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Angels don’t really fear to tread. The thing is, they walk silently, so they can go almost anywhere without being detected. It comes in quite handily when one needs to perform a blessing or minor miracle among humans, who don’t notice much anyway. It’s even more convenient when you’re trying to sneak into the home of an occult being, like, for instance, a demon.
Aziraphale presses Crowley’s flat door open and braces the lavender plant on his hip, giving the foyer a quick look to ensure he’s alone. The plant, tall and bursting with flowers in full bloom, rustles quietly as Aziraphale shuts the door. Crowley has been sleeping for almost a week; Aziraphale knows because he’s come every day to extend his apology for the row they’d had a fortnight after the Apocalypse-that-wasn’t.
He’s still not entirely sure why Crowley had reacted the way he did when Aziraphale told him about the human men. He wasn’t even sure why it had been a surprise. After all, Crowley had slept through the entirety of the 19th century, and Aziraphale had been alone all that time in every way that mattered. Why shouldn’t he have experimented with sexual pleasure? Wilde and his set had been most welcoming, and the closest thing to friends he’d ever had, save Crowley. Even so, without the one person who really understood him, it had been a long, lonely hundred years.
Of course, he hadn’t told Crowley so much in words. He’d simply shook his head in dismay as Crowley rose from his seat and left the bookshop, too stunned to do much else. The fact that Crowley was a . . . he hadn’t, in all his time on Earth, touched another being in that way, not even with all the tempting. It was beyond comprehension. And Crowley was angry with him for it. Jealous, he’d realised with a start.
Later that day, he’d found Crowley asleep.
The lavender plant is beautiful and delicate. Aziraphale isn’t sure Crowley will want it; the rest of his garden tends toward the large and flat green-leafed variety. Even so, he sets it down on a vacant slab of granite and leans down to inhale the sweet aroma, his favorite. If nothing else, he hopes Crowley will soon awake and see the plant as a peace offering, and that maybe it will remind him of Aziraphale.
Finally satisfied with the placement, he turns and walks towards the front door. A strange sound comes from the hall behind him, and he forgets to breathe. With his hand on the handle, he pauses, listening. It sounds like a moan. The first thought that occurs to him is that Crowley is in trouble, maybe even injured. Perhaps someone from Below came back after all and decided to finish what they started. Aziraphale’s chest squeezes with fear.
Quickly, he retraces his steps and grabs the iron statue of Athena, a Christmas gift he’d given Crowley the year before. With the hefty weight in his hand, he moves silently down the hall to stand outside Crowley’s bedroom.
The door is ajar, displaying a perfect view of the bed. And on it, Crowley is naked, thrusting his swollen cock into his fist.
Aziraphale nearly faints.
Crowley is beautiful in the early morning light, his lithe body trembling with his exertions. He uses both hands on himself, creating a slick tunnel to use as he likes. From the flush on his body and the state of his arousal, it looks like he has been attending himself for quite some time. Sweat glistens on his chest and his taut stomach. His lips are bitten red and swollen.
Aziraphale nearly drops the statue he is holding, the moral quandary making his head spin. On the one hand, it is certainly not acceptable for him to watch such an intimate act. It’s an invasion of privacy at best; at worst, it’s an unforgivable violation. It would be best if he turned and left and forgot this had ever happened.
On the other hand, Crowley is arresting. His legs flex, thigh muscles bunching as he arches and writhes, lost to pleasure. His cock is long and lean with dark curling hair at the base and heavy, round bollocks. Aziraphale can’t move, eyes greedy as he drinks in the sight. What would it be like to be on that bed with Crowley, to take that delicious length into his mouth? He swallows back the flood of saliva in his mouth, his own body beginning to Make an Effort.
“Yessss,” Crowley hisses. “Angel.”
With a shock, Aziraphale thinks he’s been caught out, and he is about to stammer a reply when Crowley starts moving more quickly, hands working his prick and rubbing over the head on each pass. He moves too fast to be quite human. With a fit of giddiness Aziraphale almost thinks he sees sleek black scales.
