you sentimental.” Aziraphale hugs him tighter, spinning them once more. “And I love you too, of course.”

“You make me sentimental,” Crowley says, a hand coming up to brush some flattened curls off Aziraphale’s forehead. “Coming here was the best idea I’ve ever had.”

“I agree.” Aziraphale ducks his head, resting his forehead on Crowley’s now exposed collarbones and feeling the sheer material of his shirt under his fingers. “I wouldn’t have survived this without you.” 

And to be fair, he doesn’t want to survive anything else without him ever again. Not annoying customers, not the freezing London showers, not trips to the grocery store late at night. He doesn’t want to go through the days without Crowley, may they be ordinary or extraordinary. “I cannot wait to be home with you.” Under his fingertips, Crowley’s heart beats faster. 

He doesn’t say anything back, but he doesn’t need to. When he tilts Aziraphale’s head up, his lips are already parted.

The sound of shattering glass cuts the slow dance short. Aziraphale freezes mid kiss, and they separate with a loud, wet smack. Crowley tilts his head skyward. “Who the fuck do I have to murder?”

“Rory, Rory, wait!” Gabriel booms, his shirt untucked and his hair in disarray, running after a similarly disheveled Rory. “Baby, stop!”

“Right after our first dance? Seriously?” Rory trills, wrestling with the ring around his fourth finger. “You promised me last night, Gabey, last night!”

“Oh dear.” Aziraphale comments. Crowley slaps a hand over his mouth. “Hush. This might be the second best moment of my life.”

“It doesn’t matter, baby!” Gabriel pleads. He gets on his knees in front of Rory. “None of them do! You’re my soul, my spirit, my -“

“Go fuck yourself, Gabriel.” The ring hits Gabriel’s forehead first, before hitting the ground with a dull thud. 

He hears Anathema’s voice cheering after Rory’s retreating silhouette, as Gabriel immediately starts running after him. “Baby, baby, wait! Rory! Forest!”

Crowley’s loud cackle is the only thing that can be heard over the sudden, deafening silence. “Forest?! That’s what Rory stands for?” He keeps guffawing, ignoring the glare from Rory’s parents as they run after the - grooms, he supposes. They may not be husbands anymore. 

“Well, my love, we both lost the bet.” He quickly counts on his fingers. “They lasted six hours.”

“I was closer though.” Crowley wipes under his eyes. “Jesus Christ. Forest. That was great.”

Aziraphale grimaces, eyeing the way they both run forward. If he were a better person, perhaps he would think about running after his brother, about a way to somehow fix the unfixable.

But then again, the firework incident happened less than twenty four hours ago. Gabriel doesn’t really deserve someone trying to fix his mess. At the very least, that person cannot be Aziraphale. 

It’s not a revelation, nor a surprise. It does feel like an ending, though. When he sighs next, he feels twenty years younger. 

“Well, everyone,” Anathema clicks her glass with a fork, raising her voice to be heard all over the beach. “I think we’ve all seen that coming.”

Aziraphale and Crowley send her thumbs up. She grins. “Cake?”

“What a wonderful idea, sweetheart!” The grandmother cheers, perched on a young man’s lap and clapping loudly. “Let us have cake!”

Gradually, everyone else starts clapping, the band resumes playing and the waiters bring out a layered, ridiculously high cake, tastefully removing the two sugary figurines on top. 

Aziraphale sighs, melting as Crowley’s arms wrap around him once more. “Where were we, angel?”

Aziraphale flattens his palms over Crowley’s exposed collarbones. “All’s well that ends well,” he says, and he means it. He’s got everything he needs, and a cake on top of that.

They pick up right where they left off, past the point of caring about other people’s looks and one drink past knowing when a simple kiss turns into something definitely inappropriate. Under the starry sky in paradise, Aziraphale thinks this might be his favourite Christmas to date. 

The man kissing him in the middle of the dancefloor is definitely his favourite person in the world. And it’s his. And it’s enough.

London, United Kingdom - 355 days after Christmas 

“Honey, I’m home!”  

Aziraphale laughs from where he’s sitting on his armchair. He waits for Crowley to greet Lola in her tank, the little lady happily floating around in a purple swirl. “I was hoping you’d stop doing that.” 

“You love it.” Crowley comes up to him and pecks him on the forehead, before plopping down to drape himself over Aziraphale’s lap. 

“I love you,” Aziraphale puts his book on the coffee table, using his newly free hands to brush Crowley’s hair, loosening his half bun and scratching his scalp. 

