Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The land was still soft, damp from the shower it suffered from a few hours ago. The scent of petrichor and the dense touch of water permeated Crowley's senses, his suit clung wetly onto his skin as a result of the moisture. He marched slowly over the unpaved road, a deep frown setting on his face. Crowley lamented the set of garments he adorned. He was eager to reach his destination to finally free himself of the work vestments and into an outfit that may not be more comfortable, but is certainly more his style. If it were not for the fact that he was not alone, he'd have stripped inside his car already to change.

Eric tailed him, posture straight and wary of their surroundings. His eyes were frantic, searching for anything that may ambush them from every direction. Crowley glanced at him, then onto his own boots, caked with dark mud.

Tadfield.

Still haven't changed much. "Bloody roads still good for nothing," he muttered under his breath.

Eric's ears perked at the words he said, lips trembling slightly.

"C-Can we return to the car now, sir?" pleaded the poor assistant.

Crowley had insisted on this trip alone. He'd even considered not telling his mother his, fearing she may want to interfere with his plans. But of course, he could not not tell her about it lest he risks another incident involving a filed missing person report and her mother, for far too many times already, feeling rejected by her own son. When he had told her about it, she had insisted on coming with. Crowley argued against it, which had set the trip back by a week for his mother refused to let him go unless he went with somebody she knows. In the end, a compromise had been met: if it was not his mother he would take to Tadfield, he had promised he'd bring his assistant along.

A decision he, and evidently, Eric, as well, deeply regretted.

"Fine," grumbled Crowley, half pitying and despising the way in which the city-born-and-raised kid unabashedly expressed his discomfort over the dirt road. He took swift long strides back towards his Bentley—a 1991 Continental he bought when they’ve checked out the hotel they rested in after the flight—uncaring for the way the pool of mud painted his pants and the squeals Eric let out, the unsuspecting victim of the dirt shower.

He flicked off an amount of mud he could from his boots before he resumed his place in the Bentley's driver's seat, internally promising it to give a thorough wash once home.

Eric let out a sob of complaint before he, too, entered the Bentley, occupying the passenger seat.

The drive from the village entrance to the manor was peaceful, the rural road to home a scene that has not met too many changes for the past few years. Crowley was surprised to see the same old houses standing tall and robust even after a decade, the same residents of the village the ones he had known during his youth. He slowed his car to a crawling speed when it passed the front of a dingy old two-storey, flooring it to a stop when he'd driven by the edge of the fences. He let his eyes wander the entirety of the building, which, similar to the previous ones they cruised by, did not look too different. He stared at the lower window on the right of the house, where he remembered the receiving room used to be. Inside those walls, memories of youthful happiness dwelt; a forgotten tale of young birds discovering the wonders of each other's lives.
In actuality, to say that it was forgotten would be a whopper. Crowley, however much long it had been, could still vividly remember the colors of the walls, the cracks on its paint, the placement of several pieces of furniture, and even the scent of old books and herbs.

If there was someone doing any forgetting, it should be the owner of this house, and rightfully so.

Crowley gripped the steering wheel tight, nails digging a tad on the leather that they met. The possibility that a different soul is inhabiting the house roused despondence in his chest. He feared to glimpse a new face walking its halls, but even more so the thought of realizing it might still be the same person who had turned into a stranger as a consequence of time. Considering the amount of years he'd been gone, there is little doubt a stranger is who he would meet again.

He averted his gaze and into the forest that flourished behind that towering mass of blocks. A sudden urge to impetuously grab his essentials and leave the vehicle to race into the heap of the verdant had him dug his nails deeper into the wheel. The idea was disregarded when Eric's voice sounded from beside him.

“Is there a problem, sir?”

Crowley grunted, pulled away from the melancholia by his assistant’s shrill voice. He loathes the idea of spending the rest of his trip back home with Eric.

“Nothing,” he answered, starting the engine once again to resume their drive.

Having sighted half the ton, the shock of seeing their old manor had ebbed even before Crowley had arrived. The manor was situated in the more secluded part of the village, which, having only a couple hundred people living, rendered the place atypical to renovations. Changes came to the structures of its exterior for centuries later, or half a century, if fate was generous enough. The interiors, much less altered.

The great thing about money is that when you have abundance of it, you won't fear the expenses that come with your decisions. Once Crowley had access to his funds and started earning for himself, he had begun corresponding with a network of equally wealthy acquaintances his father had. Some of them lived around the towering heights of Soho, while some lived in faraway places he had only visited once or is yet to. The one special connection he established that he'd been indebted to was Mrs. Tracy, who lived by the village proper. In all his years studying in America, Tracy was the string which he'd tethered his sanity onto. She was his father's friend, one who had witnessed the highs and lows of Crowley's adolescence. She was also the only adult who knew and had been more than accepting of his disposition.

He had sought out personnel for maintenance through the lady, sending with the letters cash for their salary, and an excess as a show of gratitude to her.

It was no wonder that when he opened the oaken doors of the front entrance, no dust or dirt stained the floorings nor the walls. In fact, everything looked polished and neat, from the shelves that loomed over the corners of his father's study, to the sheets that were pressed flat onto the bed in his room. The only prominent anomaly was the lack of decoration and life, a feature of their family's migration.

Crowley toed his shoes off, keeping the carpeted floor of his bedroom clear of the mud it dragged. He dropped the suitcases onto the bed, before throwing his own body onto it, face first, bouncing exhaustedly. He released a pent up sigh, lengthy and loud, the fatigue of hours of travel finally hitting him. He allowed the telltale signs of slumber consume his being, relaxing his body until he's sure he's finally approaching the stage of a light sleep.

The Gods may be punishing him for something horrible he may have done, because even before he could shut his eyes, he was drawn back to wakefulness by a rather loud clamouring downstairs.

With extreme regret, Crowley parted from the warmth of the cushions. He lingered by the doorway to listen to the argument, brows arching high at the voice that accompanied his assistant's. He looked once at the shoes he abandoned by the doorway, then shrugged as he softly padded onto the tops of the staircase that led downstairs, his sock-covered feet flexing on the tiled flooring.

“Yes, sir. And I am telling you, I am the owner's helper as well. That is what assistants do. They help their client,” Eric looked about ready to either bolt out of the place or pummel someone. He was talking to an old man, a familiar bloke Crowley was sure he had seen before. He was standing proud over Eric, a finger pointed at him accusingly. He was also, to Crowley's bewildered observation, wearing a military uniform, but not one he had seen before. Sure he hasn't actually seen all the military uniforms that ever existed, yet he's also confident that it wasn't an actual uniform, if his association with friends who had enlisted was anything to go by. Not to mention the badge right over the man's heart that depicted a witch on a stake.

“Eric, what's happening?” he began his descent, one careful step at a time leisurely sliding his hand on the oak banister. Memories of running up and down this very stairs as a kid returned to him. It really has been forever since he had felt the smooth wood again.

“Sir!” The assistant looked relieved. “I was just talking here with Mr. err… Shadwall-”

“Shadwell.”

“Right, yes, Mr. Shadwell. Apparently he had been the manor's security officer?” finished Eric. He gave Crowley a grimace and a once-over glance at the Shadwell bloke.

“Ah, yes. Think I may have read your name somewhere in Tracey's letters. You're her live-in partner, are you not?” Crowley stood beside Eric, proffering his for the man to take. Shadwell glanced at it with eyes narrowed, before he took it in his firm grasp. “Anthony Crowley. Pleasure to meet you, sir.”

“Aye, plenty of pleasure from young men these days,” said Shadwell. From this angle, Crowley could see the age seeping through the man's features. The wrinkled skin, the facial marks, and rotting teeth as he smiled. Shadwell held in between those teeth a rolled piece of paper, a makeshift tobacco, he presumed. He also noted that upon closer inspection, the badge on the man's uniform said “Witchfinder Sergeant” in embroidered letters under the burning witch. Crowley isn't one to judge freely based on a person's appearance, rather preferred to assess characteristics first before doing so. However, a thought appeared unbidden in his mind at that exact moment: Mrs. Tracey has quite a peculiar taste in men.

“I apologize for not announcing our arrival prior. I was too preoccupied with business to write a letter, and have thought it better to just go without. How have things been here in Tadfield?” Crowley said as they unliked their hands. Truly, the only person who had the faintest notion of his return was Tracy, having hinted at his desire to visit her soon in several of his letters.

“Same old, same old. Men lived and died, new ones birthed. Oh, who are we kidding. You pansies never really cared much ‘bout us village folk. Up and about your asses, you lot,” Shadwell grumbled. He spat the paper and stomped on it as one would with a lit cigarette. All it did was flatten the miserable sheet and imprint on it the soles of his boot. Crowley scrunched his nose in slight pique, watching as that same foot marked the polished tiles beneath it, the hard work of the housemaids violated.

