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- kiss on the forehead
It’s 1148, and Aziraphale isn’t sure these wars are ever going to end. The Holy Land is drenched in blood, and he can only wonder if this was how it was all supposed to go. He doesn’t take questioning the ineffable plan lightly, but one has to pause sometimes, when one has seen something only described as an immeasurable tragedy, and ask if it was really meant to be seen at all. If it was meant to be seen by anybody, immortal and otherworldly or not.
He slinks into the room, just far enough away from the main fray that no one should be bothering him, at least for the night. This building has been abandoned, and he’s sure no one minds if he borrows a bed for a little while. He doesn’t need to sleep, but he wouldn’t mind if he slipped into it on accident. Mostly, he just wants to lie down. His body aches and his eyes sting, and he wants to grip his calloused hands around a pillow and just drift.
Something shifts, and his hand goes to his sword. It’s dark in here, but not so dark he can’t see. Just dark enough that he’d missed the figure sitting in the corner of the room, slumped against a wall.
“I should have guessed I’d find you here,” he says, and he isn’t sure if he means his voice to come out so harsh.
“Where else would I be?” Crowley responds, and he sounds tired. Bone-achingly, world-weary tired. “Where else would anybody be?”
Aziraphale glares, and then softens, his eyes too tired to keep it up. He closes them, one hand coming up to rub with his palm. “Shall we just agree not to bother each other for the night, then?”
Crowley scoffs, his head tilting back against the wall. “You’re the one who found my hiding spot.”
“It wasn’t on purpose,” Aziraphale says, crossing the room to sink down onto the bed. For some reason, the room seems too big, and his head seems too full. His chest aches. He stands again, and this time sits next to Crowley on the floor. The feeling eases.
Crowley lifts an ornate glass bottle and holds it out to him. When Aziraphale puts it to his lips, he expects it to be alcohol, but it’s only water. Somehow, that’s better.
He holds onto the bottle, swirling the contents inside as he stares down at it. Crowley’s head is tipped back, yellow eyes staring at the opposite wall.
“I want this bloody war to end,” Aziraphale whispers. His throat burns, and he takes another swallow.
“I just want to sleep.”
Aziraphale sighs, nodding. His eyes flick to the other side of the room. “There’s a perfectly good bed.”
Crowley swallows, and holds out his hand. Aziraphale passes the bottle back.
“Can’t,” Crowley says, and doesn’t continue.
Aziraphale nods again.
For a while, they sit, passing the bottle back and forth. Aziraphale jumps when Crowley suddenly slams it to the floor, the sound ringing in the quiet room. His body curls in as he raises a hand to cover his eyes. His shoulders shudder, breath shaking and wet.
Aziraphale sits, and waits.
Eventually, Crowley wipes his eyes and settles back against the wall, sniffing harshly in the quiet room. Aziraphale hands him the bottle again, and he takes a few swigs.
He doesn’t know if he’s overstepping, but what’s there to overstep in a war, so he tugs Crowley up by his sleeve and leads him over to the bed. Crowley sinks onto it, a little line wrinkling between his eyebrows as he closes his eyes.
Aziraphale watches him for a moment, the way his hand clenches and unclenches on his stomach, and then leans over to press his lips against the demon’s forehead.
Good sleep. Good dreams, he thinks, and by the time he pulls away, Crowley is already asleep. He turns and gathers the nearest chair, bringing it over to sit by the bedside. He can’t protect them all, but at least he can do this.
- kiss on the hand
It’s 1612 and they’re getting swept away in the swell of people leaving the theater after the latest performance of Much Ado. It’s without thinking, really, that Aziraphale grabs onto Crowley’s hand to make sure they don’t get separated in the crowd. If he was a more honest person, he would admit that he’s had too much to drink and is a little off his guard, and if he was an even more honest person, he would admit that he’s been thinking about holding Crowley’s hand quite a lot, actually, and this seemed the perfect excuse.
But he’s not, so he doesn’t.
The crowd pushes and sways and jeers and hollers, all thoroughly taken with the comedic adventures of Benedick and the fair Beatrice. A lady too well dressed for this theater pushes past them, on the arm of an equally well-dressed man as she coos, “Well, it was obvious they were in love,” and Aziraphale blushes without knowing why.
