Work Text:
Snakes have long memories. No one knows this, but it all comes down to senses. Air tasted with a forked tongue is sweeter, the scratch of rocks over a smooth-scaled belly rougher, the sound of apple leaves rustling overheard more distinct. But there is something more potent than these delights: the warmth of an angel holding a flaming sword.
He feels the rumble of the angel’s tread before he sees him, the vibration through his jaw and down rows of supple vertebrae. The first impulse is always to bite. He coils and watches through with his whole body, drawn to that lovely heat. The angel doesn’t look like one of Heaven’s warriors, this bookish man, white-blond hair fluffing round his ears in the breeze. He moves his weight from foot to foot, eyes scanning the horizon, as though looking for another place to be. He belongs somewhere comfortable, the snake decides, somewhere cool and calm, not baking in the sun with his soft feet blistering on the hot ground.
It isn’t like the snake to be concerned; it isn’t in his nature. He doesn’t understand this desire to approach the angel and tempt him into the green garden, give him cold water to drink. They aren’t on the same side anymore, though the snake doesn’t feel much allegiance to the side he’s been thrown over to, either. He’d never seen the angel when they were both in Heaven; or, if he had, he can’t recall. He isn’t sure why that bothers him. Snakes have exceedingly long memories, but so do fallen angels.
There is no reason for the angel, Aziraphale, he learns, to speak to him. He doesn’t know why he cares that he does. He tests the name on his tongue, no longer forked, and watches the edges of Aziraphale’s sensitive mouth draw up. Who are you?
Crawley. Didn’t you have a sword?
Aziraphale’s skin heats as he flusters. It’s gone, given to the children of Earth, a kind disobedience. Not an expected thing to do for someone from the upper floor. Could be a paperwork nightmare. Gabriel will be pissed.
Fuck, Crowley thinks later, drenching the memory in whisky. That’s when I first loved him.
His limbs feel too long, his head too heavy for his body. He lets it loll, maybe even bangs it once or twice against the hardback wood of his chair. The whisky bottle is nearly empty, but Crowley can’t be arsed to magic more. He just wants to drink enough to sleep, perhaps for years, or at least until his chest stops aching whenever he breathes.
A damned fool, is what you are, he tells himself, then snorts at his own joke. What a cockup. What a fucking mess.
It had been fine, those first days after the bungled Apocalypse. They had dined at the Ritz, spent evenings playing chess. Crowley even let himself be dragged along to the V&A. Aziraphale loved the jewelry display, but most of all the fashion exhibit. It was a certifiable walk down memory lane. Crowley, oh how I do miss cravats. And you always did look dashing in breeches. Aziraphale’s face was so open, his eyes creasing as he smiled. It was enough to make the heart that shouldn’t have been there tug against Crowley’s chest, bruising his ribs. A too-large organ, overripe from years of wanting.
A lovely week, really, if Crowley thought in such terms, which he didn’t. For the first time in twelve years, he allowed himself to stop thinking about the fate of the world and relax. Aziraphale’s enthusiasm was contagious. Yes, what if they were really free? Heaven and Hell were no longer keeping tabs; they could do whatever they wanted, go anywhere. They could be together, no worries. Nothing to hold them back. A hand brushing against a hand as they walked could mean something more. Maybe Crowley would even reach out and touch on purpose, slide his fingers between the buttons of a sandstone waistcoat.
But then over dinner that night Aziraphale had asked quietly about his plans.
I love seeing you every day, my dear. Will you stay in London?
Forever, he meant. Will you stay with me forever, however long we have? Of course, Crowley wanted to say, don’t you know? I hate living in this world without you, let’s not do the thing where we go our own way for years and years. What a drag. Let’s stay together. Channeling Al Green, he’d sing a few lines of ‘bebop’ and make Aziraphale roll his eyes. But he hadn’t. He’d simply taken a long, deep swallow of the Barolo they were sharing and shrugged. Not sure, angel.