“Right. Well, mister Shadwell, what can I do for you? My companion and I, who I'm sure you're well acquainted with already, are in need of some rest,” Crowley gestured between him and Eric. “And I would very much like to change out of these clothings now.”

“Don't need nothing. Thought t’was a burglar, this twink,” he pointed disapprovingly at Eric.

“Excuse me?” affronted, Eric placed his hand over his hip.

“Calm down, lad. Not trying to insult, just describing what I see.”

Eric grunted, rolled his eyes and raised his hands in defeat. “You know what, I'm retiring to a spare room. Mind directing me, sir?”

“Upstairs, room at the far left. That's the guest’s.”

“Thanks. Sorry, I'll leave this one to you. I'm too tired,” Eric patted his shoulder consolingly, making his way up the stairs with his shoes carried on one hand.

“So, mister Shadwell, if you don't need anything, you can leave for the day.”

Shadwell, however, remained still. He fiddled with the pockets of his trousers, grumbling as he procured a crumpled piece of paper and held it out to Crowley.

“What's this?” asked Crowley as he unfurled it.

“From Dyesebel.”

Crowley raised a brow.

“Tracy, me boy,” Shadwell grumbled, averting his gaze.

“She knew I'd be back today?” Crowley asked, scanning the first few lines of the letter.

My Dear Anthony,

I hope this letter finds you well, just as the previous letters had. I had this written during the spring, as I have not the exact idea of when you would be back, but I have a feeling it won't be long until you are.

Firstly, I want to offer my apologies if my lovely Arthur has been untoward to you thus far. He’s got a way with words, but you must know, he doesn't mean any harm. Just too honest for his own good. He has overseen the safety of your manor for the past few years, and I hope you may retain his employment as it is one of the few things that give him joy in this life.

Speaking of the manor, you may find that the garden has turned out beautifully. The landscaper took well care of the plants you so adored, and I hope the outcome is to your liking.

I wish to see you immediately when you arrive. So, if you've read this letter, I hope you're already preparing to leave for a visit to my home. It's the same one you visited when you were but a nipper still, that old cottage west of the Fells.

I've a lot more I wish to tell in person, and I cannot wait for it.

Yours truly,
Mrs. Tracy

A smile had formed on his lips while he was reading, the warmth of a mother embracing him from the inks that marked the letter.

“Is Tracy home today, mister?” he asked, pocketing the letter.

“I believe so. Dyesebel doesn't go out much, not unless she needs to buy anything. Probably catch her making a pie home at this time,” Shadwell answered, cleaning the food trapped between his teeth with darkened fingernail.

Crowley gave him a smile. The vigor that was lost during the trip came back at the thought of finally meeting Tracy again, and Crowley was already changing into a different set of clothing before he even knew what he was doing. He wore a loose shirt tucked inside jeans and a complementary rubber-soled shoe, checking himself once in the mirror to make sure he looked presentable.

“I'll head out to Tracy's. I expect you'll be staying to guard my home, Mr. Shadwell?” he said, the keys to the Bentley already in his hand.

“Aye, I will. Tell her I'd get home when you are,” Shadwell gave him a salute as he drove off.

The town proper was less bustling, partially due to the inconvenience of the wet season. There was a bypasser here and there, but most of the village appeared to be secluded in their homes, enjoying the warmth of their hearths in the cocoon of their families.

Crowley briefly visited a local flower shop, purchasing a bouquet with a rainbow of hues from different sets of flowers. He gave it a sniff, redolent of flowers and of sprayed fragrance as well. Satisfied, Crowley carefully placed the bouquet in the back seat, humming gaily to himself. A smile camped on his face until he was nearing Tracy’s house.

The lifted corners of his lips faltered, trembling to fall as he once again slowed the car by the Fells’ house. He didn't stop this time, only gave himself an opportunity to peek at what he could see through the windows, all, which he noted in dismay, were covered by the curtains. He ventured off road once he'd gone past the house, following the path he could recall to the cottage.

Smoke wafted from the chimney that protruded from the side of the house, the windows open and curtains flowing as the cold breeze hit it. Bouquet on hand, Crowley stood awkwardly at the front door, contemplating whether to call out or knock directly. It felt terrifying, like he was being casted back to fifteen years ago, when he first darkened the lawn of this house. He was but a wee child back then, a ten-year-old who happened to be playing nearby and fell on to his knees, scraping the skin there and crying as if he was on the verge of dying. Tracy had been tending to the garden then, and upon seeing him, ran to his side, insisted he came with so she could tend to his wounds. Since then, Crowley had become a regular in Tracy’s house. He and Aziraphale were. The kids who she used to pertain to as the angels with fated souls.

Yeah, right. If there was anyone who resembled an angel, it definitely was Aziraphale. Crowley would fit more the likes of a lowly creature hailing from the lowest depths of hell.

Crowley scoffed once, amused by the direction in which his thoughts had traveled. He postponed the reminiscing for the moment to finally both knock and announce his arrival verbally, making sure his voice wasn't too harsh to avoid causing any unnecessary commotion.

Tracy opened the door for him, clad in an apron that's stained with what Crowley could only assume as flour.

“Hello,” Crowley began lamely, offering the bouquet to her. Tracy, on the other hand, felt it more appropriate to hug Crowley immediately, crushing the flowers between them in the process.

“Oh, my boy. You're finally back,” Tracy screamed exultantly, retreating a step to size him up, her hands resting on Crowley's shoulders. “You've grown so much these years, I hardly even recognize you now.”

Crowley's smile was bittersweet. He was a head taller than her now, the effort of dropping his gaze to meet her eyes jarring when he had been used to lifting his head instead. All at once, the years of separation and growth hit him, realizing the huge gap in time where he never really knew what was happening in Tracy’s life save for the ones she had shared in her letters. It felt like coming home to a mother after years of working abroad. In a way, it was exactly what was happening. Tracy had indubitably acted more of a mother to him than his biological mother did. Crowley was given the chance to live his life knowing the affection of a parent, even if that parent wasn't truly his. It was a blessing he would always be grateful for.

“And you're still as gorgeous as ever.” Indeed, Tracy did not look like she aged much. She was not the prettiest woman Crowley had known, but there is no doubt of the beauty that she possesses, both physically and characteristically speaking. The lines that marked her face from expressions she'd frequently worn may have stayed permanently, but they served to amplify the way she aged beautifully. And throughout the years, she never lost her empathy and compassion for him, all of which were felt through the messages he had received. Mr. Shadwell truly was a lucky man. “Flowers?”

Tracy gasped, finally aware of the poor plants that are now barely kept in place by the bow that tied them together, the parchment that supported them pitifully crumpled.

“Oh! Oh, I am so, so sorry my lovelies,” Tracy cooed at the weeping flowers, motioning for Crowley to come in and make himself at home as she transferred some of the plants onto different vases. “You know, I knew the constellations were telling me something last night when I had a vision to make a pie today. They were telling me you'd be back. And you've arrived at just the right moment, because the pie is nearly done!”

The peculiarity of Tracy had never bothered Crowley. It was what drew him to the 30-something-year-old woman when he was child. He so loved to hear of the stars and their stories, the fate that they reveal. Even in his late twenties now, he still enjoyed hearing Tracy's prophecies, no matter how implausible or incredulous they all may sound.

“I'm one fortunate bastard, then,” he said as he inspected the house. The interior of the cottage looked the same, but everything else was different, from the colors of the walls—which used to be sky blue, but is now an off-white—to the furniture and sofa in the lounge.

“Right you are, my dear. A truly fortunate lad.” He heard Tracy say as he walked the short distance from the door to the lounge, stopping by the cupboard in the corner of the room. Several photos were perched on the space in front of the built-in shelf in which were displayed cassettes of different artists, where one in particular, of a band he'd frequently heard of in the U.S. and came to love, caught Crowley's interest.

“You listen to Queen, too?” he asked, pulling out the tape to examine. As he did so, his hand brushed against the frame that slightly blocked it. It was a photo of him and Aziraphale in Tracy's garden, with him holding a shovel that looked far too big for his tiny body, while Aziraphale held a small pot of daffodils. They were both grinning at the camera, proud and exuberant, just as children should be. At the bottom of the photo was written: 08.1983 in Tracy's penmanship.

Crowley let his eyes linger on the face of the boy who carefully held the plant in his small fingers, before averting it when Tracy joined him to look at the cassette he was holding.