“Fancy a drink?” Crowley asks him, shooting it over his shoulder as he finally manages to extract them both from the crowd.
“Oh, I’ve had one too many already, I’m afraid.”
Crowley looks away as he nods, as if to hide his expression. Aziraphale soon realizes he’s looking for something, twisting his head up and down the street. Their hands, he also realizes, remain clasped. He’s not sure what to do about that. He hopes his palm isn’t sweating, he feels awfully warm.
Crowley’s other hand rises and his fingers curl, and it’s probably a testament to his drink-addled head how long it takes Aziraphale to realize he’s waving to the coach that pulls to a stop in front of them. The coach driver peers down at them, and Crowley’s palm against his own burns.
“Ride for my friend,” Crowley says, fumbling in his pocket with his free hand. “Extra coin if you go easy on the turns.”
Money changes hands, and Aziraphale’s fingers come up to tug on his collar. The horse isn’t looking at them too, is it? No, he thinks, he shouldn’t be silly. It’s just a horse. If anything, it’s concerned about the snake by its hind leg. Its hoof lifts and taps a few times.
“He doesn’t bite,” Aziraphale whispers, tongue thick and fuzzy, and both Crowley and the coachman shoot him a look.
“Where ‘ya headed?” the coachman asks.
“Um.” He blinks a few times.
“Towards Leaden,” Crowley supplies, and the man nods and flicks on the reins. The door is opened, and Aziraphale stares dumbly inside.
“Well,” Crowley says, not looking at him. “Probably be around and about in a few years or so. Depends on what plays are on.”
He nods, still not entering the coach. “Well. Then I shall hope the bard’s next won’t be a sad one.”
Crowley smirks, just a little, and Aziraphale doesn’t know if it’s awkward at this point that they’re still holding hands. One of them should pull away first, but he thinks the process should have started a while ago.
“Right,” Crowley says, and clears his throat. Quick as a strike, he pulls Aziraphale’s hand up to his mouth and places a kiss against his knuckles.
By the time Aziraphale can blink, he’s lost to the crowd.
He stands and stares for a while, until the coachman grumbles about his dinner waiting at home and how it’ll have gone cold by now, and Aziraphale gathers his wits (what precious little he has remaining) and pulls himself into the coach. The ride home is bumpy, and the coachman most certainly doesn’t take it easy on the turns, but Aziraphale isn’t paying attention, anyway. The skin of his knuckles is tingling too much for that.
- kiss on the cheek
It’s 1965 and if Aziraphale has to sit through another Beatles song he’s going to riot. He’s not sure where he’d be rioting, exactly. Not his shop, he’d hate to mess it up. The street? Seems plebian. Where do people go to riot these days? He hasn’t the foggiest. All he knows is that if another youth comes into his shop in a Beatles tee looking for records he’s going to turn into a kettle and scream.
He’s at the piano lounge sipping on a glass of Sherry that he may have aged himself. The pianist is particularly good today—he should know, he got her this job. It had only taken one particularly good recommendation to get her off the street and into a well-paying job. He hadn’t been assigned that one. He just liked her.
A man slips into the seat next to him at the bar, but he doesn’t pay much mind. He’s lost in the gentle swell of the piano and the taste of the alcohol on his tongue.
The man shifts, waving down the bartender. “May I buy you a drink?”
Aziraphale blinks. It takes him a moment to realize what’s been asked and who is asking it.
He smiles at Crowley with the corner of his mouth, not turning to look. “I already have one, thanks.”
Crowley nods, and the bartender pours him a bourbon, though he hadn’t said anything.
They sit in silence for a moment, sipping. It’s been a while since they’ve seen each other, though maybe not as long as it could have been.
After a while, Crowley holds out his hand. “Anthony,” he says, waiting on a shake, and, oh, that’s what they’re doing tonight.
Aziraphale sighs something fond into his glass. He sets it down and meets Crowley’s hand. “Mr. Fell.”
“Mr. Fell,” he repeats, nodding. “It’s a pleasure.”
“Likewise.”
