When one is doing one’s best to avoid the attention of the cosmic forces of good and evil, an island off the northern coast of nowhere and a population of none seems quite well suited. Especially when one is a demon who has owned and rented the place out for two centuries.
Aziraphale unhooks his engraved cufflinks with a deft flick of his fingers, setting them in the center of his open book. Crowley thinks miserably of wedding rings waiting on a priest’s bible.
“Weren’t you going to open that second bottle, dear?”
He shakes himself to the present and tries not to snap the neck off the bottle as he watches the angel delicately roll up his shirtsleeves.
He’s always had the reaction of a particularly repressed monk to the revelation of Aziraphale’s body. The thought of all that pale, soft skin tucked away under those layers, waiting to be discovered and loved. It was more tempting to him than any collection of filth and sin all the legions of hell could conjure on their best day.
They take turns filling and draining their glasses until the second bottle goes the way of the first and the book is forgotten.
Aziraphale extricates himself from the depths of the old couch and wanders around the cottage, peeking at the mismatched art with his hands clasped behind his back like he’s respectfully taking in a gallery at the Louvre.
When he leans over to inspect the most uninspiring watercolor of an English garden anybody has ever seen, Crowley does his best to do anything but stare openly at his friend’s ass in his immaculately tailored trousers for the millionth time in his life.
“This isn’t much to your style my friend, I’m a bit confused.”
He’s moved on to an extremely pedestrian painting of fruit. Not even good fruit, just a few waxy looking apples and perhaps the ghost of banana.
“I’ve been renting it out for ages. Mostly artists and known weirdos. The decor was a lot more sparse when it was just me. Only that one by the window is mine.”
He’d said this without looking up or thinking and the sudden flow of panic chokes him as he watches his friend lean in close enough to take in the details.
It’s a sketch in pencil and chalk, simple but hard to look away from. A man lies naked on his belly, his face turned from the artist towards the book in his hands, everything about the pose conveying relaxation and comfort, maybe even intimacy.
The man has beautifully soft curving musculature and white blonde hair tousled in perfect cherubic ringlets. Aziraphale sucks in a gasp and Crowley yanks the cork from bottle number three with his teeth, draining the expensive vintage straight from the bottle before either of them dare speak.
“Paul Cadmus: To my friend Anthony J, for him”
Crowley stares at the door and spares a second to regret that not only were they the only two beings on a small island with no ferry coming until morning but it all been his idea
He was trapped and he was an idiot and his mouth was possessed.
Aziraphale turns slowly, visibly steeling himself to look Crowley in the eye.
“Don’t be daft”
Aziraphale blinks twice and continues to stare meaningfully, clearly not about to let it go any time soon.
“The J in my name, angel. I meant it’s maybe technically, vaguely for Jonathan.”
Aziraphale nods sagely, disappointment settling in the lines of his eyes, “Of course, your friend from that band...” Crowley holds up a hand to stop him, the desire to stop the look of hurt on his friend’s face overriding his own sense of self preservation.
“Not That one. Remember to your friend the giant killer?”
“Darling David? How could I forget. Warm nights in Ekron, the feasting after the battles were won. You’d spent so long working on Saul for your lot and then his oldest boy...”
Millennia of realization crossed his kind face all at once as he assembled long forgotten pieces of a puzzle he looked desperate to solve.
“Saul’s oldest...Jonathan. You didn’t even put any effort in with tempting him you’d said, he was just amusing and went to good parties.”
He looks at Crowley like he wants him to finish the story for him but the demon shakes his head. Not yet. A little more, he begs him wordlessly.
“We were brought before Saul’s court right off the battlefield, the boy was still dragging that ghastly head around as though he still couldn’t quite believe he’d done it. You were there with Jonathan, I was so surprised to see you’d stayed around after Goliath’s death that I hardly even noticed what had happened between them until they were...”
He turns to look at the drawing again and then at his own blond curls reflected in the window.
Crowley sets the bottle down and walks over slowly, reciting the ancient lines even though Samuel’s words burned his throat like sparking petrol.
“And it came to pass, when he had made an end of speaking unto Saul, that the soul of Jonathan was knit with the soul of David, and Jonathan loved him as his own soul. And Saul took him that day, and would let him go no more home to his father's house. Then Jonathan made a covenant with David, because he loved him as his own soul. And Jonathan stripped himself of the robe that was upon him, and gave it to David, and his apparel, even to his sword”
The shattering of the glass Aziraphale had been clutching with inhuman strength is deafening in the quiet cottage.