It had dampened the evening considerably. Aziraphale lost the sparkle in his eyes, and his smile grew less frequent. No dessert, which was a very bad sign indeed. There were no drinks back at his flat, either. Crowley begged off, not wanting to make things worse. Or really, wanting to spare himself. It was too difficult to sit side-by-side without touching, to stop his hands from wandering into that cotton-fluff hair. He behaved a right bastard, he knows, but Crowley is nobody’s idea of forever. Aziraphale has no idea what he’s asking, can’t possibly know or understand all Crowley wants. He wants to eat him alive.
Snakes have long memories, and the thing he knows to be true is this: Aziraphale deserves a quiet place to rest. He deserves that cool drink of water in the sun-dappled shade. Crowley has too many sharp edges now, it would be so easy to cut Aziraphale without meaning to. He’s not sure he has it in him to be content, not even with Aziraphale. It’s better for the two of them to go their separate ways.
Oh, he won’t beat himself bloody like Aziraphale’s friends, those monks in the fourteenth century. He won’t wear a hairshirt in penance or spend his nights in prayer. He’s still a demon, after all, whether or not he wants to be.
Another, final sip of whisky straight from the mouth of the bottle. It tastes stale, and he’s far too sober. Still, he manages to slouch off to bed and fall asleep with his clothes on. Luckily, demons never dream.
***
He’s in the garden yelling at a particularly recalcitrant tree palm when he hears footsteps behind him.
“Crowley.”
He turns, the voice making his nerves sing. His ears have been starving for days.
“Hey,” he says, taking stock with hungry eyes. Aziraphale looks . . . well. He looks extremely well, flushed and well-fed, the buttons shining on his silly waistcoat. Crowely doesn’t know why he is disappointed; it’s what he wanted, after all. He knows he looks like hell. A line from one of Adam’s children’s books comes to mind, I’ll eat you up, I love you so. He feels a bit like a wild thing.
“What’s that one done?” Aziraphale smiles.
Crowley frowns. He has no idea what the angel is talking about until he gestures to the plant. “Oh. It’s dying.”
“Maybe it doesn’t like the shade.”
“Hmm.” Crowley considers it, then shakes his head.
“Maybe it’s tired of being scolded.”
“I’ve had it for three hundred years. I should think I know what it likes.”
“Well, you don’t know what’s best for everything, my dear.” Aziraphale purses his lips.
“Are we still talking about the plant?” Crowley waits for a response, but Aziraphale merely comes closer. He smells damned good, warm like sweet and buttery scones, and Crowley is so cold. That’s another thing about Hell: in spite of all the fire, it’s fucking freezing. It takes all of his willpower to stop himself from holding his hands out to thaw. “What are you doing here, angel?”
Aziraphale straightens up and clears his throat. He looks slightly flustered. “I’ve come to give you something.”
“Oh?” He notices that Aziraphale is holding something that looks like a book. An old one, at that, the vellum yellowing and fragile. Crowley has never considered himself a great reader. That’s Aziraphale’s game.
“Yes. I know you aren’t much for it, but I think you might be interested in this particular one.” He holds it out, an offering. Crowely has no choice but to take it. He can feel the emotion radiating off of Aziraphale, can almost smell it in the air. The angel is nervous and excited, but there’s a hint of sadness, too. “It’s my . . . well, I suppose you could call it a diary. I’ve been keeping it these past, oh, two thousand years or so. Ever since Rome.”
“Angel, something like this could get you into trouble. You didn’t write about—”
“The Arrangement, yes. And more. Much more than I’ve ever told you.”
“Why are you giving this to me?” It feels both sacred and illicit, this knowledge at his fingertips, a heady combination. Crowley has always been too curious for his own good. Aziraphale must know he’ll be unable to resist. He runs his fingers over the worn binding.
“I don’t want there to be any more secrets between us. Please, read it. Promise me.”
Crowley swallows, feels his throat working around words he can’t say. “All right.”
Seemingly satisfied, Aziraphale’s smile flickers. “Thank you, my dear. I also wanted to tell you I’m leaving.”