“Ah, you were talking about the band. I was about to say yes, I do. Who doesn't listen to the queen, right? May the almighty always protect her.”

Crowley snorted. “Yeah, may God. But no, I was talking about this,” he tapped the cassette twice against his palm. “Love ‘em, me.”

“You do? It was given to me by my nephew. Said I should try listening to other kinds of music. Wasn't really my cup of tea,” Tracy shrugged. “You can have it if you like.”

“Really? Well, I'm certainly not rejecting that offer. D’you know they come in CDs now, these music recordings?” Crowley placed the cassette carefully on the flat surface near his photo with Aziraphale, following Tracy as she trod into the kitchenette, bending to check whatever she was cooking in the oven.

“CDs?” she asked with a grunt and a hand placed over her spine. “Oh, my back is killing me.”

Tracy inserted a peel into the oven, pulling it slowly with a pie resting on it.

“Uh-huh. They're these disk-like gizmos that you insert in this player thingamajig. Kinda like cassettes still, but flatter, and they don't have films you need to reset when it's not working. Here, let me…” he moved to grab a mitten, pushing Tracy aside to take over the task of pulling the pie out for himself, its aroma wafting pervasively once out of the cavern. Crowley whispered low.

“That's a good one, right there,” he said, to which Tracy hummed gratefully.

“CDs sound all good and less convenient, but I am too old to be meddling with kids’ devices these days. Besides, my cassettes are all working fine still- put it here.”

“Well, now that I'm here, maybe I can bring a player someday and show you how it works? You don't have to learn it.” Crowley placed the steaming pie on a rattan trivet Tracy positioned in the middle of the table.

“That can do. Hand me that kerchief, could you please, dear,” Tracy pointed at the cloth resting at the back of the chair beside Crowley. She used it to cover the pie.

“Come, come. Let us converse here while we wait for the pie to cool, and be a dear boy and carry with you that tray” she motioned them over back to the lounge. Crowley obliged as was told, carefully balancing the teapot and cups that were placed on it. He served them both tea, then sat at the opposite end of the sofa from where Tracy was sitting.

“Oh, Crowley, I still can't believe this really is you,” she gazed at Crowley with eyes full of wonder now that she was able to look at him properly.

“‘M sorry it took me too long to come back,” Crowley said, giving her an apologetic smile.

Tracy’s mouth twitched into a smile, tongue clicking in faux anger. “None of that, love. We both know how much you've longed to be back. I'm just glad you’ve arrived safe and well, and more handsome than ever, might I assert.”

“You flatter me.”

“No such thing as flattery from a mouth that speaks of the truth, my child. I'm just simply stating what is already evident.” Tracy gave him a comforting pat on his knee, before she took a sip of her tea. She hummed in approval at the warm drink. Crowley followed suit, swallowing half of his cup. He'd never had a penchant for drinking anything bland nor leafy, let alone tea. He is, however, not pertinent as to neglect the brewed beverage Tracy prepared. So he forced himself to halt his breathing as he swallowed the tea to ameliorate the repulse from the tangy aftertaste it left in his throat.

Beside him, Tracy giggled. “Haven't changed a lot, though, have you? Still hate the taste of tea, I see. I take it no one forced you to even a sip while in America?”

“To be fair, they did have this historical moment about throwing tea off a harbour. Not big on tea, the American lot,” recounted Crowley with a grimace which Tracy returned.

“It's their loss,” she said with a shrug.

“It is.”

“But America was good to you, wasn't it? Despite the circumstances in which you chose to reside there, you were happy, weren't you?”

“I wouldn't say I was completely satisfied with my life there. I had relationships and things I could have definitely lived without, and the occasional anemoia for those I could've had. But yeah, I was, in a way, happy when I was there. As happy as I could manage,” he took another gulp of the tea, the admission of his own feelings, a drought that plagued his throat.

Tracy gave her a consoling smile then, having witnessed in his letters the tribulations of a barely adult Crowley who struggled to adjust to a new life at such a crucial stage.

“I’ve always told you this, but I really am proud of you, Crowley. Prouder than your mother could ever be,” she jested. Crowley chuckled with a nod of his head.

They let the subsequent silence settle comfortably between them, Crowley taking this time to finally finish the rest of his tea. Tracy, however, was savouring hers, sip after sip with an accompanying hum, while she glanced at Crowley calculatingly. The attention, while generally tolerable for Crowley, still invoked an internal sense of unease, the awkwardness evinced bleeding through the ways in which Crowley fidgeted with the handle of the cup, rubbing it in between his fingers, and the mechanical bounce of his left foot.

The torment of the knowing gaze finally getting to him, he asked: “Why are you looking at me like that?”

Tracy shrugged, though the upturn of the corners of her lips implied there was something she wanted to say otherwise.

“Tracy, come on. What, do I look silly? Something on my hair or somethin’?” Crowley threaded his fingers on the silk of his hairs, mussed it to probe for any alien matter that may have camped there. There was none. Tracy shook her head.

“Nothing of the sort, love. It's just that, when you talked of relationships you could have had, were you perhaps pertaining to a certain someone?” she said, raising her brows imploringly. The set of her smirk deepened behind the porcelain of her teacup. Crowley had already abandoned his on the table, having nothing to cover the onset of a frown on his face.

Crowey could deny it and tell her he had met somebody else. He wouldn’t even be lying; he truly did have occasional trysts with some American men—or women, as he later learned during a night of complete inebriation. Although not even these random people were comparable to the feelings of being wrapped in the flaming threads of a genuine partnership; the drowning tides of passionate emotions that surges through one's own being until the clear-cut line between two separate hearts vanishes and their passion turns into one. Yes, he could deny it, but who else would he be fooling if not himself.

So Crowley remained silent, hands together in a firm grip.

“Oh, love. Aziraphale, he's… I know he'd be delighted to see you once again. But you must know, he’s not who he used to be.”

“I know. I don't expect to waltz right back into everyone's lives and for them to remember who I am or feel positively about my return.” Crowley gnawed on his bottom lip, brows crossed.

“For what it's worth, he never really forgot about you. You were his first and possibly last love. Even after all these years.” Tracy said. Done with her tea, she took the pot to pour some more, promptly placing it back when Crowley rejected her offer for more. “I’m just saying, dear, I think you should at least talk to him.”

“What is there to talk about? I've not tried to reach him the past few years. I’m too overcome with shame to do so, and it's been too long.” In truth, he would love to talk to Aziraphale again. Hell, even just seeing him would be enough.

“It’s never too late, love. Look at me, with another man to finally enliven my heart,” she rested her hand over Crowley's intertwined once, giving him a reassuring squeeze. Crowley sincerely wanted to believe her, but the years of uncertainty and doubt had all accumulated in his mind, the sheer fear of rejection, hammering his own ego into a cramped receptacle that shelters it from any damage.

“I don't know, Tracy. I'm not even confident enough to show him my face,” Crowley said.

Tracy gave his hands another reassuring squeeze. “Oh, love. I could only hope you would not feel too burdened by your past with him. Don't let your regrets prevent you from the closure or happiness that you both deserve.”

Crowley could give her a hesitant nod in response.

It wasn't unusual for Crowley to be awake deep in the night, while the moon shone through the clouds that carried with them the tears of the Earth’s terrains. He's well acquainted with the grogginess that accompanied the darkness, and the contradictory energy of the nagging thoughts with which he was fuelled by.

Thought.

Because all he could think about was Aziraphale.

Tracy’s words followed with him, from when they were finally eating slices of the pie (it was an apple pie, and were apparently given to her by Aziraphale himself), up to when he was driving the bentley and almost drove off road as a result of a particularly impulsive slap by his right palm to reinstate some semblance of sanity into himself, while images of an old Aziraphale with a basket of apples invaded his consciousness.

He sprawled on the sofa situated inside the study. It was three right from his own room, and as far away as possible from Eric's, who, upon his return, was still peacefully slumbering in his quarters. He'd been staring at the dim light at the centre of the ceiling, casting the room with a sepia glow.

A while more of staring, and Crowley was suddenly jogging downstairs, stepping out into the porch, but not before calling out to a housemaid to inform her of his desire to take a breather outside.

He took the Bentley, drove the short minutes from his home, down to another one; a familiar two-storey. He parked the Bentley by the side of the road, a long way away so as to not arouse any suspicions from any curious eyes—if there were anyone else awake at this time. He walked the distance from his vehicle to the fence that kept him out. He stood there for a while, wondering which window belonged to who now, and then, he took some steps backwards to marvel at the entirety of the house. The upturned roof, the mossy bricks and the faded paint on the fence are a mark of its age. He smiled to himself, thinking that he would have loved to be a witness of the years this very house endured. Alas, he could only ever dream it as he had long given up the possibility of that life.