The distance between them has suddenly shrunk to almost nothing, magnets finally released from their hold.
Aziraphale looks down at the shards of porcelain scattered between their feet, some of them laid haphazardly across the toe of the demon’s boot.
“Crowley are you saying that you, that is, that we”
Feeling an uncustomary sort of daring, the kind that bubbles to the surface after you’ve stared down your future without the thing that tethers you to existence, he extends a finger and tilts up his friend’s confused face by the chin. He’s no good at the talking part but for Aziraphale, he thinks, he can be brave.
“That whatever left of a soul I have to my name has been knit with yours from the moment you told me you’d given Adam the sword. That’s what I hated about the rest of your lot, all so cold and uncaring, they have to be good little soldiers no matter what that entails. I mean that the only covenant I’ll ever be making will be with you.”
He leans forward and traces his finger up his friend’s cheek, caressing the lines his loves so much before sliding his whole hand into the angel’s hair, electrified at the feel of being close enough to do so.
“You’re the only one who’s actually good. The only one who was brave enough to care about them, even if it cost you. To care about...me.”
They fall together as inevitably as they always should have. One unsure, chaste kiss turns into another and another and before long Aziraphale’s arms are twined around Crowley’s neck, pulling him as close as he can. Everywhere their bodies press together tingles and burns, pleasure sparking across his nerves where there had only been fear before.
Hard and undone in seconds, Crowley buries his face in the angel’s neck, taking in the scent of books and expensive cologne and the sizzling echo of grace built into the fabric of his body. He could be struck down right this second, smote to ashes and it would all have been worth it, for Aziraphale to know the truth, to touch him and taste him and kiss the lips he’d longed for since before the continents shook apart.
They pull apart and regard each other for a moment, incandescent love shining from the angel like a floodlight. “Oh my darling. Thank you. I was so worried if I asked...if I hoped for more that it might frighten you away and I couldn't lose you. Thank you for being brave, you really are, you know. Brave and handsome and wonderful.”
He has to close his eyes at the onslaught of praise, something inside him desperately reaching for it. Some small, hurt part of him that doesn’t know how to love anything without preparing constantly to have it ripped away. All of the parts inside him that felt at all were tightly and deliberately sewn up over the centuries but somewhere across the span of years and laughter and intimacy, threads of Aziraphale had become woven in the stitching too. He felt him in places that weren’t meant for others to see and somehow it had never felt like an intrusion.
Aziraphale seems to see that struggle play over his face, maybe he even feels it. Crowley is weak with want for him, the dam broken and the longing and need and desperation threatening to pull him under. His hands are shaking.
Twining the fingers of their hands together and nosing along Crowley’s jaw until he reaches his ear, Aziraphale whispers “Let me take it from here, my darling. I’d you to bed, if that’s quite alright” the polite inquiry shouldn’t make his knees turn to jelly, and yet. He grips his friend’s hands to stay upright and nods, his mouth suddenly dry.
The cottage is small enough that they’re in the bedroom in seconds, Aziraphale lighting a dozen scattered candles with the snap of his fingers along the way. Crowley is so overwhelmed at the sight of his angel, so close and so happy and so ready to be his that he doesn’t even mention the 4 lamps waiting to be put to use. Firelight has always looked so well against the angel’s skin, who is he to complain.
They kiss again and then there are warm fingers at his throat, pulling at his tie and delicately undoing each button with patience the demon has never felt on his best day.
Once Aziraphale had worked as a gentleman's steward, too curious about the “finer protocols of modern decorum” to resist. Crowley had been unbearably, seethingly jealous, eaten up with the thought of those clever fingers buttoning and unbuttoning and fastening the inner workings of some stuffy old sod instead of moving over his own skin with knowing surety. He allows himself a moment of petty smugness to think of that lord being long dead with no idea what he’d had right in front of him while he himself has only begun to enjoy the treasure of being with this man.
Once he’s stripped to the waist and the angel has started on the unnecessarily complex system of zippers that hold his pants up, it’s harder to conceal the trembling that started in his hands and has seemingly spread to his very core. Of course Aziraphale misses nothing. Except for his rolled up sleeves he’s still completely dressed and Crowley feels so seen by him.