Panic rises up, instant and fierce. “What are you talking about? Leaving where?”
“Not forever, just for a little while. I have some things I need to take care of.”
What sorts of things, Crowley wants to demand. He wants to forbid it, to beg to go along. But he clenches his jaw and grips the book in his hands and nods. The leather burns into his skin; he has never been so desperate to read anything in his long existence. Why Aziraphale is trusting him with this gift he can’t comprehend.
“I’ll miss you,” Aziraphale says. Then, he is gone.
***
He doesn’t read it immediately, or anyway, he makes it an hour before pouring himself a large glass of red and sitting down with the book on his lap. He realises it’s too fragile to read in such a way, so he sprawls on the floor and supports the bindings with the only pillow he owns.
Aziraphale’s handwriting is beautiful; a delicate, even scrawl with flourishes on the first and last letters in each word. Crowley has always loved it, though he’d never admit it out loud. It’s the handwriting of a monk who is an aesthete, who appreciates fine wine and food and the bright colours of illuminated manuscripts. Aziraphale was never a very good monk, but he is a good angel; the only good angel Crowley has ever known.
It begins in Latin. We met again today after eight years. I wasn’t expecting him, but I’ve been hoping we might run into each other. Anticipating it, perhaps. Crawley, no, Crowley now, fascinates me. He isn’t at all like what a demon should be, though I have not met many. He doesn’t smell like Brimstone, hasn’t any insects or reptile familiars. I suppose it’s the need to blend in on Earth, but even before, he smelled different. A little like smoke and wine, with a hint of something else. I have been trying to place it and only today was able: thyme. He smells as though he’s been gathering herbs in a garden.
We had oysters, utterly delicious, and talked all night. Mostly about work, but then other things, like our travels. Crowley has been all over. Constantinople most recently before Rome. I think he is lonely. I almost had the feeling he had intentionally sought me out, and when we left each other in the morning, he seemed reluctant. I don’t know when I’ll see him again. I don’t know why I hope it’s soon.
Crowley sucks in a breath and presses himself up to sit. He can’t help it: he sniffs under his arm and wonders. The idea that Aziraphale has written this, has thought about him in this way. He can’t even bring himself to be offended about the whole bad-about-being-a-demon thing.
The next few pages detail Aziraphale’s day-to-day life in Rome with special attention to the food he eats, the plays and art he sees. Only minor consideration is given to the miracles he performs, and isn’t it so like Aziraphale to be modest, to be unable to contain his joy about the human world. Crowely reads on, fascinated at this unrestricted access into Aziraphale’s thoughts. He is tempted to skip ahead, find another reference to himself, but he doesn’t want to rush. He wants to savor Aziraphale’s words for as long as he possibly can.
Crowley proposed something completely audacious when we met yesterday. He’s been fomenting, apparently, as the Black Knight, but I don’t think his heart is in it. He wants us to call it even and stop working at cross-purposes. I dare say he has a point, but even the thought is blasphemous. It would get us both discorporated, not to mention the paperwork! It certainly isn’t something I can consider seriously.
He looked quite handsome in his armour, I thought.
Well, of course, Crowley thinks smugly; he’d had the suit made out of the blackest steel.
It’s been a long time, too long.
One hundred fifteen years, three months and six days, to be exact. Crowley had been sent to Spain and then Germany to spark unrest between petty kings, his Dark Ages specialty, while Aziraphale became a knight of the bloody round table. And their meeting in the forest had been too fucking short.
Day turns into night, and Crowley’s eyes grow heavy. He brings the book to bed with him and sleeps breathing in the smell of Aziraphale.
***
It’s foolish of me to be writing this down, I know. If anyone finds it, I’m ruined. But I have to tell someone, even if I can only tell myself. I’ve begun having reactions—human ones—and to Crowley no less. There is no precedent, nothing I can find in the literature, that explains this phenomenon. Yes, angels can connect soul-to-soul, the mingling of spiritual essence, or so I’m told, but never this gross physical wanting. I shouldn’t desire this; he is a demon. He is my friend, too. Unfortunately, I have found it difficult to control, and since we have been meeting more regularly, it’s happening with alarming frequency. Perhaps I have been on Earth too long, but I find the idea of leaving abhorrent.
