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So Sick of Waiting

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The first kiss was entirely too human, in that it only happened as a consequence of a large amount of alcohol.

Crowley remembers it as being 1772 but Aziraphale is certain it was actually in the January of 1773 and he’s the diary-keeping kind so Crowley tends not to argue with him too heavily about this sort of thing. It had been one of their standard mildly-covert meetings which – as usual – had culminated in a meal and a lot of wine. They’d moved from the main bar of the tavern to a private upstairs room somewhere in the midst of reminiscing about the Black Death and by three am had found themselves both sprawled inelegantly over a particularly uncomfortable bench, slumped against each other for balance and trying to remember which way was ‘up’.

Aziraphale had definitely been in the middle of saying something but, when he turned his head to find Crowley’s face suddenly an inch from his, staring right into his eyes, he completely forgot what it was.

Crowley closed the gap between them and pressed his lips to Aziraphale’s. It’s tribute to Crowley’s technique that, considering how much time Aziraphale spent repressing the memory in the following decades, Aziraphale still remembers that first feel of Crowley’s mouth; warm, red-wine damp and, as it turned out, utterly addictive.

Of course, this is all with the benefit of hindsight. His actual reaction, after his brain rebooted a moment later, was to pull away with an affronted ‘Crowley!’

Crowley raised one eyebrow. ‘What? Just trying something.’

Aziraphale sat up a little straighter and adjusted his waistcoat. ‘I’d rather you wouldn’t.’

Nonplussed, Crowley kicked his riding boots up onto Aziraphale’s lap, smudging a little mud on Aziraphale’s britches which Aziraphale flicked away fussily. ‘Why?’

‘It’s not… it’s not the done thing Crowley.’

Crowley wrinkled his nose and swung his feet back to solid earth. ‘You loved it.’

Aziraphale didn’t correct him. They carried on drinking in silence.


The second time – November twelfth, 1918 – was born out of pure exhaustion. Aziraphale had spent the day drifting aimlessly about the bookshop entirely unable to settle to anything or to concentrate on a single thing. At some point Crowley turned up looking as drained as Aziraphale felt and they retreated wordlessly to the back room.

‘That better not have been one of yours,’ Aziraphale commented as he poured them each a finger of scotch. Crowley caught his wrist, preventing Aziraphale from removing the bottle until his glass was full nearly to the brim.

‘Not mine, angel,’ he sighed. ‘I mean, don’t get me wrong, I’m taking full credit for it.’

‘Hmm.’ Aziraphale screwed the cap firmly back onto the bottle. ‘I do think they could have sorted the whole sorry business out a bit sooner.’

Crowley knocked back half his drink and shrugged nonchalantly. ‘I don’t know. I’ve – perhaps – not put in quite as much effort to keep them going as I could have. Maybe sometimes even the opposite.’

‘Oh.’ That was disappointing news – for the sake of humanity, more than anything. ‘And I’ve been working so hard.’

‘I know.’ Crowley was just as despondent as Aziraphale. ‘Sometimes I think I don’t need to be here at all.’

‘Don’t say that.’

Aziraphale was just as surprised as Crowley at how sincere that came out. A moment passed where they stared at each other across the table and then, suddenly and quite without warning, Crowley was in Aziraphale’s lap and – for want of a better phrase – snogging his face off.

This time Aziraphale didn’t push Crowley away. It was late. He was so tired. And this was… nice. He was feeling four years’ worth of exhaustion and surely, surely he was owed a little relaxation. And right now Crowley’s weight on top of him, his mouth, his warmth – warmth that Aziraphale had always been sure was a degree or two higher than the average – was providing just the kind of relaxation he needed.

At some point they must have kissed themselves to sleep because, the following morning, Aziraphale woke up on one of his several overstuffed sofas with the only remaining evidence of Crowley being the blanket that had been draped over him, his slightly swollen lips and the faint scent of evil.


The time after that took it up a notch. Or five.

Aziraphale and Crowley have always had – or, since the advent of cinema, anyway – a small tradition of going to see overtly religious films together. It’s an amusing topic for both of them. Humans have a basic grasp of the facts, it’s true, but the embellishments… frankly, they’re hilarious.