Their hands drop. Crowley turns away and smiles. “Know anything fun to do around here, Mr. Fell?”
Aziraphale chuckles as picks up his glass. “Oh, you’re asking the wrong person.”
“Am I?”
“This is what I do for fun,” he responds.
“Drink by yourself?”
“Listen to music,” he shoots back. His head tilts. “And drink by myself.”
“Well,” Crowley says, laying hard on the ‘e’, “if it’s music you’re into, you ever listen to rock n’ roll? It’s all the rage, I hear.”
“Don’t even start with me,” he gripes, eyeing Crowley’s smirk. “If you even breathe of The Beatles, I shall have to find another seat. I’m serious.”
Crowley’s lips squirm as he tries to fight away a grin. “Just piano, then.”
“Not just. Violin is nice. I love a good trumpet.”
“I bet you do.”
They look at each other for a long moment, and Aziraphale turns away to smile into his glass.
“Well,” Crowley says again, quieter, “if you like music, you must like dancing.”
“I don’t dance.”
“I’ve heard from reliable sources that you do.”
Aziraphale hums, and the sound reverberates in his cup. “I don’t dance …”
“With me?”
“Here,” he finishes.
Crowley’s drink clunks onto the bar. “Then let me tempt you.”
“You are one for that, aren’t you?”
“With the right audience.”
Crowley holds out his hand, for taking this time, and not just a shake. The Sherry swirls in Aziraphale’s glass as he considers. Crowley’s fingers waggle.
“If you make a fool of me …”
“No one will remember, anyway,” Crowley assures him, and this is the first time that Aziraphale feels he’s talking to him, Aziraphale, as Crowley, and not as Anthony to Mr. Fell.
“Very well,” he says, and sets down his glass.
Crowley pulls him to the open floor, surrounded by a dim, orange light and white-clothed tables. Kim the pianist tips her head at him as they pass, and he gives her a smile. There’s no one else dancing, but no one seems to be paying them any attention. It’s just the two of them and the little specks of dust that swirl in eddies around their heads.
His hand goes to Crowley’s shoulder, and Crowley’s goes to his waist. The others are clasped together, held out to their side. They start to turn and twist, slow and languid, and it’s not dancing, not really. It’s the gentle sway of two people who can’t stand to be too far apart and don’t know how to say it.
“This is nice,” Aziraphale says eventually, sometime after Crowley’s hand has been replaced with a whole arm around his middle, and their chests are pressed together, and Aziraphale’s thumb has taken to tracing patterns on the side of Crowley’s neck. It’s not often they do this—the contact. It’s hard to justify when it could spell disaster for either of them. The wrong pair of eyes, the wrong ear, and that’s it, it would all be over. It’s easier to pretend they’re somebody else, two people for whom things are not so terribly complicated.
“It’s always nice to meet a fellow lover of the arts,” Crowley says, as if to remind him.
Aziraphale tries to smile, and he’s sure it doesn’t work, because suddenly a wave of sadness has crashed into his chest. “Quite.”
Crowley sees it on his face, because his lips pull down, and his arm gets a little stiffer as they sway. The song ends not long after, and another one fails to start. It’s the end of Kim’s shift. They’ll be closing up soon.
“Well,” Aziraphale says, throat bobbing. They stop, caught in each other’s arms. “I think I should be going soon.”
Crowley nods, and Aziraphale is glad he can’t see the disappointment behind the glasses. Aziraphale’s arms start to slip away.
“Perhaps we’ll see each other again sometime,” Crowley says, and before Aziraphale can say anything back, he leans forward to press his lips to Aziraphale’s cheek. The kiss lingers, warm and wanting, and Aziraphale’s eyes are closed by the time he pulls away. They don’t open as the warm body pulls back from his, and the sound of his shoes lead to the ring of the door.
He takes a breath and lets it out slow. His eyes don’t open until the hand falls on his elbow. It’s only Kim, the little figure of her at his side.
“He was cute,” she says, head tilting. “Did you get his number?”
He swallows, and his eyes linger on the door for a long while. “I think he’ll find me.”