Left of him was the miles of abundant earthen growth. He glanced at the woods, then back at the house again. The lights were on. He could just walk on over, knock on the backdoor, and he was sure it would be Aziraphale answering it. Aziraphale with his hair of golden cast, the crown of light that he'd always adorned, and eyes, sapphire in their blue, carrying in them a glow that thaws even the coldest of hearts.

Crowley bit the inside of his bottom lip, feet moving to step forward.

Into the forest.

As if by instinct, his feet weaved through the vegetation that littered the forest floors and hopped over the massive roots that impeded his path, until finally, he was met with the verdant mammoth that hung its hairs which reached the ground.

Crowley parted the long vines, its lush leaves young as the humid air of the early mornings, greener still and vibrant. Like it never changed from nine years ago. He remembered how easily they'd made this tree their own home. A perfect sanctuary from the outside world, where only he and Aziraphale existed.

He took a tentative step inside the shadowed berth, the ground still eerily familiar, as if he had never left at all. The fireflies illuminated the hollow concave of the tree in intermittent flashes, the stars obscured by the verdure canopy overhead. Faeries and nymphs flashed unbidden in Crowley's mind. In fairytales, places like this are where the magic happens. He could pretend to close his eyes, wish for what he most desires, and when he opens them again, it'll appear right before him out of thin air.

He smiled bitterly to himself. More than a decade too late to be thinking of such childish acts. A 26-year-old whose life's handed to him on a silver platter, yet bereaved and lorn he was for the loss of the only thing he ever wanted.

Crowley ventured deeper into the foliage, aged leaves and fallen branches crushed under the weight of his gait. He halted a short distance from the trunk.

There was someone there, standing with his back turned away from Crowley. The man had his arms folded on his back, an all-too-familiar ring on his right pinky being played with by the thumb.

Crowley's heart wept with joy.

"You're here," said Crowley, his voice hoarse, head light from the sheer disbelief of what's in front of him.

He'd been hopeful, desperate, even; delusionally conjuring images of their meeting again under these curtains of foliage that once was their safest haven—and it still is, he wished deeply. Now that he was here, he could only compare it to a dream come true. The sparks of dim lights that surrounded them, a movie scene of romantic nature. Crowley gulped, hands trembling at his sides. He'd have pinched himself on the face already if it weren't for the other person turning around to face him.

"Crowley? Is that really you?" said Aziraphale. The strips of moonlight casted a glow on his head, a halo of salvation presenting itself in front of Crowley. He almost knelt then and there to prostrate for his sins, and submit himself once again to that voice of dignity and righteousness. To once again worship his lost angel.

“It’s me,” Crowley croaked out. He fisted his hands to control the ache of eliminating the distance that separated them. He had to remind himself it wouldn't be an appealing way to greet Aziraphale, having left things unfavorably between them back then. If he wants another opportunity, he has to play his cards right, and respecting the detachment between them is a good first step.

“My word. I almost didn't want to believe it when I heard. You really are back,” Aziraphale mused.

“Yes. Well, I never really overcame my love for this place,” to somebody else, it would have made more sense to think he'd been talking about the town, but a more discerning mind like Aziraphale would decipher what his response connoted—one that held a history of devastating repercussions.

“Oh, my dear,” his hand reached out to Crowley, and Crowley took it as an invitation to shorten the gap until Aziraphale's palm laid on his cheek. Crowley covered the back of it with his own hand, eyes instinctively closing to magnify the tactile sensation Aziraphale provided. It was sweaty and trembling, though he was uncertain whether the trembling was from him or Aziraphale himself. Whatever the case may be, everything still felt right—being here, with Aziraphale. Holding him finally, after years of endless yearning.

Chapter Text

The house that stood by the edge of the forest, which the town had referred to as the Angels’ Dwelling, was where Crowley first met Aziraphale. He'd seen him through the gaps in the fences. A boy, no taller than him in height, round and soft and pretty. Pretty. Crowley never knew a boy could be pretty, yet Aziraphale attested to it. He was, in Crowley's impression, a boy with the makings of an angel, with his spiralled blond hair that reflected off the sun, his eyes that captured the deep blues of the seas, and his voice, a warm molten mallow that spreads smoothly in his tongue.

“Dad, can I play with the angel?” said the five-year-old Crowley, a hand pointing at Aziraphale's direction through the fence.

His dad looked at him questioningly, following the boy’s finger. He let out a huffed chuckle, tugging at Crowley's hand that was in his. “In a minute, Crowley. We're to talk with his father first,” said he.

“But I want to play now!” the boy stomped his foot begrudgingly, halting in his tracks, pulling his father back.

“Be patient, and I'll let you play however long you want, the whole day even,” his father chided.

Crowley gnawed on his thumb, his barely developed brain weighing the boon and bane of the bargain. The whole day means until it's dark out, right? It meant more time for him to play. And being patient meant sitting still until his father was done talking with the boy's father. In his calculations, he deduced that sitting still for a whole day of playtime will be worth the wait.

“Okay!” he said, with a bright smile on his face.

His father took them inside the house and up the stairs to a room similar to his father's study. Sat behind the desk was a man whose appearance mirrored that of the boy out on the lawn, although the man looked as thin as Crowley's father did. Crowley sat on his father's lap, eyes trained on the stranger, fascination evident in his small amber eyes.

“Dad, he looks like the boy outside,” Crowley whispered to his father, his petite hand pointing outside the doorway.

The stranger chuckled while his father held his arm down. “That’s right, yes. That's because he's the boy's father, remember? Now, be silent for a moment, Crowley, adults are handling business.”

The “business talk,” which a teenage Crowley would later realize was more a talk of politics than of businesses, ran for longer than the boy expected. Halfway through it, Crowkey had started fidgeting in his father's lap, attempting to escape his grasp. His father tightened his arm around Crowley's torso, trying to keep him in place. Crowley proceeded to wriggle harder, until his father had to interrupt his conversation to put Crowley down with a sigh. 

“Go on, play outside. Don't get out of the house, though.”

Crowley nodded enthusiastically, and without another word, ran out of the room. He walked the halls, curious eyes trying to peek into rooms with doors ajar and through the holes in the knobs that were closed. He was going to peek at the last room, the farthest one from the study, until he noticed eyes staring back at him.

The boy was there, hiding behind the opened door.

“Hello!” Greeted Crowley, startling a gasp from the boy who hid further into the room. Crowley ran as fast as his small feet could take him, entering the doorway with loud taps of his soles. “Hello! I'm Crowley!” He introduced himself to the seemingly empty room. It was a bedroom decorated with shelves filled with books. “Hello?” he called out once again. 

He remained standing by the doorway until he heard a soft: “Ah-pel”

His head snapped in the direction of the voice. Under the bed. Crowley bent on all fours and smiled wide as he again met eye-to-eye with the boy. “Found you!” he exclaimed.

The boy squealed, giggling as he tried to crawl backwards. Crowley held onto his hand, tugging him closer until he was able to fully pull him out. They wrestled each other in a fit of laughter, the boy breaking loose of Crowley's hold and rolling sideways from him. At a closer look, the boy indeed looked as an angel should, like those ones he had seen in church, the heads of children with wings behind them.

Cherubs, he recalled his father once calling them.

“I'm Crowley,” he introduced himself once again, sitting with his legs crossed. “I'm five years old. How old are you?”

“Four,” the boy answered, likewise propping himself up to sit across from him.

“What's your name?”

“Asi-Azirapel” the boy, Azirapel, seemed to be struggling.

“Azirapel?” Crowley said, met with an affirming nod. Trying the name for himself, Crowley repeated once again: “Azirapel.”

Admittedly, Crowley was not a fan of long names. His five-year-old tongue felt too challenged to pronounce the four-syllable word. 

“Angel,” Crowley blurted out. Azirapel tilted his head. 

“You. Angel. I'll call you angel because it's shorter,” Crowley explained.

Azirapel appeared to be pondering it with eyes trained on the floor. He hummed with a tentative nod of his eyes. “Crow..ley,” Angel said.

It was two years later that they would both learn the proper pronunciation of Azirapel’s name: “Ah-zi-ra-feyl” Angel pronounced slowly. Crowley repeated the word, sounding equally strange yet familiar on his tongue.