I need some time away from him to discover what it all means. Tomorrow, I’m entering a monastery and will stay as long as I can. Crowley won’t be able to follow, it being consecrated ground. He would say I’m running away. Perhaps I am.
Very few things have shocked Crowley in his long life. He has seen stars born, worlds created and nearly destroyed. He’s seen lakes of fire consume hundreds of bodies, flaying them to the bone and then regurgitating them only to begin again. He’s seen one third of Heaven’s Host plunge to the depths below, hair streaming with fire. He’s seen parents kill their children, children their parents. He’s flown over the aurora borealis to visit the edges of the earth.
Nothing has prepared him for this. He sits, stunned, reading the words over and over again, the answer to the question he could never ask. Aziraphale, you bastard. Running away, yes, that whole damned century was a wash.
But . . .
A physical reaction isn’t love, you miserable arse, he tells himself, unable to quell the surge of hope rioting through his body. That was one of the things he was supposed to have lost in the Fall. Only a couple of little things. Grace, hope, and the ability to love. Shite luck he’s still got two out of the three.
He closes the book carefully and grabs his keys and sunglasses. Revving up the engine of the Bentley that was never burnt, he peels down the street and wonders where the angel has got to. Run away again. The bookshop is empty, closed sign askew on the door and windows darkened. Crowley stands there staring for longer than he should, closes his eyes and breathes, reaching out with his too-sharp senses for warmth.
There’s no trace of Aziraphale in the ether, no clue of where he’s gone. This has only happened once before, this slipping away. He had searched for years until he found that bloody monastery. It had consumed him, for a time. There had been no one else in the world he wanted to talk to. He would have given anything to hear the angel’s prattle in his ear.
Crowley drives home more slowly and, once he gets there, considers saying to hell with it and going to sleep. Instead he pours another drink and reads on.
There are no entries for the next hundred or so years. Aziraphale seems more himself again when he continues in the late fifteenth century, more under control. There’s no mention of feelings beyond friendship for Crowley, or anyone else for that matter. Crowley can’t help the crushing sense of disappointment, searches more quickly through the fragile pages for any mention of himself. He’s selfish, he covets: it’s one of the things Hell got right.
The Renaissance and the French Revolution come and go; Aziraphale rhapsodizes about Shakespeare and crepes, is grateful for Crowley’s intervention at the guillotine. Their arrangement is born and continues, though Aziraphale only alludes to it generally; maybe he’s worried someone is watching after all.
He grows less careful in the eighteenth century, and Crowley once again begins to drink his words. My dear boy, he calls Crowley. How I miss him when we’re apart; it’s impossible to deny. I’m a terrible fool.
Then, St. James Park. Crowley takes a deep breath and reads about the holy water fiasco.
How dare he ask this of me? What would I do if he were no longer here? How could he think so little of himself, of what he means to this world?
Only to you, angel. Crowley won’t ever be sorry he asked. He didn’t want to kill himself, but he knows how it would be with him if he’d been the one who asked for fire. He’s lived through it, hasn’t he, walking into that flaming bookshop, sure he would never see Aziraphale again. There are no words to describe that feeling of loss, worse than losing heaven. Heaven has nothing on this.
He pushes those memories aside and reads, eyes seeking for bits of them together.
1941. This war is such a mess; the world is full of horrible things. Crowley is not one of them, no matter what he wants me to believe. If he ever knew how I love him . . . It’s surely impossible.
Crowley rubs the bridge of his nose with two fingers, sets down his empty glass. He is, for the first time in millennia, at a loss.
***
The next day, Crowley realises he’d forgotten to sober himself the night before. He has a splitting headache, and his bleary eyes can barely focus on the pages. He hasn’t eaten in a day, or is it two? Without Aziraphale dragging him around to expensive restaurants, he forgets.