“Angel, fuck,” Crowley almost sighs. He’s got his eyes closed, head tilted back to expose his long, vulnerable throat. A fierce protectiveness rises up in Aziraphale. The feeling, not unusual when it comes to the demon, takes on a proprietary edge. For the first time since their little spat, he understands why Crowley was so distressed over his rememberings. He doesn’t want anyone else’s hands on Crowley. Crowley is his, has always been and always will be. His love.
“Oh my dear,” he whispers to himself, his ribcage tight with longing. His own arousal is making itself known in the shape of a prick, which pushes needily against his trousers. He digs his nails into his palms to stop himself from reaching for it. Already he has crossed the line; he won’t go further.
On the bed, Crowley is nearing his climax. His sinewy hips snap upwards, his prick so obviously ready, Aziraphale’s throbs in sympathy. He realises he’s gripping the statue so hard, the metal has begun to give.
Crowley cries out again, and with one final, brutal thrust, he ejaculates onto his belly and the sheets, the amount so impressive Aziraphale almost moans. He has been such a fool.
Once he thought he knew himself. He knew his place in the cosmos, and he knew Crowley’s. All of that is over, and has been for a long time, if he’s being honest. It is a difficult transition, understanding that no one is holding him back, save himself. Now, there is only one place he belongs.
Aziraphale’s hands tremble. He sets down the statue quietly on the hall table as Crowley sorts himself with languid movements. The arousal that had built while Crowley pleasured himself is still there, an almost painful ache. It's been a long time since he’s chosen to manifest his desire, and once he has, it's not so easily dismissed.
“Aziraphale,” Crowley says softly. “I know you’re there.”
Caught out at last. Aziraphale steels himself with a fortifying breath, then pushes the door open to reveal himself. Crowley leans back against a sea of pillows. A black silk sheet swaths his slim hips, and he is looking at Aziraphale with an inscrutable expression, eyes slightly narrowed.
“Hello,” says Aziraphale, somewhat sheepishly. “So, you’re awake.”
“I could smell you.” Crowley shifts, and the sheet slips dangerously low. “The whole flat reeks of bloody lavender.”
Aziraphale flushes. “I brought you a plant. To . . . ah, apologize. I was callous. I should have been more thoughtful.”
Crowley’s lips tighten. “You don’t need to be sorry for anything, angel.”
“It feels like I do.” He approaches the bed, not sure he is welcome, but Crowley doesn’t turn him away. Crowley’s tongue flits out as he glances at the juncture between Aziraphale’s thighs, where he is still hard. It sends a jolt through Aziraphale, to see his desire reflected in Crowley’s eyes. But that’s not important now. “I . . . I didn’t mean to intrude on a private moment. I thought you might be hurt.”
Crowley chuckles and runs a hand through his wrecked hair, which is sticking up on one side where it has been plastered against his pillow for days. “Oh, well you were right on that account.”
“Crowley—”
“Listen, angel. I’m not going to lie, I was jealous when you told me about . . .” He waves his hand. “But that’s not why I left.”
Aziraphale swallows. It feels like there is something blocking his throat, constricting airways he doesn’t even need. “It isn’t?”
“I had to get out of there to stop myself from doing something stupid.”
“Like what?”
“Are you really going to make me say it first? I’ve been waiting for you, you must know that. But I never thought you were interested, that you would want to . . . express yourself in the human way. When I found out you had—at length—with others, well, leaving was all I could do to stop myself from begging.”
“Oh Crowley, oh my dear boy.” Aziraphale takes another step toward the bed; Crowley gazes up at him.
“Don’t you dare pity me.”
“I wouldn’t dream of it. I have been so foolish. I was afraid. But you must know how completely, how utterly I love and want you.”
Crowley’s eyes widen in understanding. His hands, which have been nervously working the sheet, lift up.
Falling into Crowley’s arms is the easiest thing Aziraphale has ever done.