Aziraphale learned a lot of things during the past year: Crowley acts exactly as a house cat, looks even impossibly better with longer hair, can build a library from scratch in his guest room in a weekend, tolerates tartan if it’s on Aziraphale’s bow-tie and favourite armchair, cannot tolerate Aziraphale’s newly grown beard without screaming in his pillow about it and is, without a doubt, the love of Aziraphale’s life. 

“How was your day?”

“Wet,” Crowley moans, relaxing into Aziraphale’s touch. “Freezing. Client is insufferable and wants me to find the shittiest ceramic thingy in existence, but apparently it’s Etruscan and worth a shit ton of money.” He sighs, hiding his face in Aziraphale’s stomach, long legs dangling over the armrest. “Missed you. What did you do?” 

“I regrettably sold two books, then thankfully spent the rest of the day with Miss Lola, cleaning her tank properly and waiting for you to come back.” Aziraphale keeps petting Crowley’s hair, letting his other hand trace the line of his jaw, the shell of his ear. “I was thinking of ordering from that lovely Indian place down the street for dinner?” 

Crowley hums, nuzzling further into Aziraphale. “Whatever you want, angel.” 

It’s his reply for most things. Aziraphale brings one of Crowley’s hands to his lips and warms his freezing knuckles. “Oh! I finished setting up the library earlier.”

Crowley perks up. “Did you really?”

Aziraphale took way less to move himself in than his books. Finally, after three months, he can say he’s satisfied with the display and conservation of his personal collection. The library turned out exactly as he pictured it, his favourite room in the flat: his books and Crowley’s plants go perfectly together, and the settee they brought over from the bookshop’s backroom fits under the window as if it were created to be put in that spot. “I did. I guess I can say I’m officially home.”

Crowley sits up, his lips immediately finding Aziraphale’s. “Then we should do something to celebrate, don’t you think?”

Smiling into the kiss, Aziraphale parts his lips and deepens it immediately, fingers tangling in Crowley’s soft strands. 

Crowley keeps his hands around Aziraphale’s neck, tilting his head to gain better access and pressing increasingly wet, desperate kisses to his jaw. “Can we move this - don't want to scandalize the fish.” 

Poor Lola has seen a lot of things, this past year, in this living room. Aziraphale sighs as Crowley moves lower, biting on his pulse point. “I reckon Miss Lola is used to us by now.”

Crowley huffs a laugh. “She didn’t know what she was getting into, letting you live here.”

“I’ll have you know Lola and I get along - oh! I almost forgot!” Aziraphale gasps, leaning over to retrieve his book and almost letting Crowley fall to the ground. 

“What are you doing, you nutter?”

He pecks his cheek in a silent apology. “There was a letter in the mail when I came home, I remembered because I read it to Lola first.”

Crowley blinks. “What?”

Aziraphale is already laughing, finding the letter at the end of the book, where he put it. “Rory Device invites us to his last minute Winter Wonderland Wedding in Finland, a week from now!” He waves the piece of paper in Crowley’s face. “All expenses on him, of course.” 

“What?” Crowley repeats louder, snatching the letter from Aziraphale’s hands and scanning it quickly. “Bloody hell. Who the hell is this Bee person?”

“How would I know?” Aziraphale shakes his head. “I cannot believe he would choose Christmas again.”

Crowley cackles and tosses the letter over his shoulder. “Whatever. We’re going to regretfully decline.”

Aziraphale tightens his arms around Crowley’s middle, tilting his head up for another kiss. “Unfortunately, my dashing fiancé is whisking me away to Paris for my birthday.”

Crowley groans, still kissing him. “We are insufferable, and ridiculous.”

He always kisses him back. When the days are long, when they’re short, when they’re spent in bed or lost in London’s streets, when they bicker so much he threatens to sleep on the couch but always comes tiptoeing back to their bedroom with an apology on his lips and stars in his eyes, when he plays with Aziraphale’s ring and tells him he can’t believe they’re here, when Aziraphale makes him breakfast and watches him eat it, when they remember about Eden Resort and laugh about the ridiculousness of it all and all the times Aziraphale ignored Gabriel’s calls, when they’re out to dinner and Crowley insists on getting two desserts just to bring one home. In the end, he always kisses him.

“I like us insufferable.” Aziraphale cups his cheek. “I like us an us.”

“What a sap,” Crowley grins. He’s softer these days. Lighter. Happier. Aziraphale likes to think he is as well, all because of one another. “Love you.”

As always, Aziraphale says it back.