This is how they found themselves in the backrow of a rather rundown cinema in Winchester to watch an almost empty late-night showing of Dogma. It was honestly far too crass for Aziraphale to truly enjoy but Crowley seemed find all the angel nonsense hysterical. The crowning glory wass apparently Metatron’s revelation of his lack of genitalia. Crowley laughed so hard he snorted.

‘Can you imagine, Aziraphale? Everlasting life and no cock! Wouldn’t be worth living if you ask me.’

Aziraphale sat rather primly in his scratchy cinema seat. ‘I wouldn’t like to comment.’

It was probably a good thing that cinemas are dark and Crowley couldn’t see the way his cheeks coloured. But his mind must have been in the same place because Aziraphale felt a hand land gently on his thigh.

‘You’re telling me you wouldn’t miss it?’

The hand glided upwards. Dangerous territories.

They both remained steadfastly looking forwards. Crowley danced fingers against Aziraphale’s inseam. ‘Tell me to stop.’

Aziraphale remained silent.

‘I mean it. Tell me no.’

No reply.

‘I’ll stop. Any time. Just say.’ But, without being told, Crowley didn’t stop. Aziraphale’s button and fly were no match for his deft fingers and, a moment later, those fingers were inside layers of fabric. Aziraphale tried his hardest to smother his gasp as Crowley closed warm fingers around his half-hard cock.

Crowley’s voice was little more than a growl in his ear. ‘Don’t stay yourself, angel. No one will notice.’

There may have only been two or three other people in the auditorium but, miraculously, no one did. All the same, Aziraphale tried to keep quiet, knuckles white on the armrests, as Crowley jerked him off with a steady hand.

It’s not like he hadn’t tried by himself before – he’d been around for thousands on thousands of years; he’d seen everything there was to see – it’s just that this is the first time he’d actually truly seen the appeal. Every other time he’d tried – be it a Roman orgy or a dirty magazine purchased at the local newsagent – he’d been left still not really seeing the point.

Now, with Crowley, he saw the point.

It honestly wasn’t the sexiest film to receive his first hand job to so he let the screen swim out of his awareness, narrowing his sphere of concentration down to a little bubble containing just him and Crowley. Crowley’s touch was like static electricity. He couldn’t breathe.

Next to him, Crowley was apparently as cool as a cucumber. Bored, even. From an outside perspective he was every bit an average guy watching a generously-rated 3-star movie to kill an empty evening – it was just that he happened to have his hand in his friend’s pants.

It didn’t occur to Aziraphale until later that he could have – should have? – pushed Crowley away. Stormed out in disgust, perhaps. At the very least raised a disapproving eyebrow. He tells himself for some considerable time that it was merely shock that stopped him from doing any of those.

It wasn’t.

What stopped him was how good it felt – well, maybe not Good the way that Head Office would think of good as Good but… really, really nice. Crowley increased his pace and Aziraphale felt heat pooling, intensifying beyond tolerance. When he came it was a surprise that nothing burst into flames.

Crowley took out a handkerchief and discretely wiped his hand off. ‘Yep. You’d miss that.’

Aziraphale couldn’t really reply. Words failed him.

‘Anyway.’ Crowley was checking his latest ridiculous watch. ‘Things to do. Chaos to cause. You know. Best be getting on.’ He flashed Aziraphale one of his most demonic smiles. Aziraphale nodded curtly, still a little shell-shocked.

‘Yes. Quite.’

Crowley stood to leave and something made Aziraphale reach out to stop him. Crowley’s sunglasses turned quizzical. ‘What?’

Aziraphale blushed. Well, it would have been discourteous not to offer, ‘I could - Don’t you want… ?’

Crowley smirked. ‘Next time.’

He left Aziraphale sitting in the cinema, flustered and slightly sticky.


The next time they meet turns out not to be the Next Time. Or the time after that. Or the one after that. In fact it gets to the point where Aziraphale begins to wonder if this ‘next time’ that Crowley spoke of is entirely hypothetical and doomed never to happen at all. By this point it’s almost not a shock to find that this thought is… disappointing, at the very least. He tries not to dwell on it – it’s not a very angelic thought to have – but every time Crowley shows up out of the blue for the next two decades he can’t help but hope that this time is The Time and, yet, it never is. Of course Aziraphale could do something about it himself. He could make the first move. He could be demanding of Crowley, the way Crowley is of him.