- kiss on the stomach
It’s 2019 and the world didn’t end, and his lips are hot on Crowley’s neck, and Crowley is taking quick little breaths beneath him, his fingers digging into Aziraphale’s shoulder blades. He wants to say careful dear, careful, because if Crowley keeps pressing like that, clawing and grasping, Aziraphale won’t be able to keep his wings in. Not that he has to. Not here, tucked safely away in bed, here, with Crowley, where they should’ve been all along. He doesn’t say that, though. His mouth is busy traveling downwards, down to the dip between his neck and his shoulder, down to nip at his collarbone. Crowley gasps and sighs, one of his hands finding Aziraphale’s hair.
I’m sorry I took so long, Aziraphale wants to say, and doesn’t. I’m sorry I waited. I’m sorry I was scared. I’m sorry I didn’t let us have this, what we could have had for so long. I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.
He wants to be here, he wants to be present, but the feelings are building in his chest, a six-thousand-year ache of shame and guilt and worry. He wants to spread his wings out, just so there’s more of him, more surface to spread the feeling around. He closes his eyes and kisses down Crowley’s chest, nails scratching at the demon’s ribs. Crowley tugs, and his eyes open. He stops.
Crowley, once he notices, stills below him. His yellow eyes find Aziraphale’s face, and he stiffens.
“What’s this?” Aziraphale asks, moving his hand to trail along it. His touch is gentle, and Crowley’s skin jumps in a shiver.
Crowley swallows. “It’s nothing.”
It’s not nothing, Aziraphale wants to say. It’s a scar. A burn mark, in the shape of a feather. That’s not nothing. His thumb licks the edge of it. Crowley shivers again.
“Is this from …” Aziraphale doesn’t know why he’s on the edge of tears. It’s just that this is something they don’t talk about. Crowley will joke sometimes, sure, or make comments. But they don’t talk about it. Aziraphale always knew that was off-limits.
Crowley’s hand finds his, and he tries to steer him away, but Aziraphale holds fast. He may be the Southern pansy, but he’s strong, in more ways than one. If he doesn’t want to be moved, he won’t be moved, and Crowley knows that.
He’s also weak, and that’s okay too.
He blinks his eyes shut, and the few little tears that escape fall on Crowley’s stomach. Crowley’s fingers come up to brush the wetness off his cheeks, muttering a little, “Don’t. Please don’t.”
“I’m sorry,” Aziraphale says. “I’m sorry, I—”
He buries his face in Crowley’s stomach, his eyebrows furrowing and face pinching as he tries not to cry. It’s a losing battle, because he is, and he isn’t sure he can stop it. It’s just that everything is building up, all six-thousand years of it, the pining and the want and the longing, and the anguish that came along with it. It’s all come to the forefront, right here, right now, and then there’s this. The fall. It’s a little too much.
“I’ve—” Crowley clears his throat. “I’ve tried to magic it away, but … Yeah.”
Aziraphale takes a deep breath, two, then three. His thumbs rub little circles on Crowley’s sides. Crowley twitches as Aziraphale shudders out a breath. Forehead rests against ribs.
“I’m sorry,” he says, gathering himself. He isn’t sure if he’s apologizing for the tears or the scar itself. He pulls back, gazing at it again. It’s long, stretching from just under his ribs to the line of his waist, a perfectly etched silhouette.
“Can …” Aziraphale cuts himself off. He doesn’t even know what he was going to ask. He swallows, blinking a few times, and then leans down. His lips against the scar burn.
Crowley inhales, loud and sharp, and Aziraphale doesn’t pull his lips away. They’re tingling and itching, hot and cold at the same time, but he’s strong, and he holds steady.
Crowley’s hand curls against his neck, and finally, finally, he pulls away. On the edge of a barb, half on the scar and half not, lies the mark of the kiss. It’s fresh and red but growing dimmer already. Slowly, it fades until it’s only a shadow. But it’s there. And there it’ll stay.
- kiss on the thigh
It’s 2031 and they haven’t left the hospital for three days. It’s been a long time since Crowley was in a hospital, since he was in one for a birth, and though the circumstances are much different, he’s nervous. He’s been pacing up and down the room for the last hour, three cups of coffee gone just today, snapping at every nurse who happens to come their way.