“Are you quite alright? I didn’t mean to rush things and if you’re not comfortable with this then we can…”
He reaches out and grabs him by the wrists, pulling his hands against his chest and pressing them tightly with his own. “I want you, angel. I want you so much I feel like I’ll discorporate if you don’t touch me and probably if you do touch me too. I’ve wanted you for so long, I want to be with you. I want to love you it’s just...a lot for me.”
Aziraphale peppers his face with kisses like he’s just given him a gift, squeezing his chest and stroking his belly and slipping his hands beneath his loosened trousers to grip at his ass. “I want you too, my love, so much, so long. Anything you want it's yours, just tell me if it’s too much.”
He nods and shimmys the rest of the way out of his pants, kicking them aside and crawling across the bed, settling himself artfully against the pillows.
“Since I’ll crease and wrinkle and pop all those vintage threads in my lusty demonic haste, why don’t you strip for me.”
The twinkle in Aziraphale’s eye tells him he knows he’s being teased but doesn’t mind it a bit, happy to put on a bit of a show and fastidiously fold his beloved couture at the same time. When he turns to put the folded pile on a chair, Crowley has to palm himself for relief because the unabashed sight of his best friend’s perfect bubble butt is going to be the end of him. Everything about his body is tempting and indecent to Crowley but his ass and hips and thighs have always been particularly devastating. Generally his artfully sprawled pose on their shared parkbenches is more about concealing a burgeoning erection at the sight of those delicious thighs spread across the bench than anything like being cool. He’s spent many sleepless nights imagining himself astride that very lap, feeling the power of those thighs flexing into him as his friend fucks him within an inch of his life.
Aziraphale kneels on the bed and crawls toward him intently, the smile on his serene face managing to look vaguely predatory. He kisses each of Crowley’s knobby knees and pulls them apart, dragging his face along the dark hair of his thighs before stretching to lay atop him completely. Instinct spreads his legs for him, the weight of the angel settling between them is grounding in a way he never expected. He still feels like he’s going to shake apart but at least Aziraphale is close enough to hold him together now.
He looks at him like he could stare into his eyes for several eternities with complete contentment. Crowley has to break the gaze, turning his head in a silent plea for more of those searing neck kisses. He gets them, every part of him clinging to Aziraphale as he kisses a scorching path from ear to chest.
“You’re absolutely delicious my dear, a feast for a king. And all of it for me, just for me.” He swirls a finger around a nipple, smirking knowingly when Crowley gasps and thrusts his chest forward for more. It’s a lucky thing there’s not another living soul on this entire island because Crowley yowls like a tiger when Aziraphale licks the sensitive nub briefly before sucking it into his mouth. His hands dig like claws into the sheets, needing an anchor but refusing to dig his nails into Aziraphale’s perfect, unmarred skin. He’s so hard he feels like his entire body is concentrated in his cock and his wretchedly responsive nipples and his brain is going to short circuit.
Crowley can’t remember if Aziraphale had favored the harp or trumpet in the heavenly chorus but either way he surely plays the demon better than any instrument he’d ever set his fingers to. The notes of pleasure he wrenches from him are closer to divine ecstasy than Crowley ever thought to be again. He chases that thought long enough to consider that living in the light of Aziraphale’s love and affection is far better than the Almighty’s. He sees all of him, the best and worst and only wants more. It seems impossible, he shouldn’t be allowed this. There shouldn’t be enough of him left worth loving, after everything. And yet with every retreat, the angel has been there, an insistent river, eroding the cracks of his defenses slowly over the millennia. He thinks, stupidly, that he knows how the Grand Canyon feels, laid bare to his very center, even unto the foundations of the earth, by cheeky a little stream that refused to relent to a thousand feet of solid stone.
When he wrenches his thoughts to the present, the angel is thrusting against the softness of Crowley’s inner thigh, a blunt pressure that promises more pleasure than he knows he’s bargained for. He himself is already leaking all over his belly, making a mess in the trail of dark hair there. Aziraphale seems to notice this as well and sits up to remedy the situation, licking the smeared precome from the wiry hairs before taking the tip of his cock into his mouth. Crowley yowls again and pounds the headboard behind him, feeling the grain of the wood give way against his knuckles.
“Please angel, I can’t, next time we’ll go slow I’ll be good and patient I promise but now I swear I’ll burn away into nothing if you’re not inside me right this fucking minute, I can’t stand it”
Aziraphale nods, apparently speechless for once in his existence, overwhelmed at Crowley’s open begging, at the gift of his vulnerability.