But frankly that’s just not Aziraphale’s style.

And then it’s the end of the world and both of their priorities have to be different. There are things to do and boys to find and apocalypses to be averted and yet, even with all that going on, he keeps catching the way Crowley keeps looking at him. And it’s truly very distracting and he sort of wishes that Crowley would stop and get back to the job in hand but he’s also very, very glad that he doesn’t.

Then finally it’s over. The apocalypse hasn’t happened, neither of them has been disintegrated, life is back to normal-ish. So why, wonders Aziraphale, can’t Crowley look him in the eye?

They’re having dinner in the bookshop – once an every-few-decades event, now a weekly habit – and Aziraphale is prattling on in his usual way, telling Crowley about the latest first edition he’s acquired and simultaneously enjoying a truly excellent array of gyoza supplied by the Japanese restaurant three streets away. Crowley is his usual self, half snarky and half interested-in-spite-of-himself, but there’s something off. Any time that Aziraphale looks at his food, or his wine glass, or anywhere else he can feel Crowley’s gaze on him like it’s burning his skin. But as soon as he turns to make eye contact Crowley’s eyes are anywhere but on him. It’s, frankly, annoying.

‘Do I have soy on my face?’

That’s evidently not what Crowley expected to hear. ‘What? No. Not that I’d tell you if you did.’

‘Good. I was wondering what you keep staring at.’

Crowley snorts. ‘I’m not staring.’

Aziraphale dabs his mouth daintily. ‘Yes you are. You’re being… weird.’

‘Am not.’

‘Are too!’

‘Am. Not.’

‘Are-‘ Happily, Aziraphale catches himself before this particular exchange goes on all night. ‘Look. I don’t wish to pry, but is everything alright, Crowley? You haven’t seemed like yourself lately. I’m…. I’m worried about you.’

Crowley stares at him. Shrugs his shoulders. Stares at the floor. Bursts into angry tears.



Aziraphale is at his side instantaneously, patting ineffectually at his shoulders as Crowley lays his head on the table and curls up into himself, shaking from the effort of holding it all back. He may or may not be hissing ever so slightly. Oh, this is all very new.

Aziraphale pulls his chair closer and sits there, knee to knee, trying desperately to think of something to say. ‘Shh, shh. Oh, dear. Come on now. Crowley, what happened?’

Maybe something else happened to the Bentley? Maybe his flat has a greenfly infestation? Maybe-

Crowley lifts his head. ‘You fucking died, Aziraphale!’

Oh. Oh.

‘No, Crowley. It was just a mild discorporation!’

‘I didn’t know that.’ Crowley is, in spite of himself, ugly sobbing and looking utterly pissed at himself over it. Aziraphale gathers him into his arms.

‘I know. I know.’ It’s a lie. He doesn’t know a thing. He’s, shamefully, not considered how it truly would have felt for Crowley to come looking and find the shop aflame and him missing. He’d supposed up until now that Crowley had been, more than anything, upset that he had to face the end of the world alone.

But now he imagines what it would have been like if the shoe had been on the other foot, so to speak. If he’d gone to Crowley’s flat only to find it empty and in disarray. Well, fire might not have worried him so much but if there was water… What it would have been like to think Crowley was gone forever.

‘I’m so sorry, my dear. I didn’t think.’ Crowley sniffs a very un-demonic sniff. Aziraphale pats him affectionately. ‘Better?’

‘Not really.’ Crowley raises his head. The tears seem to have subsided by his voice is ragged. ‘We’ve wasted so much time, Aziraphale.’

This stumps the angel a little. ‘We did put a stop to the end of the world. With help. Sort of. I’d say that was a pretty good use of time.’

Crowley sighs. ‘Not that.’ He gestures vaguely. ’This.’

Aziraphale still isn’t getting it. ‘What?’

Crowley growls with six-thousand years’ worth of frustration and pulls Aziraphale into a rough and slightly-damp kiss. It’s all lips and teeth and, by the time Crowley’s finished doing some very interesting things with his tongue, Aziraphale is left in no doubt as to what exactly he means.