There isn’t much left to the book. It ends just before the birth of the Antichrist, and Crowley can’t help wondering if Aziraphale has another book wherever he is, where he is writing their story now.
But on the last page is an address, written in a fresh hand.
***
The little cottage is by the sea, of course. Aziraphale has always loved the sea. Crowley, not so much. That’s where the first holy water came from, the sea. He does like watching the waves, though, the rise, fall and break of them, and he does so now, standing on the cliff by the cottage with his hands in his pockets, looking down.
He doesn’t know how to swim, but the dive he’s contemplating is much steeper than this.
There is a creak from behind him, an opening door.
“Crowley.”
Aziraphale doesn’t sound surprised to see him; he wouldn’t be, would he? He knew Crowley would never be able to resist the words if they belonged to him.
“Are you all right? You look awful,” says Aziraphale. He, on the other hand, is a feast for the eyes. HIs cream cashmere jumper looks soft, hangs loosely over his full belly. His trousers are just a shade darker, his feet bare. Crowley swallows.
“M’fine. Thanks, angel.”
“Come inside and have a cup of tea.”
Crowley ambles after him, takes in the small front room. A cup of tea half-drunk on the table, a plate with unidentifiable crumbs. On the floor, a pair of worn slippers. It gives him some comfort, that Aziraphale hadn’t wasted the time in putting them on before coming outside to collect him.
Aziraphale is puttering at the hob, his back turned, cottony hair pressed down on one side where he’s been sleeping.
“You’re here early,” he says, making a cup of tea he probably knows Crowley won’t drink.
“Sorry. Wasn’t much traffic on the M-25. For a change.”
“I meant, you read the book. My book. Much faster than I expected.”
“It’s been three days.” Crowely shrugs helplessly.
“It’s a long book.”
When Aziraphale turns around to offer the tea, Crowley can smell his doubt. He takes the saucer and holds it, unsure.
“Did you skip to the end, or . . . “ Aziraphale trails off, looking slightly lost. There’s a crumb of that sweet something he’d been eating at the corner of his mouth. Crowley wants to reach out and wipe it away, or better yet, taste it to see.
“I read the whole thing, cover to cover.”
“Should I be flattered?”
“Oh, you certainly do have a way with words.” Crowley feels himself lean forward, catches himself just in time. It’s impossible to be in the same room as Aziraphale and not want to touch him. How has he managed the feat all these centuries?
Of course Aziraphale notices. “Let’s sit, shall we?”
“Whatever you like.”
Back in the small front room, Crowley sits on one side of the floral nightmare of a sofa. A granny’s cottage in decor, but already with hints of Aziraphale throughout, making it his own. The pile of books on the coffee table, the morning paper folded just so, a pair of wire-rimmed reading glasses Aziraphale must have had for the last two hundred years. Aziraphale sits on the other end of the sofa, not quite close enough. It makes him tetchy. He puts down his undrunk tea and jangles his knee, the angle of it so sharp next to Aziraphale’s.
“You said I had a death wish, once. Writing a book like that, angel . . .”
“I know. Bit reckless of me, I suppose. But it doesn’t matter now, does it? I hardly think Michael or Gabriel care about the ramblings of an angel reprobate.”
“That’s a bit of a strong touch.”
Aziraphale only shrugs.
“You wrote about me,” Crowley says. They can’t dance around it forever; it’s come to this, here in this ridiculous, lovely cottage.
“Yes, you fool. Who else would I write about? It’s only ever been you.”
Crowley wants to reverse time, take those words and bottle them up. He wants to keep them with him always. He’s a fucking arsehole, and he knows whenever it all finally ends, those words will sing in his ears.
“And you?” Aziraphale is looking at him, directly into the heart of him. “I think . . . I’ve often hoped you might feel the same way.”
“Of course I do, angel.”
“Is there anything stopping us, then? Now?”