“Of course, love”
He reaches between them, miraculously slick fingers prodding gently at his entrance before slipping one inside, testing the give of his body. It strains his neck in this position to sit up enough to see, to watch his friend’s hand disappear between their bodies and press inside him, the knowing rhythm of his fingers as he seeks pleasure he knows to be within. Crowley falls back against the bed, shaking and thrashing like the wild creature he is. Aziraphale slides a hand over his belly, pressing down and holding him still.
“Hush dear, I have you.”
He could cry or scream, wants to flip them over and sink down on the fat cock he feels pressed against him more than he’s ever wanted anything in all of creation, but he tries to be good. He covers his face with his arms, hoping if he blocks out the sights and sounds he won’t lose his mind.
“You’re lovely, so very lovely. Everywhere, but god in heaven, especially here. Taking my fingers as though you were made just for me.” He kisses the inside of his knee, “Sometimes in my most private thoughts I think perhaps you were.”
Crowley shakes his head against the sob lodged in his throat, he’s an idiot and they’re going to have to stop because his stupid useless body apparently wasn’t built to withstand the pleasure of being loved so well by someone who adores you completely.
“Darling your hands...I don’t mean to be presumptuous but you’re so incredibly sensitive, how would you feel about me binding your hands? It might help you focus on your pleasure without socking me in the face...not that I’d mind terribly but it might delay things.”
“Yes please, you’re right. You’re going to have to, I don’t know what’s wrong with me, it feels so good, that I actually can’t stand it. I’m rotten, I’m sorry”
Understanding is written all across his lover’s face. How could he ever begin to deserve him? Confesses his love, climbs into bed with him and then turns into a shaking blubbering mess because it feels too good?
Suddenly Aziraphale is there above him, kissing his wrists before binding them with a length of soft rope conjured from devil knows where.
“Hush, my beloved. You are far from rotten. You are the most delectable, ripe fruit on the most beautiful tree in the garden.” His fingers move quickly over the sensitive skin of his wrists before securing the ends. The knot is quick and simple but feels secure enough to manage his thrashing. For the moment at least. Smiling, Aziraphale kisses the knot too. “They used to call this one a Hercules. One of Jonah’s fellows taught me before that whole dreadful business with the whale”
“Whales???” Crowley feels drunk, his senses both heightened and dulled somehow. He pulls at the cord and sinks into the bed, the lust simmering along. More searing kisses are trailed from his chest to the crest of a hip. He fights the urges to shove his cock in Aziraphale’s face and curl in on himself, instead pulling at the binding and digging his heels into the mattress.
“Dear one, have I ever told you that your Adonis belt has been a particular temptation to me since the fall of Rome?” He closes his eyes and remembers the look of delighted shock that had crossed his friend’s face when he came upon him unexpectedly in the baths. Roman baths were exceptional and it was such a pity humans had lost that appreciation for a thousand years. He’d been standing there, fully naked while a servant anointed him with scented oils. The oil anointing was his favorite bit by far. Aziraphale had come in with some do-good senator and blushed head to toe at the sight of Crowley’s naked form. He looked so comely when he blushed, Crowley had thought about the moment for decades. Apparently it had been significant for both of them. He’s startled from the memory by a sharp bite to the soft skin of his thigh, strong hands bracing his knees apart as instinct tries to shut them.
“How would you like to be taken, my love?”
“Angel I swear if you don’t stop talking like that I’m going to explode all over you.”
“If that’s how you’d like to start I can certainly..”
He hooks a leg around his friend’s hip, pulling him flush against him and grinding their cocks together.
“I just want you inside of me last century, Aziraphale, please”
The use of his name seems to be sufficient motivation. Hands soft as anything and slick again, Aziraphale reaches for himself, aligning them just so before thrusting forward slowly at a pace that would frustrate a snail.
Once he’s fully seated inside him, his pelvic bone putting delectable pressure on the base of Crowley’s erection, he’s certain this is how he’s going to die. Aziraphale begins moving slowly, just rocking at first, like he’s making a home for himself within Crowley. The friction is different than he’d imagined. All the urgency of a moment ago has centered on this one moment, every moment of their shared existence finally coming to this.
As the angel thrusts deeper and harder, the fire licks along his limbs like interconnected charges, lighting his body up from the inside out. Crowley doesn’t know what holy water feels like for a demon, but this must be the opposite. Instead of stripping away the sin and evil and all of him along with it, his love’s touch and words seem to make him feel whole and something like sacred for a moment.