“Labor doesn’t last this long!” he snaps, and the nurse gives him a sheepish expression. “Can’t you- I don’t know- give her something? Is she in pain? Has she slept?”
“I don’t—” The nurse swallows. “-have any more information at this—”
“Then what good are you?” Crowley hisses, and continues to pace.
Aziraphale yawns as he watches him. He’s gotten quite used to sleep, in the years after the apocalypse-that-wasn’t, and sitting in this chair for the last three days, under the fluorescent lights and beep of distant machines, hasn’t done wonders for his brain. He’s foggy and tired, and, he’ll admit, a little cranky. Well. Maybe more than a little. He and Anathema have already gotten into a screaming match, were kicked out by the nurses, and had a tearful make-up in the parking lot. She’s currently asleep against his shoulder, so he knows all is forgiven.
“Crowley,” he grumbles, cheek propped on his fist. “If you keep pacing like that I’m going to make you wait in the car. You’re making me dizzy.”
Crowley stops, and Aziraphale is sure a little steam actually comes out his ears.
“Sorry, your highness,” Crowley gripes, hands waving. “I’ll just plunk down into a chair and not move for the next three days, how’s that? I’ll just sit there and stew until me and the whole building catch on fire, would that be better for you?”
“Anathema,” Aziraphale mumbles, his tired eyes falling shut. He knows she’s awake by how she stirs at her name. “Crowley is being mean to me.”
She hums, and Aziraphale cracks open an eye. She starts patting around for her pocket with hers still closed. The fabric of her skirt gives way to her, and the knife is out and open before either of them can blink. “Crowley,” she says, waving the knife in a sleepy motion, “if you’re mean, I’ll …” The knife drops a bit. “Mmmph.”
Aziraphale pats her arm. “Very intimidating, thank you, dear.”
She nods, yawning as she slips the knife away. “I’m gonna find food, I think.”
“Get me something sweet.”
She nods again, back cracking as she stands. She shoves half-heartedly at Crowley as she passes him, and he spreads his arms and scoffs.
“I want a coffee,” he calls after her.
“No,” she shoots back, and then is through the door.
Crowley grumbles, slouching over towards Aziraphale. Aziraphale pats his leg, and Crowley flops to the floor and rests his head on Aziraphale’s knee.
“Tired,” Crowley mumbles.
“Me too.”
“I want her to be okay.”
“Me too.”
“The baby, too.”
Aziraphale sighs, stroking Crowley’s hair. He’s growing it out again, but after three days here it just looks disheveled and messy. “I know, dear.”
Crowley turns to bury his face against Aziraphale’s leg, groaning. “Can’t you … do something?” he asks, voice muffled against Aziraphale’s skin. Aziraphale usually isn’t one for shorts, but it’s the middle of summer, and they’ve been hitting records for the past week. Plus, Crowley finally convinced him to get a new wardrobe.
Aziraphale swallows, twisting Crowley’s red locks between his fingers. “It’s been a long time,” he admits. “I don’t want to mess anything up. And with the baby’s parentage …”
“Yeah,” Crowley says, tired. “Yeah.”
They sit for a while, Aziraphale running his fingers through Crowley’s hair, growing sleepier by the second. He’s almost out when the door opens, both of them turning to look. They’re expecting Anathema. It’s not. Aziraphale’s heart clenches.
Adam looks exhausted. There are bags under his eyes, a shadow of a beard on his face, and his hair is as messy as Crowley’s. But he’s smiling. Praise where praise is due, he’s smiling.
“They’re both okay,” he says, and he looks like he might cry. “They’re fine, they’re healthy, everything’s fine.”
“No hooves?” Aziraphale says, because he lost his filter about two days into this stay.
Adam laughs. “Ten perfect little toes.”
“We’ll be right in,” Crowley says, and he sounds choked. Adam nods and exits through the door.
Crowley sighs, long and slow, and reaches up to his eyes for a moment. Now that the worry is gone, Aziraphale feels it was the only thing keeping them awake.
“Come on, angel,” Crowley mumbles. “Let’s meet the newest little antichrist.”
“Don’t even joke,” Aziraphale laughs, and his eyes are closed. “Maybe just a quick lie-down first.”