“I’m not easy to live with,” Crowley says. He’s always lived alone. “I’ll break things. I’ll break you.”
“You haven’t managed yet. I can take care of myself, dear. You don’t need to worry about me.”
And what about me, Crowley wants to ask. If I let myself have this, finally, after so long, I’ll be breakable, too. Will you keep me safe? Will you keep me when I disobey, when I ask too many questions, or will you throw me out?
Aziraphale moves closer, his warm thigh pressing against Crowley’s own. The heat of him there is too distracting for Crowley to do anything but breathe. “It’s been you and I together, all this time,” Aziraphale says. “You don’t have to be frightened of me.”
“You’re daft. I’m not frightened,” Crowley sneers. He still has some dignity, after all, some pride. A little, not much.
Aziraphale arches an eyebrow. “Aren’t you?” He stands up and offers a hand. “Now, if we’re quite finished for now, let’s go to bed and discuss this later, shall we? I’ve been waiting for a very long time.”
It seems a well-thought-out plan. Crowley isn’t about to argue. He stands on unsteady feet and grasps Aziraphale’s hand, which he has never touched like this before, fingers threading through fingers. For all he’s been a tempter these long years, he’s never done this.
How strange it should be Aziraphale to lead them upstairs to a slope-ceilinged room, to a bed that has been slept in and is still rumpled and warm. Aziraphale pulls him down, across, their bodies meeting for the first time. Crowley holds his breath, his fingers spanning down the width of Aziraphale’s ribs, as they gaze at one another. Aziraphale’s face is open, his lips parted. He licks them and Crowley follows the tracing of his tongue.
“You’re beautiful, my dear. I’d like to kiss you now.”
“Kiss away, angel.”
Crowley is expecting it to be gentle. It isn’t. Aziraphale kisses him desperately, with a mouth hotter and more insistent than any fire Crowley’s ever known. He needs more of it, more of that honey-sweet taste, that mouth he has loved. He grapples back, arching as they collide, two stars flung out together. Neither of them knows where they will land, whether this is a making or unmaking, or both. It doesn’t matter. Aziraphale is trembling with his hands in Crowley’s hair, his mouth drinking deeply, as though he were an 1837 Châteauneuf-du-Pape. They are both hard and seeking, and Crowley reaches down between them to finally feel Aziraphale’s prick, that warm human part of him, pressing insistently against his trousers. They have been in these bodies too long; once, there was no form, they were everything. Crowely likes this more: how base it is, this animal need. He feels the vibration of Aziraphale down to his core, his snake senses emerging, seeking out that taste with a flicker of his tongue.
Aziraphale moans into his mouth. “Oh, my dear, yes, do that to me. I want your hand, your mouth. Everything.”
“Start with the clothes,” Crowely manages. Like that, they are gone. “Not worried about getting a strongly-worded note?”
Aziraphale laughs giddily. “Not anymore.”
“Please, let me see you.” He pushes up to look his fill, Aziraphale’s body no longer a mystery, the firm thighs and plush stomach, the broad chest, arms that have wielded flaming swords, hands that have cared for beloved things, blunt-nailed and strong-fingered, but all soft. Aziraphale is looking back, his eyes roving over Crowley’s whipcord body, his sinewy extremities, his obvious desire. There is nothing he would hold back now, nothing he could. Aziraphale sees him completely.
Crowely can’t help himself, he takes one of Aziraphale’s fingers in his mouth and sucks, kisses the palm of his hand. Aziraphale closes his eyes and lets out a soft sigh. Crowley moves lower, covetous lips moving over smooth skin, the jut of hip bone, the dark crease of the groin. Insinuates himself between thighs and does what Aziraphale has asked, stroking and tasting unhurriedly. Aziraphale’s hands are in Crowley’s hair, grasping and releasing, watching with a rapturous look on his face, whispering, “You’re, oh, what you’re doing, yes, like that.”