Crowley wailed. He trembled, his frail body barely able to contain the intensity of his emotions. It hurts. It hurts and it feels as though he was going to die. Perhaps he actually would die from the pain. If not for it, then from his mother's persistent scolding once he gets home. He should plan an escape route, ask Aziraphale to let him sleep in his room tonight or maybe for the next few weeks. He could bring some of his clothes or he'll borrow some of Aziraphale's.

A soft laugh resounded amidst his dwindling sobs.

“Stop it! Don't laugh at him. He's hurt!” said Aziraphale, shoulders tense while he gazed anxiously at Crowley's bleeding knee.

“Boys, boys, keep your hairs on, it's nothing too serious. Far from the stomach and even farther from the head. He won't die from it,” Ms. Tracy said. It was the very first time they had both entered the lady’s house despite having known her almost half of their short lives. She'd either visited the Fells or ran occasional errands for Crowley's father. In all those times, she was the kind young lady who gave them both truffles for snacks.

“Still, don't laugh at him! That's wrong to do!” Aziraphale insisted. He had made his way towards Crowley's side, a hand resting on Crowley's tense shoulder. “You'll be alright,” he whispered to him.

“You're right, you're right,” Tracy said placatingly. “It is not right to laugh at someone hurting. I apologize for that, Crowley.”

“It's okay,” Crowley sniffled rather loudly. “Will it still hurt after this, Ms. Tracy?”

His knee had been bandaged, a cloth tied around it. Tracy had poured some water on it and dabbed it with a reddish substance Crowley hadn't seen before. Ms. Tracy had faintly blown on his knee while treating it with the medicine, muttering under her breath some prayer of protection and healing while doing so.

“It still would hurt a tad, but not as much. You'll be fine, Crowley,” she gave them both a comforting smile.

They'd given her their thanks as they walked out of the cottage, but not before they were handed each a freshly baked bread, still warm to the touch. They ate it as they walked back to Aziraphale's house, stopping in their tracks once they'd reached the open gates. Aziraphale looked at Crowley then, and without preamble, hugged him tight, his arm squeezing the breath out of him. It was a welcomed gesture, one Crowley loved to always return. “Heard what she said? You'll be alright,” said Aziraphale.

“Mom would be mad at me, though,” Crowley muttered.

“Then stay with us tonight. Papa will cook pasta for supper. We'll eat together, then we'll sleep in my room,” Aziraphale drew him by the hand, making sure to lock the gates behind them.

Crowley was unable to speak aside from a barely audible hum of agreement. Aziraphale always knew what to do and say. He didn't have to speak at all, for whatever ideas Crowley would think, Aziraphale is sure to think of as well.

As Aziraphale had offered, Crowley ate the pasta Papa Fell prepared, sitting closely beside Aziraphale, their arms touching. They slept that night, side-by-side as well, on Aziraphale's bed that was scantily big enough to contain them both.

And when morning came, Crowley went home in Aziraphale's clothing. His mother, as he had expected, was standing furiously on the porch.

Crowley had only ever said the word I love you to his parents, more genuinely so to his father. When his father passed, he started saying it less, prompting only to return it when her mother initiated. The next person he was brave enough to tell it to was the fifteen-year-old Aziraphale.

It was during a summer's night, when the clouds were astray and the stars hung plentifully in the sky. Crowley was laying on the grassy floor under the willow, head pillowed on Aziraphale's sturdy thighs. The boy had grown thinner, body more fit compared to when they had first met. Crowley had noticed the way in which Aziraphale became more conscious of his own appearance, but never confronted him about it. He took care not to mention it though, nor say anything that may unintentionally ‘cause any more insecurities.

Aziraphale played with his hairs, fingers threaded through them while he read a book, splayed over his other hand, covering his face from Crowley's view. Crowley grasped the hand on his head, intertwining their fingers.

“Aziraphale,” he called out, voice soft.

“Hm?” Aziraphale answered, attention still on his book. Jane Eyre , the cover read.

“Angel,” Crowley tugged at their connected hands. “Angel, angel, look at me.”

Aziraphale closed his book, brows furrowed in faux irritation. “What is it?”

“I've something to tell you,” Crowley said, tugging at his hand again. “C’mere.”

Aziraphale did so, bending close. Crowley kissed him on the cheek, a teasing smirk forming on it when Aziraphale flushed at the contact. “I love you,” he said, words hesitant but ultimately conveying the genuineness of his feelings. Aziraphale grumbled an ‘I love you’ back, shy but equally reciprocated. Aziraphale hardened his grasp on Crowley's hand, and leaned down to kiss him.

A chaste press on the lips.

It was a year later, under the covers in Crowley's room, that they first explored beyond what were their usual intimate habits. It was upon Aziraphale’s request to ‘snog the whole night away,’ when their hands roamed far too frisky, and before they knew it, they were both in a state of undress, Aziraphale lying beneath Crowley, hands desperately reaching out to him. His heart felt full, a bursting expanse of tenderness he wasn't certain how he was managing to control. Aziraphale was there and one with him, his breath mingling with his own. It was not penetrative, only the smooth glide of their bodies, a rutting tempo that rose in cadence as they chased the culmination of their ebullience. A supernova exploded behind Crowley's eyes, a new galaxy actualizing in kaleidoscopic splinters. In sync, they sought the ferocious detonation of their fervour, the strength of their zenith knocking the breath out of Crowley's lungs. The white streaks of his passion, painting the body beneath him in an art of erratic streaks. He felt he had died then, and reborn once again. He kissed Aziraphale fiercely, thanking him for his trust, his affection, and worshipping him in his unadulterated beauty.

“I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you,” he murmured in between kisses. Aziraphale was overcome with a fit of giggles, returning the playful kisses over every skin he could cover on Crowley’s face.

“Let me clean us up,” Aziraphale offered, pushing at Crowley's chest softly. Crowley held that hand, kissed the back of it, every finger and nails.

“I'll do it. You just lay down there and look as pretty as you are,” said he, a teasing grin plastered on his face. He gave Aziraphale one last kiss before he reached over to his discarded shirt, haphazardly strewn on the floor, using it to cleanse them of their emission.

“I'll have you know, I will be wearing your most comfortable clothing tomorrow for this,” he said as he continued to gently rub at Aziraphale’s tum.

Aziraphale faked a gasp. “Not my favourite pyjamas.” He lightheartedly swatted at Crowley's shoulder.

“Oh, yes. I'll wear your favourite pjs and I'll never return ‘em to you, ever again,” Crowley retorted, tossing his shirt back onto the floor and seizing both Aziraphale's wrists, bounding them over his head.

“But not before I catch my prey.”

Crowley's teeth left their mark on Aziraphale's shoulder, much to the other teen’s delight.

A month later, the town witnessed the seventeen-year-old heir to the Crowley’s fortune running, face tear-streaked, on the path to the Fell’s house. Aziraphale wasn’t there, however. Must’ve missed each other for he was sent to the town for an errand, Papa Fell had explained. And so he locked himself in Aziraphale’s room until he heard the soft padding of his footfalls approaching. He pressed his ear against the door, listening for an indication that whoever was on the other side was indeed his angel.

There were three soft knocks.

“Crowley?” it was Aziraphale.

Crowley unlocked the door, pulled Aziraphale inside, and locked the door again, all in swift motions. He wrapped Aziraphale in his embrace, his body wanting to crawl under the other’s skin; to live there forever until his whole being becomes just for Aziraphale to use.

“Mom knows,” Crowley whispered shakily.

“Knows what?” Aziraphale’s voice was muffled by Crowley’s shoulder, his arms encircling his torso to return the hug.

“About us,” clarified Crowley, his voice breaking, and a whimper escaping him. “She knows and she wants me gone. Go with my uncle to America, study there for ‘better opportunities,’ she said. But I know it’s ‘cause he can’t stomach having a queer for a son,” there was bitterness there that Crowley had never felt before. Not when his father died. Not when he and Aziraphale had an arguement that left them with weeks of no communication with each other. Not even when they were caught by Papa Fell on a careless afternoon and Aziraphale was grounded from seeing him for a week—Papa Fell loved his son too much to care for what his preferences may be, but there was evident disgust in his eyes upon seeing them, and he would resign to his room whenever Crowley and Aziraphale were even a metre near of each other.

Aziraphale tensed against him, arms unwilling to let go of Crowley yet. “Will you go?” he asked.

“I don’t want to, but I do not think I have a say in the matter. Nearest University’s in London, and mom said she’s not going to fund my studies at all, only uncle will. I don’t know what to do, angel,” Crowley finally sobbed. He purchased Aziraphale’s dress shirt, the soft facbric grounding his head to reality. Aziraphale held him through the tears that rocked his body. He guided them both onto the bed, where they lay with Azirapahale still keeping him securely in his arms.