“Mm. Mm-mm, come on.” Crowley groans as he stands. “Where are your shoes?”
Aziraphale hums, his head growing heavier. “Don’t know.”
He can hear Crowley shuffling around the room, checking under chairs and tables. He finds them and gives a little “ah”, and crosses back.
Aziraphale feels the tap on his foot.
“Lift,” Crowley says, and so he does.
Crowley tugs the laces tight, but not too tight, and ties them off in a neat little bow. He continues with the other foot, but doesn’t stand when he’s finished. Aziraphale peeks open an eye.
Crowley is kneeling in front of him, staring up with a look of sleepy adoration. “Sorry I snapped,” he says.
“S’okay.” Aziraphale’s eyes blink slow. “Sorry Anathema pulled a knife on you.”
Crowley chuckles. “It happens.” His hand rises to fall on Aziraphale’s knee, thumb rubbing slow. “Love you,” he mumbles, and Aziraphale’s chest warms.
“You too,” Aziraphale says.
Crowley smiles and leans forward, pushing a kiss against the nearest available spot. The skin by Aziraphale’s knee, just below the line of his shorts. His skin tingles.
“Ready to meet our god-grandchild?” Crowley asks when he pulls back.
“As I’ll ever be.”
Crowley takes his hand, and together they stand. “It’s okay to be nervous,” he says, and Aziraphale laughs.
“I’m not worried about me.”
And together, they cross through the door.
+1. kiss on the lips
It’s 2117, and tomorrow they’re replacing the benches in St. James Park. Admittedly, the wood is getting old, and the bench is getting weak, and it’s quite faded. Still, Aziraphale will miss it. They’ve been sitting on this bench for a long time, and it’s put him in a rather contemplative mood.
“Do you ever think,” Aziraphale starts, “about getting old?”
Crowley turns to look at him, his braided hair shifting on his shoulder. Aziraphale likes that he can see his eyes, now. He stopped wearing the glasses a while ago. With all the new body modifications going around, most people don’t question it. “Just in general, you mean?”
Aziraphale sighs, looking back out at the pond. The ducks flutter and quack, and it’s a comfort. That’s one thing that hasn’t changed after all this time, they still love to come and watch the ducks.
“I mean us.”
Crowley hums, and his thumb strokes over Aziraphale’s knuckles. He turns to look as well. “Yes. Sometimes.”
“Do you ever wish we could? Grow old, I mean.”
Crowley takes a contemplative sigh, adjusting his slouch. “I mean, we could change these forms, if we wanted to. Nothing much would change, but we could.”
Aziraphale squeezes his hand and pulls them to rest on his lap. “I’ve gotten quite used to looking like this,” he says. “But, I don’t know. A change might be nice.”
Crowley turns and smiles at him, and he leans forward. Aziraphale meets him halfway. Their lips meet in the slowest and softest kiss. They’re not in a hurry, they haven’t been for a long time, and it’s enough just to feel each other’s heat and breath and presence. They let the kiss linger, and the change is slow. Slow and fast all at once. Aziraphale’s hair starts to thin, mostly at the front, and his cheeks sag a bit, and there are deep laugh-lines on the corners of his mouth. He can feel the change in Crowley, too, can feel the magical energy against his mouth and in the connected palms of their hands. He breathes in the scent of him, smiles against his mouth, and pulls back. He pushes another kiss against his lips for good measure, short and quick, just because he wants to.
There are new lines around Crowley’s eyes, now. His nose is less sharp. His hair is streaking grey, starting at his temples and twisting down into his braid. His hand comes up to cover Aziraphale’s, and both of them are veined and wrinkled.
“Is this what you wanted?” Crowley asks.
Aziraphale blinks back tears. “Yes,” he breathes. “Yes, it is.”
They sit on their bench and watch the ducks. To an outsider, they look like an old couple, quiet and content. They wouldn’t see quite how old, all the years they have between them, more years shared than the world has existed. But that’s okay. They wouldn’t see quite how content, either, not from the outside. But they are. It took six-thousand years, a lot of strife, a lot of fights, an almost-apocalypse, but they are. They’re together, and that’s how it’ll stay, and that’s more than enough in the end.