“My darling, my love. You feel so perfect, all of this for me, all of you”
Crowley’s head thrashes and his moans increase in pitch, pinned in place by Aziraphale’s eyes and cock, bound to the very earth.
He touches Crowley’s face with revererent fingers, tracing the sharpness of his cheekbone and the plush swell of his kiss bitten lips. Sliding up to hold his bound hands in one of his, he wraps the other arm securely beneath his waist, drawing their bodies together in the most delicious friction. The stretch of Aziraphale inside him is so wanted, scratching an itch he didn’t know he had. He squeezes him with his thighs, wanting him deeper and more and longer. He wants to freeze time across the universe itself and stay in this second forever, their breaths rising with the speed of skin slapping against skin. The sound was positively filthy, the wetness of the lubricant Aziraphale had miracled out of nowhere leaving no doubt to any creature or entity who had been given ears what they were up to. Crowley reveled in it, dogging a heel into the back of the angel’s thigh to spur him on further. He wishes he could pull the other’s entire existence within himself, to be that fabled whole being the Greeks had imagined.
Lighting flashes outside as their lovemaking continues, though neither of them pay it any mind, even as the twisted trees along the shoreline spark and catch flame. Aziraphale pulls away, kissing his way down Crowley’s chest, nuzzling his cheeks in the downy hair at his belly before flipping him bodily, pressing his belly and his aching cock into the mattress.
He whines, only vaguely surprised at his body’s throbbing reaction to being manhandled. Anxious to end the bereft, empty feeling between his thighs, he pulls his knees beneath himself, spreading his legs and rolling his hips in a fashion he hopes is sufficient to entice his lover to continue.
“You’re the most beautiful creature ever made. I think I may never be able to spare you from this bed.”
“That’s fine with me as long as you bloody well get on with it”
Crowley has seen and heard and felt so many different things in his millennia, surprise is a rare sensation. The angel manages to wring it from him when he traces his tongue across his hole. The deed seems so filthy for an angel but Aziraphale manages to turn it into an act of worship, kissing wetly along the rim before dipping his tongue inside. Tears burn at the corners of his eyes, the physical pleasure burning through him like their own brand of rapture.
If he could pound his fists or claw he would do it but all he can manage is gripping on and trying to stay upright even as his limbs feel more and more useless. He wants that tongue as deep inside of him as it will go and Aziraphale seems determined to satisfy that. He’s gripping his hips and shoving his face against his ass like it’s one of his treasured gourmet delicacies. Somehow he should have known that his love would pursue sex like he does all other earhly pleasures, with ecstatic, hedonistic joy. He moans like he’s the one being pleasured and then Crowley is so close to coming, his cock heavy and untouched between his legs.
Aziraphale seems to sense it, pulling back completely. A loud smack resounds in the room as his palm collides with Crowley’s ass. The force of it is teasing only but the edge of his signet ring bites into the flesh deliciously. Crowley moans and grinds into the sheets, again astonished by his body’s reaction to Aziraphale loving him like this.
If the sharp intake of breath behind him is any indication, he isn’t the only one surprised. Before either of them can think better of it, he does it again, another firm smack landing on the softest part of his ass. He feels his hole clench obscenely at nothing and knows beyond a doubt Aziraphale can see it.
“You really are quite desperate for it, aren’t you my love? For anything I’ll give you.”
“Yes, yes please angel, anything. I’ll do anything, just touch me.”
“Well when you ask so politely...”
He spanks him again and enters him in the same breath, his whole body rocking forward with the force of it.
“FUCK” He’s absolutely screaming now, decorum and learned sense of humanity stripped away by pleasure to leave nothing but some desperate, needy thing that exists only to be impaled on Aziraphale’s cock. He grips the headboard with his bound hands and holds on for dear life.
“Are you close, darling?”
Only his angel could be so polite in a moment like this, he feels close to nonverbal himself. “Touch me, please”
Never in his existence has he begged like has tonight. He thinks Aziraphale is the only being alive he could stand to witness it, who wouldn’t shame him.
The storm outside worsens, waves cresting several meters higher than the record for this part of the world. The tide rises and consumes the edge of the shoreline, soaking the beaches as the trees continue to burn.