“You can stay here the night if you need to. There’s still time to think things through,” Aziraphale suggested, nose rubbing against Crowley’s reddened cheek.

“But that’s the thing. I have until the end of the week to decide. It’s either that, or I live as mother’s slave,” Crowley whimpered.

“That’s ridiculous, Crowley. You’re her son, she’s not going to make you her slave,” Aziraphale chided.

“No, she won’t, but she’ll make sure I live my life regretting even being born,” Crowley grumbled, pulling Aziraphale close to bury his face on his chest.

“So will you go, then? To America?”

There was a beat of silence.

“Should I?” 

Crowley pulled his head back to gaze at Aziraphale’s own calculating eyes.

“I… if I were to be honest, I wouldn’t want you to go. But we’re only teenagers, Crowley. We can’t really care for ourselves, yet, can we? And perhaps your mother was right. Maybe in America, you’ll be big. A much bigger businessman than your dad was, yeah?” Aziraphale’s voice had started shaking as well. It took Crowley a while to comprehend Aziraphale’s words. He knew it came from a place of support, but it hurt nonetheless to feel as if he was being casted out by his own lover.

“But what if I go, how about you?”

“I’ll be here waiting. Or I’ll die alone, I guess,” Aziraphale chuckled. “Eitherway, I’m still going to be supportive of your decision, whatever it may be.”

Crowley stared up at him. Aziraphale, the kind, generous boy that he is. For how much of a bastard he was sometimes, he’s as much an angel in real life. Crowley couldn’t imagine a life without him, yet here he is, about to be thrusted into one that may prove otherwise.

“Will you make love to me, tonight?” Crowley whispered, lips already seeking the warmth of Aziraphale’s own.

“Here, in my room?” Aziraphale met his lips with a satisfied grunt. They separated with a loud smack.

“No. No, God, I'd feel bad for your Papa. The willow, perhaps?”

“The ground will hurt your back, Crowley.”

“We’ll bring the duvet and some pillows,” Crowley was already getting up, taking the pillows positioned under Aziraphale’s head.

“I can’t believe you,” Aziraphale grumbled, though he was already rolling the duvet so he could carry it under one arm. “I’ll have to inform Papa we’ll be out tonight. Wait downstairs for me?” 

“I will.”

Crowley was able to let go of his inhibitions that night, keeping both him and Aziraphale awake until the break of dawn, when Aziraphale had begged him for a rest and Crowley felt he had been tended to thoroughly. He had pinned Aziraphale on the trunk of that very tree before they went back home, hairs sticking in every way, decorated in dried leaves and clothes pinned with leaves, cheeks hollowing on a fervent attempt to return the care he had been given the night before. They had shouted each other’s names more than Crowley could count, and he hadn’t the wherewithal to be conscious of who may have heard. He wanted to be kept in that moment of bliss, forever unchanging and loving Azirpahale the way he deserves.

“Promise you’ll come back to me, even if it takes you five or ten years, come back to me?” Aziraphale whispered to him as they laid in the tub, the dirt of the woods, disappearing from their bodies.

With a kiss on Aziraphale’s head, Crowley said: “I promise I will. I’m forever yours.”

Came monday, and Crowley was walking down the flight of stairs leading towards the runway of an American airfield.

They had been corresponding nonestop for the next three years, where Crowley learned Aziraphale attended a universtity in London to take a bachelor's in Psychology. In those three years, Aziraphale had made new friends, and had finally had the courage to explore London. It would be a whopper to say that Crowley wasn't jealous of the time Aziraphale spent with his new friends, but what could he do when he was miles away from home with no means to travel back but for the small amount of money he had saved from his allowance, and that little money would just be enough to afford only a one-way ticket to London. So he had written in his letter time and time again that he's still saving for a trip back, but that he was unsure of when he'd actually be able to return.

Crowley’s first taste of American booze was during his 20th, when his roommate generously offered to take him to a bar. He would have mentioned it on his letter to Aziraphale, but he didn’t for when he woke up the next day, that said roommate was lying on him, naked and the unmistakable feel of a substance between them, a testimony of their conduct the night before. Perhaps the biggest evidence yet, was the fact that Crowley hadn’t pulled out. There was brief relief there to realize he had worn protection. Nonetheless, he was awashed with feelings of drowsiness when his brain had finally comprehended that he had undoubtedly had sex with Michael.

Uncaring for how rude it was, Crowley pushed his roommate off, locked himself in the bathroom and showered, the water freezing against his skin. He scrubbed and scrubbed until his skin turned red, until it hurt more physically than emotionally. He only left the bathroom when he felt fractionally purged of his sin. He almost went back inside when he saw his roommate already lying back on his bed, body uncovered, and Crowley hated the pang of arousal that stoked the fires in his belly, hated the he was even reacting in any way to the guy. He hated that he was divesting himself of the last piece of fabric that protected his dignity.

But he would be lying if he said he hated the way he felt loved again. Being with Michael, even if it was purely of physical relations, reminded him of what it felt to have affection freely given and taken. He had nights where he sought the company of other people, drunken nights where he fucked into women none-too-gently, while he buried in his mind his mother’s disgust of him.

But on nights with a man where he was the one giving, Aziraphale was all he could think of, and several of those nights, he cried himself to sleep.

The last letter he had sent to Aziraphale was a letter of apology.

Chapter Text

The clink of the porcelain echoed within the room, an arrow that blew through the silence that engulfed Crowley and Aziraphale. It was the second time Crowley was offered tea, and he would not outright refuse, especially for it was Aziraphale who had kindly offered.

The man, now in his mid 20s, regarded Crowley with calculating eyes. In hindsight, Crowley should have been more conscious of it, but the fact that Aziraphale accepted him back, had been open to talking with him again, and even invited him home, was something so surreal he couldn't do anything else but stare adoringly. He stuck his tongue on the roof of his mouth, easing the dryness of it. Saliva seemed to have left his glands altogether, and Crowley found that he was parched, the tea now becoming more enticing to look at. He sipped from his cup, a tiny slurp that ended with a sigh the moment the beverage watered down his desiccated throat.

Aziraphale cleared his throat. “How have you been, my dear?” he asked. His hands fidgeted against each other, fingers tapping away over the back of his palm, rubbing against the skin and twisting around several other fingers.

Crowley took another polite sip of his tea to ensure his voice would be in perfect condition before he spoke: “I've been managing. Doing alright. How have you been?”

Brief conversations were not their thing. This wasn't how he used to talk with Aziraphale. They’d get straight into discussing what had happened to their days, the people they've encountered, the things they wanted to do for the rest of the time they could be together before Aziraphale was being asked for by his father. Crowley had never recalled an instance where they would inquire of the other's general wellbeing. Until now, that is. A pang of something cold and despondent pierced Crowley's heart, realising that he now knew close to nothing about Aziraphale, his absence a prominent gap in Aziraphale's life.

“I have been doing fine. I should say better, if that wouldn't warrant any untoward reactions?” Aziraphale said affably. Crowley nodded a silent response. “I've seized Papa’s… err… business, so to say. In truth, I've taken more the role of a consultant for small establishments, and the bookshop is, well, it's kept alive and working only on hours I desire it to,” he continued.

“That's… that's good to hear. Life's taken the same path for me— the business part, s’what I mean. Took over dad's as well. Made a fortune for myself, and, err, yeah,” he ended awkwardly.

Aziraphale gave him a placating smile. “It feels peculiar, doesn't it? After all these years. I must admit, you aged rather beautifully, Crowley,” there was a breathlessness to Aziraphale's words, a tone equally hopeful as it is cautious.

Crowley gave him a weak chuckle. “Thank you. I could say the same about you, you know.”

Again, that placating smile. At that moment, Crowley hated himself for being ineffective in conveying his true feelings, no doubt branded dastardly in Aziraphale's mind, deceitful in his nature but for the consequences that followed him. He felt the urge to scramble over to Aziraphale's side, grab hold of his face to coerce their eyes to meet, and shout all the atrocious dialogue he could. But more than anything, to plead that Aziraphale believes in him. A rather cynical desire if he so admits, knowing how wrenching it might have been for Aziraphale to realize Crowley had been unfaithful to him years ago. He wondered if it wasn't too late to announce his departure—to save Aziraphale, and himself, most of all, of any harm this reopened wound may incur.

Before Crowley could decide whether to beg for Aziraphale’s forgiveness or to flee, Aziraphale had stood up, trodded over, towering above Crowley, and a hand hovering over Crowley’s face. There was hesitancy that solidified in the instinctive flinch Crowley gave, certain he would've been struck by that very hand.