Oh.’ Then, slightly reproachfully, ‘You could have said something sooner.’

Crowley gapes at him in a way that suggests he’s deciding just how hard he’s going to throw the table. ‘Sooner? Sooner? I’ve done everything except scream it at you for years! Decades!

Okay, maybe, thinking back on it, he has a point. But it does rather beg another question that Aziraphale just can’t help but ask. ‘How… how many years, exactly?’

Suddenly Crowley isn’t quite meeting his eyes again. ‘Since… I don’t know… forty-two?’

‘Nineteen forty-two?’

‘Forty-two… anno domini.’

Oh dear. Aziraphale thinks, rather guiltily, that he’s perhaps not being paying quite enough attention. ‘I didn’t realise…’

Crowley laughs derisively. ‘Big surprise there. I thought you were deliberately stringing me along for the last two thousand years.’ The look on Aziraphale’s face makes it blatantly obvious that the angel doesn’t know he’s joking. ‘Stop it, Aziraphale, I’m kidding. I’m fully aware that you’re quite literally not capable of anything like that. It’s been painfully obvious how oblivious you were. You wouldn’t have noticed if I’d snogged your face off.’ He pauses. ‘Which, actually, I did do. Multiple times. So yeah, that part’s on you.’

Aziraphale blushes. ‘Well, I noticed that, of course. I just didn’t want to assume anything.’

‘I suppose I’ll just have to make my intentions clear, then.’ Without Aziraphale really knowing how it happens Crowley is suddenly standing, pulling him out of his chair by the lapels until they’re face to face. Crowley attacks his mouth tongue-first leaving absolutely no room for such pedestrian concerns as breathing. It’s a very good thing that it’s not strictly a necessity. The demon shoves him backwards without relenting the assault on his mouth, resulting in an awkward two-step that only ends when Aziraphale’s back hits the fridge. Crowley presses into him, all hipbones and angles, forcing one leg between Aziraphale’s and grunting in satisfaction when he finds the friction he’s looking for. His hands tangle in Aziraphale’s hair and he ruts up against him like he can’t contain himself. ‘Obvious enough for you?’ he growls.

‘Quite clear,’ Aziraphale rasps in return and – taking the initiative for once – dives back in for more.

Without warning the fridge disappears and they’re falling backwards onto Aziraphale’s little-used but nonetheless plush bed. Aziraphale lands quite uncomfortably on his favourite edition of Sense and Sensibility but finds it hard to care when Crowley starts in on his waistcoat buttons with more effort than he’s ever seen the demon put into anything else.

But then – ‘Wait.’ Crowley pauses in his endeavours long enough for Aziraphale to reach up and gently remove those blasted sunglasses from his face. He folds them and carefully places them out of harm’s way. ‘There.’

He’s inadvertently put Crowley on the back foot. ‘Are you sure?’

He smiles up at the yellow eyes that he’s always thought were better unhidden. ‘I like it better.’

Crowley shrugs in “well, you do you” sort of way and gets back to the task at hand, perhaps ever-so-slightly more self-consciously. He’s only halfway down the waistcoat and struggling with the fiddly little buttons, fingers clumsy in the way that they only are when you really want to get something done quickly. It’s unspoken but somehow it seems important that this time, this first time, this part is done properly – that is to say, without miraculous assistance. Aziraphale takes pity on him and pushes his hands gently away, taking over and freeing Crowley to see to his own jacket and shirt. Crowley doesn’t bother with his own buttons; just pulls the shirt straight over his head and lets it crumple to the floor.

No one, in the history of their invention, has ever removed skinny jeans with even a modicum of grace, and Crowley – designer of the drainpipe or not – is no exception. He gets them briefly stuck around his ankles but Aziraphale’s too busy looking at the miles on miles of newly-exposed leg to really notice. He stretches out a hand to lay fingers reverently on one porcelain-pale thigh. Crowley’s skin feels like electricity.

The demon manages to extricate himself from the jeans and rolls over, a highly dissatisfied look in his eyes when he sees Aziraphale’s still mostly-dressed state. ‘You’re falling behind.’