“Don’t hold back, angel,” Crowley says, and Aziraphale’s hips rise off the bed, driving up with six thousand years of need. Crowley feels the flesh swell in his mouth, mirroring his own ache. Aziraphale cries out, releasing the salty tang of desire, and Crowely drinks it all down, those long lonely years.
They spend the day in bed. It is utterly decadent, Aziraphale observes, though he doesn’t seem to be complaining. There are centuries to recoup. They are quick learners, perhaps because they’ve had so much time to study.
“What shall we do next?” Aziraphale asks as they lounge with limbs entwined, the seductive hardness against Crowley’s leg growing more insistent as Aziraphale shifts and fidgets. Crowley should have suspected his angel would be like this, never satisfied, asking once again for another taste. He is only too happy to oblige.
He smiles into the back of Aziraphale’s sweaty head pillowed on his shoulder. “I’ll take whatever you’re having.”
Crowely lets himself be straddled, stretches his arms out in offering. He sucks in a gasp when Aziraphale kisses his jaw, down the line of his neck, bites his jutting collarbones. Their bodies fit together so well, it almost makes Crowley think that somewhere, the Almighty approves.
“Is this all right?” Aziraphale asks, grasping him with that soft, strong hand. “You’re not too tired?”
“More than all right, angel. I’ll never tire of you.”
Aziraphale holds him firmly and sinks down for the second time that day, setting the pace as Crowely holds his rolling hips. He bites his kiss-swollen lips and gazes down at Crowley, and there is so much more than desire in his star-bright eyes. For a moment Crowley thinks he sees a hint of wings.
“Do you ever fly anymore?” he asks as the pressure begins to build. His fingers are sharp against Aziraphale’s skin. “That’s the one thing I miss.”
Aziraphale starts to lose his rhythm. “I’ll fly with you, my love. Let’s fly.”
***
Crowley stays at the cottage. He despises the fussy lace curtains and the too-small bath; there are mothballs in the attic, which remind him of Hastur. Luckily the smell doesn’t travel; the other rooms smell like Aziraphale.
Crowley gives the book back, and it disappears somewhere. He never asks. It was a gift he had never deserved in the first place, though now he’s starting to wonder if someday he might.
“You know, my dear, I’ve been thinking. Maybe we should find another place,” Aziraphale says one day as they watch the sunset, sipping glasses of cheap Chianti, the best they could find in the little shop down the road.
“You don’t like it here?” Crowley watches him carefully.
“I do, yes. But it’s not really your style, is it? It’s a bit old-fashioned. Maybe we could find someplace better. More suited to both of us. You could bring some things from your old flat, and I could bring some things from mine. How would that be?”
Crowley considers it. He doesn’t really care where they are, not if they’re together, but never in a million years will Aziraphale get that sop from him. He doesn’t want a damn thing from his flat, either, save his plants and records. But it makes him warm that Aziraphale cares about his comfort and wants to make him happy. He’s a fucking angel, and that’s what he’s like.
Crowley leans over and gives Aziraphale a kiss on his pale cheek. “All right. Sounds good to me. Whatever you like.”
Aziraphale claps his hands and presses them to his face, where Crowley’s mouth had been. “Oh splendid! I have been doing some research on that device you gave me.”
“The computer?”
“Yes, whatever it’s called. Fascinating thing. Got to be a bit careful about what you say to it.” He raises an eyebrow, and Crowely decides that’s a story to pry out of him later. “We’ll find someplace perfect, I know it.”
“I don’t doubt it at all.”
“You wouldn’t . . .” Aziraphale pauses, free hand plucking at the buttons of his waistcoat. “You don’t think it’s a bit too, well, anticlimactic, do you? To find ourselves someplace quiet. If you want to travel, go abroad, I don’t want to keep you—”
“Angel,” says Crowley, clasping the nervous hand. “I don’t want to be anywhere else. I promise.”
“Oh. Very good, then.” Aziraphale flushes and smiles. “Moving on to more immediate matters, what shall we have for supper tonight?”
“Oysters,” says Crowley after giving it some thought. “Definitely oysters.”