A doleful smile was on Aziraphale's face when he spoke. “I am not such a grudging person that I would hurt you physically, Crowley.”

Crowley gave him an embarrassed nod. “I know that. I just thought… well, considering what I'd…” Crowley swallowed. “I would not hold it against you, if you do want to slap me, is all I mean.”

“Would it be too much if I just wanted to hold you?” the tips of Aziraphale's fingers landed tentatively on Crowley's right temple. Crowley raised his head higher to see Aziraphale's eyes much better.

“I would love for you to,” Crowley responded, his words soft that he was afraid Aziraphale might not have heard. All of a sudden, both Aziraphale's palms were resting over his cheeks, a thumb rubbing over the half moon that decorated the underside of Crowley's left eye. Slowly, Aziraphale sat beside him on the couch, their bodies twisted so they could face one another.

“Do you know how much I've missed you all these years?” Aziraphale said. He brought their faces closer until he could rest his forehead against Crowley, eyes hooded and staring at his lips. Crowley licked them, hands trailing a path from Aziraphale’s elbows over onto the hands that were warmly holding his cheeks.

“I don't know. I hoped you had. I hoped I could come back to you,” his voice felt as if it was leaving him, everything he said never reaching beyond a sigh.

Crowley, feeling emboldened by Aziraphale's actions, took it upon himself to close the distance between their lips. He feared Aziraphale would push him away, appalled by his advances, but was shockingly exhilarated when Aziraphale returned the kiss with as much vigour. Crowley crowded over him, pushing Aziraphale to lay on the arm of the couch.

"I missed you. I missed you so dearly," Aziraphale whispered in between kisses. His hands trembled as they traced a path up from the sensitive muscle that covers Crowley's coccyx over on to the knob of spine that mountained up the base of his nape, dragging with it Crowley's dress shirt. Crowley was washed with cold air over his naked back, yet it did not serve to quell the heat boiling within his core. A whimper escaped his throat, raw with urgency.

"I want to see you, Fell. Aziraphale. Angel. My angel, let me..."

"Yes. Yes, yes, yes," Aziraphale sounded equally desperate. He scrambled to pull his blouse off, while Crowley fought to shuck his too-tight trousers. A relieved sigh escaped them both as they were finally divested of the articles.

Aziraphale had become softer than when they had last done this. But seeing him naked, ready and still desiring Crowley, was just as beautiful, maybe even moreso. The corners of Crowley's eyes misted, and a broken whimper sounded from his mouth.

“Before… Before we, err…” Crowley, despite his whole being screaming to latch onto the warmth of Aziraphale's skin, pulled himself just a breath to give them both minute space. He gulped once, twice, eyes shaking to focus on Aziraphale's eyes, uncertain of which to look at. He took another breath, drawing courage from somewhere he hoped was not a forsaken place, and finally spoke.

“I need you to know that I am truly sorry for what I've done to you. These past six years aren't enough to atone for it, and sure as hell weren't enough to heal the wound I've caused you. I don't want you to think I came back here to do this, and then leave. I am not that. I will not be that. I am back here for good, and I will do anything, everything to have you back. I will have whatever you give me, I don't care if it's just this, I will take whatever,” by the end, Crowley's confidence had waned, words released through a quivering whisper.

Aziraphale’s right hand snaked onto the juncture between Crowley's shoulder and neck, rubbing the skin over there. “I… I have not forgiven you, my dear, and I'm uncertain as to when I would, but I know that, right now, I want to have you in my arms, again.”

It was all it took for Crowley to swallow his nerves and make his way down onto his knees, genuflecting quasi-confidently in between Aziraphale's feet. He vaguely registered the idea that he looked to be praying to Aziraphale, his hands clasped together on the tiny metal that locks the barrier between him and the divinity he was seeking, his deity splayed in all his beauty over the soft cushions, breathless and laxly leaning over the backrest. In that position, Crowley had to crane his head to meet Aziraphale’s eyes, pleading and wanton. A nod from Aziraphale turned the machinery in Crowley's body to move his hands, slowly lowering the zipper of Aziraphale's trousers, fingers ghosting over the bulge that tented it. When the article pooled around Aziraphale's ankles, the briefs that hugged his dick perfectly outlined the girth of it. Crowley licked a path from the base of Aziraphale's dick to the leaking tip, giving it a wet kiss when he felt the appendage twitch under the fabric. He mouthed on the still clothed erection, sucking on the moist patch covering the tip, tasting the heady and bitter scent. Crowley grunted in satisfaction, hands purchasing either of Aziraphale's hips to prevent him from squirming away. 

Finally willing to divest Aziraphale of the obstructing cloth, Crowley tugged it down hastily, Aziraphale gasping at the suddenness of the gesture. His kneeling disciple muttered a benediction of thanks under his breath, moving his head to let the glistening head rub against his cheek, nose, chin and lips. Crowley took hold of the twitching flesh, tapping it against his lower lip, once, twice, before opening his mouth a tiny portion to release the end of his tongue, meeting the slit. He met Aziraphale's now bleary eyes through his hooded ones, arranging his position to display his work: his tongue lapping at the precome that leaked from the slit, angling it so that it was parallel with the hole of the urethra and trying to slot it in. Aziraphale whimpered, knees trembling. Crowley stroked in time with the undulating motions of his tongue, until Aziraphale was sliding down onto the floor, legs spread open and hands playing with his own breasts, squeezing the mounds and pinching the nipples.

“Fuck, you look so gorgeous like this,” Crowley whispered, before he took Aziraphale into his mouth, head bobbing in desperation to bring Aziraphale to the pinnacle of his ecstacy. Aziraphale, with whining noises and loud moans, wrapped his legs around Crowley's neck, a suffocation pleasurably welcomed by Crowley's ego. Crowley closed his eyes to relish in the feel of those thighs again, the tufts of hair that littered the skin, and the smell of musk from both Aziraphale's sweat and natural scent.

A burst of familiar memories played behind Crowley's lids as he took in the full length of Aziraphale in his mouth. He had never thought a dick could make a man cry out of pure elation, yet there he was with tears streaking his cheeks and a sob unintentionally escaping his mouth. He grasped Aziraphale's thighs more firmly, his nails denting the delicate skin. He cared not for how pathetic he may have looked, his head bobbing with exigence, dignity set aside just to give Aziraphale his pleasure.

“Oh, my dear. It's alright. You're doing good,” Aziraphale whispered comfortingly, his hand trembling as it played with Crowley's hair, gently guiding his head to a rhythm that is more indulgent. 

Crowley opened his eyes to watch the way Aziraphale bit the inside of his bottom lip, sweat decorating the distance between his furrowed brows. Aziraphale was looking at him with hunger that Crowley never thought he'd ever experience again. He abandoned Aziraphale's dick with a loud pop, much to Aziraphale's disappointment, evident from the whine he let out.

“I haven't done it in a long while, but would you… would you like to— in me,” Crowley panted. He was already making his way over to the couch, hands frantic in their attempt to discard his clothing. He threw them all aside, noting mentally to confirm later that his clothing didn't land anywhere it shouldn't, and bent his body over the backrest of the couch. “Like this. Please.”

He almost sobbed again—tears were still falling from his eyes—when he felt Aziraphale's hands purchase his hips, and the wet slide of Aziraphale's dick against the cleft of his arse. In truth, it had been almost three years since he'd last done this with anyone at all. The years that preceded his college graduation were spent on acquisition of his father's company that left him only time to rest or sleep, the stress of it all causing him to completely abandon the unrestrained lifestyle he had previously adopted. In those last three years were when he'd felt the most sober and clean as well.

He nearly cried out when Aziraphale's other hand made its way over his mouth, three fingers sneaking inside his parted lips. Aziraphale continued rubbing himself on Crowley's behind as he whispered hotly behind his ear: “Keep your mouth busy with these while I prep you.” and an accompanying kiss just below his jaw.

Crowley’s eyes rolled as he thrusted backward on the finger that breached his pulsing entrance, anticipating the burn of the intrusion. In his erratic motions, Aziraphale’s fingers lodged deeper in his mouth that Crowley started tasting iron. It took him a short while to comprehend the sensation of something cold and heavy on his tongue, and when he finally did, Crowley abruptly stopped his movements, pulling the fingers out, and halting Aziraphale’s actions with his other hand pushing gently at Aziraphale’s chest.

“Wait, wait. What’s… Aziraphale, you’re,” Crowley, who had been silently crying since he had gone down on Aziraphale earlier, now choked with a new emotion. “You’re married?” 