‘Oh. Yes. Sorry.’ He shrugs out of his waistcoat and kicks off his shoes but apparently that’s still not quick enough because, even as he’s trying to unknot his bow tie, Crowley’s already practically on top of him again, tugging insistently at him until he turns on his side to lie nose-to-nose or, more specifically, mouth-to-mouth-and-anything-else-Crowley-can-reach.

It’s very nice. It’s very, very nice. But it’s not very convenient.

‘Look, you can either do that or you can let me get undressed. You can’t have it both ways.’

‘You have no imagination,’ Crowley mumbles into a particularly ticklish part of his neck. It’s a deeply unfair accusation – Aziraphale has a relatively decent imagination, compared to the average angel – but Crowley follows the statement by deftly unbuttoning Aziraphale’s trousers and Aziraphale can’t quite put together a coherent refute after that. His shirt will just have to stay on.

Crowley’s fingers wrap around his cock, his other hand still working on pushing Aziraphale’s trousers down and over his hips, easing the access. Aziraphale tries to help, wiggling and kicking until their combined efforts rid him of them entirely. Hands – quite possibly more than Crowley actually owns – skitter over his hips, thighs, buttocks; up under his shirt to caress his belly and nipples. Every inch of skin newly-touched elicits its own breathy gasp and it takes Aziraphale some time to realise that they aren’t all his.

Somehow in the midst of all this he manages to form a coherent thought: specifically that he’s currently letting Crowley do all the work – again – and that’s not only a terrible shame but also extremely discourteous. One arm is trapped under Crowley’s weight but he places the other experimentally on the demon’s waist, pressing down just enough to dent the pale flesh with his fingertips. Crowley hums approvingly against his throat and, encouraged, Aziraphale moves his hand downwards, stopping to rest where the black elastic band of Crowley’s underwear cuts across his hip.

‘Can I… ?’


Something about that one whispered syllable melts away the last of Aziraphale’s reservations. His fingers slip beneath the elastic.

The noise Crowley makes at the first sensation of Aziraphale’s hand on his dick is more pornographic than the very best adult movie money can buy. Aziraphale makes a few slow, experimental strokes and, when that seems to be received favourably, speeds up a little. For the moment Crowley lets him set the pace; matches it.

It’s like nothing Aziraphale’s ever experienced before. Oh, he’s read about it enough. Descriptions lurid enough to make a sailor blush and sweet enough to melt your heart but all, without fail, paling in comparison to reality. That time in the cinema back row was wonderful but it was furtive, still too many degrees of separation: nothing compared to having Crowley here, practically wrapped around him, so close he can smell his blueberry shampoo. Crowley’s mouth is working at his like there’s no tomorrow, and the things his hands are doing… Aziraphale’s head begins to swim.


‘Hm?’ He’s so lost in sensations; his other senses are having a harder time processing information than normal.

‘I want you to fuck me. Please.’

Crowley’s eyes are somewhere between demanding and downright begging. Something in Aziraphale’s chest explodes.

‘You want… are you sure?’

‘I’ve been sure for millennia.’

Who could say no to that?

‘How do you want me t-’

‘Like this.’

Crowley rolls over, fluidly removing his underwear, to lie with his back pressed to Aziraphale’s chest.

‘Fingers first.’

‘I know.’

Crowley grins wickedly. ‘I love that you know.’

Hands shaking only slightly, Aziraphale traces the cleft of Crowley’s arse. When he pushes in, one suddenly-slick finger first, Crowley hisses.

‘Sorry! Too much?’

Not enough.

Whatever Crowley thinks his anatomy is capable of – and, after six thousand years, Aziraphale permits it’s probably more than average – Aziraphale isn’t taking any chances. This has to be right. He works Crowley gently open with first one finger, then two, then three, all while Crowley swears and writhes and threatens all manner of hellfire if he doesn’t bloody hurry up.

He doesn’t realise that none of this is giving Aziraphale any incentive to hurry.

When he’s finally satisfied that Crowley’s as ready as he can be, Aziraphale removes his fingers. Immediately Crowley is pushing back into him, needy and demanding as all hell.

‘Patience!’ Aziraphale cajoles. He knows it’s mean but he can’t help himself.

‘I’ve been fucking patient, Aziraphale!’