Aziraphale directs him with a tug on his hair and a shove against his belly to lean back against him, thighs splayed wantonly over his lap. He holds his hips in an iron grip as he thrusts up into him, every centimeter pressing against that ache in his core as he moves. His tied hands keep him helpless, his pleasure at Aziraphale’s mercy. Thankfully, the angel is extremely merciful.
Warm lips drag against his neck before settling beneath his ear. “I want you to come, Crowley. Just like this. Just for me.”
Who is he to disobey such a perfect command? He gives into the pressure coiled within, leaning back against Aziraphale’s shoulder as he fucks himself on his cock, meeting his thrusts with a ferocity that would absolutely overwhelm a lesser being. With a ragged cry he comes, splattering his belly and chest before sinking into the strong arms that hold him upright.
“That’s it darling, how perfect, how utterly perfect.” Groaning, Aziraphale sinks his teeth into Crowley’s shoulder and follows him down, pulling him tightly against him and shoving his pulsing cock as deep as he possibly can. Crowley feels the second he comes, releasing hotly inside him.
They stay like that a moment, Aziraphale panting and Crowley quivering like a newborn rabbit. When he notices, the angel lifts him to the side and arranges them as he wants, facing each other on their sides, legs entangled.
Crowley fights the overwhelming urge to slither from the bed in a hurry, dressing as quickly as he can and denying that the most vulnerable moment of his existence has just occured. Aziraphale looks at him like he’s already forgiven him for it and it makes him stay.
Moments pass in silence more comfortable than it should be.
“We don’t have to talk about it right now, you know.”
“I know. Probably best we addressed whatever has set itself on fire outside first anyway.”
He turns towards the window and sees what Crowley sees, a dozen wind twisted trees that had been standing quite solidly not on fire several hours before were now blazing like torches in the dark night.
They dressed quickly, Aziraphale in his own clothes and Crowley in sunglasses and a rather ornate banyan robe his friend had been delighted to see him pull from a closet. Upon exiting the cottage, they discover that the beach they were seeing now looked much more like a hollywood apocalypse film than the actual almost apocalypse had managed. The trees were burning and there were items of all sorts littered on the shore, brought in by the unusually high tide. Fishing gear, shoes, a tea kettle and what appeared to be a nearly full set of bagpipes covered the space in front of the house.
Crowley makes his way to a patch of smoking sand, plucking at the surface.
“How did coral get wedged in the sand? What happened out here?”
Aziraphale comes over to inspect the lump in his hand.
“How extraordinary, it’s fulgurite!” He says, looking around at the flaming trees like they might be the culprits behind this mystery. “Lightning, all of this was from lightning. And clearly the sea rose a significant amount as well.”
“Angel did we do this somehow? Am I about to find out after all this time that every time we fuck there’s going to be a major meterological incident?”
“Don’t get upset dear, I’m sure it’s all fine. Look, those on the other side of the chalet aren’t on fire at all, isn’t that lovely? I’m sure it was all very...localized.”
“Oh cottage, cabin, whatever. The point is I’m certain it was just right here and nothing seems to be permanently damaged.”
He turns around to reiterate the centuries old trees one of them set on fire with their dick but before he can get a word out they’ve been miracled back to normal. He puts his hands on his hips.
“Listen, my love, normally I’d be concerned too but I don’t want you thinking we’ve done anything wrong. Perhaps we should have considered that forces of the divine and the demonic making love might have some slight...effect on things but a little storm is nothing to feel badly about.”
He steps close enough to take Crowley’s hand, ignoring the scoff. “I think perhaps it was just a lot of pent up cosmic energy between the two of us after all that time. Perhaps now that we’ve done it once the fabric of the cosmos will have it out of it’s system and it’ll all be quite calm next time.
Crowley lowers his sunglasses, already deeply annoyed with himself for saying it but fully aware that he isn’t the type of person who can ignore such an opportunity.
“So you’re saying there’s going to be a next time?”
Aziraphale huffs fondly and drags him back towards the house.
“We’ll have to experiment plenty while we’re here on the island, simply to make sure we can do it wherever we’d like without damaging the place.”
Crowley stops him in the open doorway and pulls him against him.
“Wherever we’d like, whenever we like, for as long as you’d have me, angel. Thank you”
The last bit is so quiet he’s almost hopes it’s lost over the crash of the much becalmed waves but the beatific smile on his friend’s face tells him it wasn’t. He heard everything he said and everything he couldn’t. Just as he always does.