As if stung, Aziraphale took his hand, fingers covering the glinting metal. “Yes.” He answered shakily, eyes steeling with an intensity that Crowley couldn’t exactly determine. “Does this make me less desirable for you?”

Crowley chided himself for not noticing the ring much earlier. Maybe he could have avoided this if he had. But really, had he known Aziraphale was already married, would he really not try and seduce him? No, he would. Crowley definitely would still do it, no matter if Aziraphale was already promised to somebody else or not.

“No. No, God, no, it doesn’t. It doesn’t, at all. But are you sure? Are you sure about this?” Crowley reached out to him, taking Aziraphale’s left hand, admiring the engravings on the golden ring—Azirapahale’s own initials, A. Z. F., and a small etching of thorns that followed the round circumference. “Are you sure about me?”

His voice came out shaky, pleading and hopeful as he gazed at Aziraphale’s eyes, searching in them a truth that he wished to be reality. Aziraphale gently pried his hand off from Crowley’s grasp, much to Crowley’s sorrow. And then, to Crowley’s surprise, slid the ring off his finger, placing it on the coffee table, in between their cups—Crowley’s tea left unfinished.

“Come here,” Aziraphale beckoned. Crowley heeded without any second thought, embracing Aziraphale tightly, their lips meeting in fiery passion once again.

“I am going to take you on this couch, and you are going to be a good boy for me, Crowley. Can you do that? Can’t have the neighbors waking up at this time of the night, after all,” Aziraphale grunted against his lips. Crowley all but whined in response, head nodding frantically.

They scrambled back over the couch, where Crowley now laid on his back, Aziraphale’s fingers returning to his mouth, muffling his moans. The burn of Aziraphale’s dick entering him was a welcomed intrusion he’s missed the feel of. And once again, Crowley was sobbing. He cried as Aziraphale rocked into him, through the tremors that overtook his whole body while Aziraphale whispered promises to his ears, through the blinding pleasure that came to consume him whole, and through the muted howls that were strangled out of him by Aziraphale's force. As if he was only a vessel from which Aziraphale could fulfill his satiation. If that's all he'd remain to be after this, Crowley found he'd have no qualms at all.

When Crowley awoke, it was to the murmurs of a distant conversation. Light streamed through the curtains, stripes of bright yellows that reminded him of the sun in the Florida beach. He shuddered at the recollection of the scorching heat in the Americas, wanting nothing more than to bury himself in the cold of the spring in Tadfield. He belatedly registered that the voice involved in the conversation was Aziraphale, and when he did so, he was already up and walking outside the receiving room.

His feet dragged across the freezing tiles, following the voices into the kitchen. As he moved, his trousers felt oddly loose. A quick inspection told him that he was, indeed, wearing loose clothing, and not just anybody's clothes—they seemed to be Aziraphale's. A smile tugged at the corners of his lips.

“I know it is, but let us put off his education until he has at least learned to speak his own name. In a year, perhaps, he can even speak our names.” Crowley heard Aziraphale say.

“But the other kids his age have already entered schooling. I am worried Anthony would not fare well to be put in a class where everybody else is younger,” it was a woman's voice that responded.

Crowley’s feet halted at the mention of his name. Only, it wasn't his name, for he did not need any education at this point in his life.

“Anthony will not be subjected to criticism for entering school at the age of four. If anything, we are showing the neighbours we prepared him for the world outside,” Aziraphale said.

Feeling as though he'd intruded in a conversation he was not supposed to be hearing, Crowley announced his presence by entering the doorway with a soft cough.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale acknowledged. The person he was talking to—his wife, Crowley assumed—had a tray of eggs and toast on hand.

“Oh, great, just in time for breakfast, Mr. Crowley,” she said affably. There was a pinkish tone on the apples of her cheek, avoiding Crowley's gaze as she passed by him to walk into the doorway that connected to the dining room.

“We've coffee, dear, do you want some?” Aziraphale offered, taking in Crowley's appearance with an appreciative gaze. Crowley felt conscious of his body, flushing at the thought that he had taken Aziraphale in the very house he homed his wife and kid.

“I would love that,” Crowley said meekly.

“You’ll eat breakfast with us, won't you?” Aziraphale kissed him on the cheek, lingering for a while before he pulled away to implore for Crowley's response. Crowley nodded at him, to which Aziraphale gave a delighted smile. “Best follow Eleanor in the dining room. I'll fix your coffee.”

Eleanor was a fair woman, tanned skin that glistened beautifully with the sheen of sweat and brown wavy hair that were haphazardly tied with an elastic that looked too thin for its volume. She was petite, and certainly beautiful; the kind of woman who’d looked to pass as a celebrity among men was she to live in America. Crowley felt something heavy and acidic gave in his stomach, the thought of Aziraphale having had such a woman with him for what he could only assume to be years now, giving him the love that Crowley had denied him of, was a prickling thorn that’s lodged its way in the middle of his chest. It hurts much more how affably she acted towards Crowley. As if Crowley was a great friend to Aziraphale who deserved nothing but the best accomodations from her.

“So, Mr. Crowley. I've heard endless stories about you from both Mr. Fell and Ms. Tracy. I must admit, they've all left me rather curious of your person,” Eleanor began after as she settled the plates of eggs and toast on the table. Crowley stood awkwardly at the side, uncertain of whether he should be seated already or helping her.

“Oh, er, all good things, I hope,” he responded.

“They're all good things, of course,” Eleanor chuckled faintly. She gestured for him to join her at the table, to which Crowley gladly followed. “You came home from America, I gathered?”

“I did, yes. Uhm,” Crowley fixed his collars, then, remembering that he was still clad in Aziraphale's clothes, immediately brought his hands to the side, trying to divert Eleanor's attention from his overall appearance. “Uh, it was for my studies that I had to go. Soft of a worthy travel, I suppose,” he finished lamely.

Eleanor hummed in contemplation. “I know it wasn't really your decision to leave, believe me. Zari- Mr. Fell and Ms. Tracy had made it known. I also know that my husband is more than thrilled to have caught wind of your arrival yesterday.”

“Was he?”

“Yes. Indeed, he was rather anxious to see you, but alas, we had to be at church yesterday. Mr. Fell sponsors the church after all,” she explained.

“Is that so? Still an angel even after all these years, is he?” Crowley jested. A suggestive glint passed Eleanor's eyes for a beat, one Crowley would have missed if he weren't trying to assess her behaviour towards him.

“Yes. He is,” was her succinct answer.

Silence fell on them, a respite from the uncomfortable queries that Crowley may be subjected into—or awkward queries he may ask Eleanor if he had no reign over his impulses. He glanced around to scrutinize the new patterns on the walls, caricatures of flowers and leaves that’s a bright contrast to the brown furnished furnitures. His eyes landed last on the table, still the long wooden square that he used to take his meals with Aziraphale and Papa Fell. Crowley's hands had unconsciously fisted by his sides.

On his observation of the table, there were two things he noticed: The head was left unoccupied, no plates or utensils placed, and there were two plates on his side of the table and two others over Eleanor's. Crowley gave her a quizzical look.

“It’s for our son, Anthony. Mr. Fell usually is the one who wakes him up,” and as if on cue, a boy with blond hair and features that were more similar to his mother, ran into the dining area, Aziraphale in tow with a steaming cup on hand.

“Zariah, be careful, dear,” Aziraphale said. He gave Crowley a smile as he placed the cup down.

“Our son,” Aziraphale whispered to him as he occupied the seat beside him, Crowley's heart doing a summersault in his rib cage at the way Aziraphale mouthed the words. Our son. As if he Anthony was Aziraphale's and Crowley's. He looked at the boy, who was had been gazing at him with adoring eyes, bottom lip trapped in between his teeth.

“Hello there,” Crowley greeted. The boy remained silent, occupying the seat beside his mother.

“He's not really talkative,” Eleanor explained, then she grasped the boy's shoulders, rubbing them affectionately. “Anthony, this is uncle Crowley, you got your name from him, and papa both.”

And Crowley's heart swelled. Suddenly, there was a connection between him and this kid, a kid he had never known existed until minutes ago. How desperately he wished he actually was their children. 

“It's nice to meet you, Anthony. I hope we can get acquainted better,” he smiled gently at the boy.

“Right, well, let's eat breakfast, then?” Aziraphale spoke, as his hand snaked over to Crowley's thigh, giving it one reassuring squeeze.

Crowley hated how easily they all had fallen into a comfortable lull of exchange about their lives over breakfast; detested how natural it seemed for him to feel at ease, sitting just mere inches away from Aziraphale. Crowley loathed all the more the knowledge that he did not care to know how much Eleanor would hurt were he to take her family away from her.