He lines his cock up and pushes slowly, carefully; always ensuring that Crowley is okay. And… oh God, oh Lord, it feels so much better than he ever imagined. Crowley is tight and hot around him and it’s all so, so much more than he could have ever guessed.

Crowley, it seems, is more than okay. Aziraphale is trying to take things slow and steady – for fear that it will otherwise be a very short experience – but Crowley is bucking back against him, demanding harder, faster and quite possibly leaving bruises where his hand is gripping Aziraphale’s upper thigh. Aziraphale wraps his arms around Crowley’s chest and hangs on for dear life.

Fuck,’ Crowley is hissing. ‘Fuck, yes, like that, mmmph, yes, please, more.’ Aziraphale redoubles his efforts which, judging by the truly ungodly noise Crowley makes, is the right thing to do. Crowley’s legs are splayed, feet trying to find enough purchase on the soft mattress to push back and give as good as he’s getting. Beads of sweat are breaking out on Crowley’s skin. Aziraphale can taste them.

One of Crowley’s hands finds his where it’s resting against Crowley’s chest and tugs it insistently downwards. This time Aziraphale gets the message immediately, letting Crowley guide him down to take hold of his dick, Crowley’s fingers covering his, showing him the speed, the firmness of grip, the angle. Together they set an unsteady counter-rhythm to the slap of skin-on-skin that has Crowley mewling into the pillows.

Aziraphale is on fire; not literal fire, thank goodness, but the kind of burning buzz that zips over every nerve at once and makes your extremities tingle. He can’t for the life of him think why this was ever considered a Sin. Not that Upstairs ever really cared about that sort of thing, not really; that was just one of those bizarre ideas the humans had got from somewhere. Some people just don’t know a good thing when they’ve got it.

Either way, sin or just extremely-pleasurable pastime, it’s wonderful. Every one of his nerves is burning and every little moan and curse that Crowley releases go straight to his cock, making him want to go harder, deeper. His whole body is pressed against Crowley; he’s inside Crowley, but it’s not enough. It’s never, ever going to be enough.

‘Crowley, I love you.’

Fuuuuuuuck,’ whimpers Crowley as he comes over both of their hands.

It takes barely a minute for Aziraphale to follow – it’s taken an astonishing amount of self-restraint to stop himself coming since the moment Crowley first touched his cock but, happily, self-restraint is something that Aziraphale is well-practised in. He buries himself deep in Crowley’s arse and orgasms with a shout and a whine. He doesn’t see fireworks. He sees flames.

In the moments immediately afterwards everything is blurry. Aziraphale keeps his eyes tightly shut; there’s no room for the real world for the next couple of minutes. Crowley is hot and shaky against him and Aziraphale wraps him up in his arms, as tight as he can manage.

Somewhere, between Reality and Elsewhere, he can feel Crowley’s wings. He buries his face in them.

‘Are you okay?’ Crowley’s voice is no less wrecked than it was beforehand but now there’s an added kind of satisfied purr to it.

Aziraphale considers.

‘Better than I was.’


‘Yes. You?’

‘Angel, you can’t imagine how okay I am.’

Aziraphale contemplates his words and then, considering there’s only so many parts of him that Crowley can punch from this position: ‘Worth the wait?’

‘Aziraphale, I’m going to murder you.’


Aziraphale wakes to a cup of hot tea being plonked down noisily on the bedside table. Sleeping itself is a rare habit for him and being brought tea in the morning is rarer still. He can probably get used to it.

Crowley sits down on the edge of the bed. He’s put his underwear back on but not much else. His sunglasses remain on the table, next to Aziraphale’s tea.

‘Good morning sunshine.’

Aziraphale scoots upright and takes a sip of his tea. Ahh. ‘You make the best tea, Crowley.’

Crowley preens a little.

‘How do you feel about breakfast?’

Aziraphale considers. He has a lot of choices ahead of him. He could carry on like nothing ever happened. He could tell Crowley – what is it that Prince sings? - breakfast can wait and pull him back into bed for round two. He could ask Crowley what they are now – is it the same, or is it more?

But really, breakfast sounds pretty great.

He pulls Crowley into a kiss. Then, after a few lingering moments: