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Warlock is with them when they find the cottage. It's late November and threatening snow as the estate agent unlocks the front door of the last property they’re scheduled to see that afternoon. As the agent fumbles the keys with cold fingers Warlock wanders off around the corner of the whitewashed two-storey house to explore the back garden in what's left of the light. Aziraphale and Crowley exchange a glance; something about the place feels right.
"It's been empty since the spring, you say?" Aziraphale asks Mr Forbes, the agent, brightly as the door finally surrenders and the man ushers them into a cold hallway.
"Ah-mm. Yes." Mr Forbes runs a hand nervously over a balding scalp as he switches on the electric lights in the hall. "Older couple. Been here forty year 'n more. Moved to a care home near Yarmouth to be near the daughter I believe." Crowley watches Aziraphale pass a gentle hand over the faded wallpaper and knows he already understands more of what happened in the life of the home than the agent will be able to tell them. The smile on Aziraphale’s lips is a soft one as his gaze drifts after his fingers. Whatever spirits linger here appear to be content.
"I'll just..." Crowley gestures vaguely in the direction of the stairs.
"Yes, yes, do," Mr Forbes agrees. "Light switch'll be on your left at the top."
There are three rooms on the first floor -- two bedrooms and a bath -- to mirror the three downstairs: kitchen, sitting room, and what was probably once the front parlor. Crowley takes his time wandering through each of them, listening to his own footsteps echo in the empty space and to the murmur of Aziraphale and Forbes conversing below. At the end of the upstairs hall is a dormer window with a small window seat. Through the window he can see a rolling field dotted with round bales of hay. The lights of the farmhouse beyond wink gold through the fast-approaching twilight.
The front bedroom looks out over the gravel area where the Bentley is parked beside the agent's car. It's papered in atrocious pink floral paper Crowley wants to burn on sight, but that can be easily replaced. They’ll put Warlock in charge of what colors. The back bedroom looks out over a neglected garden where Warlock has found the electricity in a tiny garden shed. Light from the kitchen spills across the overgrown lawn to meet the light from the shed. Warlock looks up toward the window where Crowley is standing and waves with a grin.
It's on the window seat Aziraphale finds Crowley some ten minutes later when he ascends to the first floor.
"This is it, isn’t it," Crowley says, without taking his eyes off Warlock's explorations of the back garden. Aziraphale hmmms in agreement as he joins Crowley at the window, threading his fingers with Crowley's and leaning close to take in the view.
"You and Warlock will have room for a proper garden."
"We will, won't we," Crowley responds, squeezing Aziraphale's fingers. He lifts Aziraphale's hand to his lips so that he can press kisses against Aziraphale’s knuckles. Turning from the window he drops his head back against the wall and looks up at Aziraphale in the waning light. It feels strange, to have only just walked into this cottage and yet already be able to picture Aziraphale at home here. Padding about in soft slippers and flannel pyjamas.
"The plumbing needs major repairs," Aziraphale says. "And the roof replacing. According to Mr Forbes we'll be lucky if it lasts the winter. That's why they've had such trouble shifting the property."
"Not the ghosts?" Crowley's mostly joking. He would be able to taste malevolence in the air as readily as Aziraphale could feel it and he doesn't need Aziraphale's confirmation that nothing evil lurks here. Still, it’s nice to have confirmation all the same as Aziraphale shakes his head and reaches up to pull Crowley's glasses off so that he can see Crowley's eyes.
"No ... this house has had its share of grief, but no. Not the sort of grief that creates restless or vengeful spirits."
"Well, then," Crowley says. "Let's get on with the paperwork." He unfolds himself from the window seat and stands as Warlock's voice echoes from the downstairs hall -- then along with the thump thump thump of his trainer-clad feet on the stairs.
"Nan! Az! There's a tree for Pepper's treehouse!" Warlock flings himself onto the landing, catching himself with the newel post, cheeks rosy with cold and smile bright. "Come see! This is the place, yeah? You're gonna buy it?"
"We most certainly are," Aziraphale beams at Warlock, and Crowley feels his grace curling out, around, down toward where Mr Forbes is on his mobile out in the gravel yard. Not that there had seemed to be any impediments to the purchase … but if the tiniest of pebbles had stood in their path, Aziraphale was nudging them out of their way with an angelic toe.
Crowley jerks a thumb toward the open door of the south-facing bedroom. "Check out your future room while we’re here?"
"Mine?" Warlock's fragile hope is going to discorporate Crowley one of these days.
" 'Course," Crowley says. "I'm depending on you to pick out marginally less hideous wallpaper."
"Show me our room?" Aziraphale asks, tugging Crowley down the hall. It isn't much to look at, of course. Empty of all furniture, the peeling paint of the ceiling, and hideous lavender wallpaper make for an unprepossessing first impression. But house-hunting with Aziraphale has taught Crowley to see spaces with Aziraphale's eye for the place’s most earnest potential.
Standing by the window in what will be their bedroom, Crowley can picture their bed, and Aziraphale's night stand always liked high with books, and the quilt that Newt and Warlock are making them (and he and Aziraphale aren't supposed to know about) on the bed. He imagines curtains to filter the sun, and a wardrobe with strict sides except for where they meet in the middle -- that comfortable borderland where Crowley likes to steal Aziraphale's sweaters and Aziraphale has been known to descend to the kitchen in Crowley's dressing-gown.
"Look at that view, Crowley," Aziraphale says with a sigh. "You'll get the morning and afternoon sun."
Crowley leans back against the wall by the door and watches Aziraphale walk the perimeter of the room, fingers trailing along the walls. He licks his lips and tastes the fresh ink of Aziraphale's grace as Aziraphale works his blessing into the walls. Ours. It feels terrifying and inevitable and good and right.
In over six millennia they have never chosen a place to be theirs. The flat above the bookshop is currently theirs, of course. But it had been Aziraphale's home first -- Aziraphale's dwelling into which he had invited Crowley enough times to make it stick. This is something different again: here at the edge of Lower Tadfield they are claiming ownership together.
"There was a fireplace here, once," Aziraphale pauses with his palm flat against the eastern wall. Crowley recalls the chimney rising above the roof; they'll be standing above the kitchen here.
"There could be, again," Crowley offers, joining Aziraphale by the wall and tasting ash in the air -- the resonance of fires past. He thinks, suddenly and longingly, of the many warm hearths on which he has curled on cold winter nights while Aziraphale sat, always nearby, with a bottle of wine and read through the night by candlelight.
"Yes," Aziraphale says, thoughtfully, palm still on the faded paper. "And an aga, I think, for the kitchen." Crowley shivers at the thought of all that heat. "For you, my dear," Aziraphale murmurs. "All the warmth in the world for you."
"And all the kittens you and Adam will inevitably rescue from the hedgerows and nurse back to life," Crowley agrees, leaning in to press a kiss against the corner of Aziraphale's smile.
Mr Forbes is just ending a call when the three of them round the white-washed corner of the house to emerge back onto the gravel yard after a Warlock-led tour of the back garden. It's been neglected, but not beyond resuscitation, and Crowley can taste the fertile earth and dormant vegetation waiting for spring.
"Yes," Aziraphale says firmly in response to Mr Forbes’ inquiring look. "We are decided. How soon may we arrange to complete the purchase?" They schedule a meeting at Mr Forbes' office for the following morning and then climb back into the Bentley for the drive back to Anathema and Newt's, where supper awaits, to share the news.
Crowley still wrestles with anxiety about moving to Tadfield. London or Paris or Los Angeles or Hong Kong -- those are suitably teeming with humanity, and he's spent millennia perfecting the art of being both flash and forgettable. Living here, though, even part-time, will be the opposite of such cultivated anonymity. They are moving here, in fact, to be near friends: still an alarming word when applied to anyone other than Aziraphale. Crowley is panicked enough about the prospect that most of their viewings had taken place under sudden thunderstorms; that it's only threatening a light squall of snow this evening is a notable improvement. That alone, Crowley tells himself as he turns the key in the ignition, should have been a sign that the cottage had chosen them.
He takes a deep breath as they pull onto the country lane and turn in the opposite direction from the one Forbes has just taken. Aziraphale puts his hand warm on Crowley's thigh where he always keeps it now when they drive. Crowley glances toward the back seat where Warlock is on his mobile, screen glowing faintly in the dark. He's probably sending Pepper pictures of the oak tree. Would it be courting trouble to befuddle the Dowlings enough that they wouldn't think it odd for Warlock to spend the summer holidays with his former nanny? He should probably ask Warlock what he wants first, even though Warlock's reaction to being told he'll have his own room at the cottage has already told Crowley everything he needs to know about the importance of ensuring Warlock always has a clear path to their door, and that the door always knows to welcome him in.
"If everything can be arranged promptly," Aziraphale says, tapping his fingers thoughtfully against Crowley’s thigh. "Perhaps we could settle in soon enough to celebrate Hogmanay here. What do you think, Warlock?"
"You've been quiet this evening," Aziraphale murmurs as Crowley slides into their bed at Anathema's and nuzzles into Aziraphale's side with a sigh. It's a statement, not a question, and Crowley knows he doesn't have to put anything into words. For a few minutes he allows himself to sink into the warmth of Aziraphale's presence and listen to the soft sounds of a household going to sleep. Warlock is bedded down on the sofa, Newt and Anathema in the other bedroom, Newt's iguana, Iphigenia, in her terrarium. Snow is falling lightly outside. Crowley wriggles a cold hand under Aziraphale's pyjama top and feels Aziraphale jump slightly -- though he doesn’t (never again will he) pull away -- at the introduction of Crowley’s cold fingers at the gentle curve of his hip.
"They could take it all away," Crowley says, finally, very soft, because it feels risky to acknowledge aloud. He's glad he doesn't have to say who they are. He's also grateful that Aziraphale will never dismiss his fears, not about this. Not that Aziraphale is ever anything but painfully earnest. It drives Crowley mad except when he feels it's the only sure thing in his world, Aziraphale's honesty.
"Yes. They can try," Aziraphale says after a handful of heartbeats. "We have always known they might."
Crowley presses himself closer under the duvet.
"We won't stop them by staying in London," Aziraphale continues, as he wraps Crowley in his arms to keep Crowley snugged against his side. "And staking our claim here, now, will strengthen our side. If the time comes."
Crowley thinks of the power Aziraphale had already begun weaving into the cottage walls. The power Crowley himself will sink deep into the earth come spring. The hedge-witch magic of Anathema's line, the fresh strawberry taste of Adam's unique zone of influence, the rich loamy flavor that is stalwart Newt digging in his metaphysical heels. Crowley shivers with the memory of how outmatched they were and the victory that still feels, most days, like an accident even though he knows how hard they worked to win.
"When the time comes," he whispers, unable to stop himself.
"We will only grow more difficult to defeat," Aziraphale says firmly. "I've thought about it, Crowley, and it's what they will never understand. That humans are powerful allies."
Aziraphale wakes the following morning just before Anathema makes her quiet way down the hall and passes their room en route to the stairs. He listens to the soft squeak of the third step from the bottom, then the faint grinding of the morning coffee. There's a particular pleasure in waking like this; in becoming aware of a familiar household is stirring around him, with no urgent need to get out of bed. Crowley is still deep in sleep and their appointment with the agent isn't until eleven. Aziraphale has no demand on his time apart from ... being.
The comforting weight of Crowley's arm draped over his hip, the solidity of Crowley's body spooned behind him, anchors him to the bed. Through a gap in the curtains he can see the faint light of a dawn heavy with clouds. The snow has stopped, for now, probably only deep enough for a snowman in the vicinity of Adam's back garden. Aziraphale allows his thoughts to drift through the contented haze of almost dozing off again as he considers their route for the drive back to London by way of Warlock's school, of the tasks left on his desk for the following week, of the plans he and Crowley have to attend the theatre. One of Sky's friends is involved in a student production of The Importance of Being Earnest, of which Aziraphale has fond memories of seeing during its debut run in 1895, and Sky had shyly offered them tickets. So they have that outing to look forward to, as much as Crowley might make a show of protesting, on Thursday evening.
Behind Aziraphale's shoulder Crowley makes a small disgruntled noise and adjusts himself closer. In sleep, this close to Aziraphale, cocooned as they are, together, beneath the duvet, Crowley's body temperature has equalized to Aziraphale's. In moments like this -- particularly when Aziraphale has let sleep attenuate Earthly reality for a time -- it often seems as if they might be two parts of a whole. Not that Crowley has become an extension of himself, but that together they have become a singular entity. Breath and heartbeat; skin a meaningless boundary. Having readjusted to his own satisfaction, Crowley nuzzles against the wingspot on Aziraphale's shoulder and presses sweet, sleepy kisses just where he knows they will make Aziraphale shiver.
Aziraphale reaches back with a hand and slides his palm down Crowley's arm to his wrist, pulling Crowley even closer. He brings Crowley's hand up to his lips to press his own kisses to each of Crowley's fingertips in turn; to pull a finger, then two, into his mouth. Crowley’s fingers twitch as he tongues lazily at the pads of Crowley's fingers, closing his teeth lightly at the first, then second joints. Then he closes his lips and sucks, hard. Crowley shudders -- still wordless, nearly silent -- against Aziraphale's back. Aziraphale feels his exhale, hot, then the slick trace of a now-forked tongue at the name of his neck as Crowley presses forward to lick his way to the lobe of Aziraphale's ear and nip at him in turn.
"Really?" Crowley murmurs, amused, against Aziraphale's cheek. His voice is still rusty from sleep. "Here? Anathema would never speak to us again. I can taste you starting to shimmer."
"Mmm," Aziraphale agrees around Crowley's fingers, wickedly sucking just a little harder because he wants to feel Crowley's response. Crowley might question the wisdom of such actions with words, but he's melting against Aziraphale in a way that only says yes. Aziraphale turns his head, seeking Crowley's mouth with his own, and feels Crowley's damp fingers trace across his cheek, cupping his jaw, guiding him into a kiss. He wriggles under the duvet until he's on his back with Crowley, warm and lithe, pulled up against his chest so that kissing can continue.
After a few delicious minutes, Crowley pulls back and props himself up on an elbow to look down at Aziraphale from beneath a messy cascade of auburn that Aziraphale can't resist reaching up to brush out of his face and tuck behind his ear. The curls eagerly catch at his fingers, only releasing him when he pushes up from the pillows to press another kiss to Crowley's lips. "Good morning, my absolute dearest of all demons."
Crowley raises an eyebrow, as Aziraphale falls back to the pillows, and drags his palm along Aziraphale's throat and down the plaquet of his pyjama top. "Right. That sort of morning, is it."
"I thought it might be," Aziraphale offers, not bothering to hide the slightly breathless feeling in his chest, and watches Crowley watch him as he runs his tongue over his own lips, tasting the granite and moss of him lingering there. "Do you wish to argue the point?"
The wonder of it, Aziraphale thinks -- as Crowley shakes his head and leans down to press yet another kiss to Aziraphale's lips -- is that every time is wondrous. That every time, here is Crowley in his arms, wanting this. With him. The knowledge that he's woken in Crowley's arms nearly every morning in the past year -- with no plans to ever, ever stop -- has done nothing to dim the joy of this recurring miracle.
Around them the household stirs. Aziraphale is peripherally aware of Newt in the shower. Of the familiar sound of Warlock's voice in the kitchen. Of the scent of coffee and Anathema's crepes. Aziraphale feels all of the small, hedge-witch, now-familiar ways in which they belong here sinking deep into his truest self -- the self where his knowledge of Crowley is forever lodged.
Home.
There's no reason to hurry, so they don't. Crowley ends his kiss with the beginnings of another, shifting closer, fingers at work on the buttons of Aziraphale's pyjama front, one at a time, as Aziraphale tugs at the bits of Crowley he can reach -- needy, but knowing all his needs will be met twice over by Crowley's warm mouth and giving hands and the heat of him pressed close and soft and open against Aziraphale's thigh.
Please, Aziraphale breathes against Crowley's lips, feeling himself slickening in response to Crowley's touch, taste, scent, the heat and pressure of his opening against Aziraphale's still-clothed leg. The flannel is growing damp between them. Almost uncomfortable but not entirely. A pleasing drag, a barrier, that Aziraphale resists the urge to remove with a wish. Crowley will take good care of him. Yes. He feels a release of pleasure at the certainty. Crowley feels it, tastes it, on Aziraphale's skin and groans softly in answer. Closer. Aziraphale feels the burr of Crowley's pleasure deep where everything he knows of Crowley curls sure and indelible.
More. Crowley slides a leg over Aziraphale's hips, then shifts his weight up, then down, knees and palms bracketing Aziraphale on the bed, the soft, heavy center of him pressed possessively against Aziraphale's cock. Aziraphale bites back a groan of pleasure loud enough that even the humans below might hear.
"What was that?" Crowley murmurs, bending low, all coiled strength above him. "I didn't hear you, my angel. Try again."
Aziraphale responds to Crowley's challenge with a demanding upward thrust of his hips and relishes the stutter of breath Crowley gives in response as their bodies roll together. Aziraphale does it again, lifting up as Crowley settles his weight down over Aziraphale's groin: he's growing heavier, warmer, wetter. Aziraphale feels the deep vibration of hungerlovewant where bare skin meets bare skin; desperately wants his pyjama bottoms gone but not as much as he wants the pleasure of Crowley peeling them off in his own sweet time.
Their movements together take on a slow and familiar rhythm: Lift. Breathe in. Press. Breathe out. Roll. Breath in. Thrust. Breathe out. Aziraphale watches Crowley's scales gleam as they move, colors muted in the morning light, yet still begging to be touched, He brings his hands up to Crowley's hips, not gripping hard, not trying to stop Crowley's movements, just resting against Crowley's body so he can feel Crowley's muscles flex beneath his palms as Crowley rises, then release as he settles, each rise and release bringing him closer, closer.
Aziraphale gusts out a breath, ragged with desire, an audible concession to Crowley's teasing request: Try again. Once more he lifts his hips as Crowley grinds down with an almost-growl, trapping Aziraphale's cock between them. Aziraphale whines softly for the tight pull of want deep in his body as Crowley's heat presses slick against him, an impatient invitation. Still his pyjamas remain a barrier. His shoulder blades burn as his near-manifest wings shudder against the confines of the bed. Like his sounds, Aziraphale won't release them fully here; the room is narrow, humans too near, and Anathema's hospitality shouldn't be repaid with destruction. But he imagines his wings as he knows them to be: powerful, a crisp fresh eddy of air spread beneath them, met in kind by Crowley's snap-crackle of storm power above. Together they would be magnificent.
"Crowley," he manages, hoarse, his fingers digging, now, into Crowley's flesh as Crowley slithers lower, presses his mouth and teeth to Aziraphale's neck, throat, chest as Aziraphale releases words to slip past his lips and tangle with Crowley's writhing hair: desire in every language they have ever shared. His hand rides low at Crowley's hip and he pushes between them, his fingers and both of their bellies slick with arousal, fingertips seeking the place between Crowley's thighs where muscle gives way to soft folds, where Aziraphale can feel the stiff line of one clitoris, then the other, tracing an infinite figure eight of pleasure around one, then the other, listening to the catch and groan of Crowley's breath, feeling every clench of Crowley's body echoed by a shudder in his own. His cock is all heavy, hot, yearning sensation against the back of his wrist as he pushes three fingers, then four, deep into Crowley's body, knowing Crowley likes the sudden, intrusive reminder that Aziraphale will and wants to touch him, now, like this, the way no other being in the universe has ever been invited to touch.
Crowley hisses with satisfaction, sinking down at just the right angle to pull Aziraphale's fingers deep inside. Aziraphale pushes his own aching need for orgasm into his focus on how Crowley feels stretched and slick over his hand, fingers cradled by the curve of his pubis, thumb notched tight against Crowley's clits. This is the moment of lovemaking when Aziraphale imagines they could continue forever, locked together, perpetually revolving around the molten core of mutual pleasure and love and the gravitational pull of a shared past, present, and future. He's distantly aware that orgasm will come soon for them both; feels Crowley fighting it, like he sometimes does, almost as if he's furious that it feels this good.
No, Aziraphale corrects himself: Crowley is terrified that they have this, now, too to lose.
"Can hear you thinking," Crowley pants, as he curls over to press his face damp against Aziraphale's neck. "Stop it."
"I never stop thinking about you, my dear," Aziraphale turns to murmur against the shell of Crowley's ear. "You'll come for me?"
"Always," Crowley agrees, immediately, like it costs him to say but only because it's the absolute truth. And then his whole body pulls tight and shaking above and around Aziraphale, the crackle of static stings against Aziraphale's skin and the scent on the back of his tongue is ancient caverns filled with darkness and new possibilities. And Aziraphale pushes into Crowley's orgasm, insistent, chasing every last tremble down with a thrust of his fingers, a twisting grip in Crowley's hair, a sucking kiss at the soft, exposed line of Crowley's throat. Good, so good. So good for me.
When they've wrung every last drop of pleasure from Crowley's body he's left breathless and boneless sprawled over Aziraphale's chest. With the hand that isn't trapped between them, Aziraphale strokes down Crowley's back, feeling scales smooth beneath his fingers.
"Mmmmm," Crowley agrees, melting further into Aziraphale's body with every stroke. This pliant, unguarded closeness is a victory Aziraphale sometimes counts higher than orgasms -- especially when he thinks of the centuries during which Crowley had reached for him only to wrench himself away. He presses his face against Crowley's hair to indulge in the sweet scent of Crowley feeling safe.
"Still," Crowley knocks a careless fist against Aziraphale's shoulder. "Still. Thoughts. You."
"Mhmmm," Aziraphale agrees, pressing a kiss to Crowley's ear.
"Sh'do something," Crowley murmurs, flattening his fist to an open palm and dragging it down Aziraphale's side. "About. That." He reaches the waistband of Aziraphale's pyjama pants and tugs, sliding to one side so that he can pull Aziraphale's pyjamas down.
Crowley's hand skimming and cupping Aziraphale's balls, then sliding with authority up the underside of his cock, brings Aziraphale's attention abruptly back to his own arousal. Sometimes his body forgets -- even now -- that he no longer needs his centuries-long habit of keeping desire folded away. Crowley’s hands remind him, always, that he no longer has to ignore the pleasure touch brings. That what he feels when Crowley touches him is wanted. He sucks in a sharp breath and Crowley hmms with satisfaction, eyes on his own hand smoothing up the shaft, thumb slicking glimmering arousal over the head, then down. Aziraphale twists the bedclothes in his fists, closes his eyes, lifts his hips to meet Crowley's grip.
"Give it to me, love, that's it," Crowley murmurs against Aziraphale's jaw. "You know I love everything you give me." His lips graze across Aziraphale's cheek to his mouth, tongue insistently serpentine against Aziraphale's lips even as Aziraphale moans softly, hungrily in response, opening for Crowley with a gasp and a downrush of pleasure. He doesn't need his eyes to know a new upwelling of iridescence has brought a sheen to the hollow of his throat and gilded the curls at the base of his cock.
Aziraphale starts to shrink, from long habit, away from his body's recklessly tangible expression of desire but Crowley doesn't give his fear time to overtake pleasure. He pushes into Aziraphale's mouth with his tongue, urges him open, moves with a sure hand as Aziraphale whimpers and shudders beneath him, skin slick, shoulders burning, everything building to a peak that -- in the moments before release -- spins beyond the far reach of pleasure, into a space of dissolution and return. He bites down on Crowley's lip as he comes, to keep from keening, tasting blood and the liquor of his own arousal messy on Crowley's skin.
Aziraphale finally uncurls his fisted fingers from the twisted sheet and brings a thumb up to brush at Crowley's lower lip.
"Don't --" Crowley starts, reaching up.
"You're bleeding," Aziraphale counters. It will take the smallest of miracles to --
"I'll heal," Crowley says, firmly, catching Aziraphale's hand in his own and kissing the offending thumb before tucking their interlaced fingers below his chin. "Let me keep this."
Aziraphale sees a bruise booming at the base of Crowley's throat and fights the urge to miracle that better as well. He knows that Crowley likes the marks -- Aziraphale himself likes such marks when Crowley leaves them on his own pale skin -- but it's still hard for him to leave Crowley wounded.
They lie quietly, curled face to face beneath a thoroughly disarranged duvet, as the world around them -- beyond bare skin and sweet, biting kisses, and orgasms -- unfurls back to its usual size and shape. This wider world includes frying crepes and vegetarian sausages and Newt tripping over something in the front hall. It includes the crunch of boots on frozen grass and Warlock and Pepper shouting jubilantly in the back garden. It will, soon enough, involve a drive to the estate agent's office and the completion of a dreadful number of forms in triplicate.
"You do realize that Anathema will likely never forgive you for this," Crowley says.
"Me?" Aziraphale raises an eyebrow.
"I wasn't the one offering the temptation of sex in the guest bedroom of a witch." Crowley points out with the nudge of a knee between Aziraphale's thighs.
"Prophetess," Aziraphale corrects. "And if it comes as a great shock to her that we’re intimate she’s as poor a prognosticator as Merryweather’s leeches, and we’ve been giving her far too much credit."
Even as he says it, Aziraphale realizes he has no idea what Anathema might divine about what they do behind the closed doors of a guest bedroom in her domain. That he and Crowley engage in activities of a sexual nature in a general sense is certainly a cat that's long out of the bag. But will she (has she?) been aware of what's transpired in the bedroom this morning? That Anathema might know when, and in any sort of detail ... Aziraphale doesn't have the grace left at the moment to blush but --
"Are you suggesting she -- is aware when we ...?" He asks, even as he pushes his leg over Crowley's thigh, enjoying the press of Crowley's flesh against his still-sensitive human parts. It's reassuring to know that he is allowed to touch Crowley in these moments, too, when such intimate touch is in no purposeful quest for an orgasm but something much less bounded: You may have me, skin against skin, whenever, however you desire.
"We're aware when they --" Crowley gestures with a small flick of his fingers, a motion that ends with the smoothing of his hand over Aziraphale's hip to keep him close, pull him closer. "After all."
"Well, yes but --" Aziraphale has always been aware of the humans in his care. Anathema and Newt are his, and their happiness is something he attends to like every other vital sign. He isn't used to thinking about such things the other way around.
"If it's any comfort," Crowley offers, leaning in to rub noses, "I doubt it's anything more specific than a flush of pheromones."
" 'Doubt'?" Aziraphale tries not to squeak.
"She'd'ave been teasing us mercilessly long before now if she had the material to do it with, and make it stick,” Crowley points out, pulling back far enough to peer at Aziraphale's expression. Whatever he sees in Aziraphale's pink cheeks makes him smile with the lazy smile that reminds Aziraphale his beloved is a deadly predator.
"You like the idea," Crowley murmurs, skimming his hand up Aziraphale's flank to press cool fingers against the curve of Aziraphale's jaw. He presses his thumb to Aziraphale's lip. Aziraphale sucks in a breath. "Don't you. You're already thinking about what it will feel like to walk into the kitchen and know that she knows."
Aziraphale could try to deny it but fresh iridescence prickles across his skin and his hips rock toward Crowley again without quite meaning to. He swallows and licks his lips beneath Crowley's gaze. Sometimes it still feels wrong, too dangerous, for others to know this about him, about them. But the more they are seen, are known, for who they are to one another, the harder the truth will be to destroy.
He closes his eyes against the fear, closes his lips against the false, reflexive denial that tries to slip out. Nor does he stop Crowley from dragging his hand back down Aziraphale's side to the small of his back and pulling them flush together. He shudders at the pressure, the rough slide of Crowley's thigh between his, and the way desire tips the balance from too much back toward not enough as Crowley leans in to press hot, wet kisses along his jaw, working his way up to the lobe of Aziraphale's ear. He nips, gently, at the flesh and startles Aziraphale into a tiny gasp that turns into a groan as Crowley presses his advantage and shifts even closer.
"Yes," Aziraphale agrees, uncertain in the moment what he's assenting to but knowing what Crowley is doing is right. Yes, he wants Crowley to keep touching him. Yes, he wants another orgasm. Yes, he wants Anathema to know, to feel flushed and content and as tinglingly aware of Newt at the kitchen table with the morning paper as Aziraphale is of Crowley's mouth -- dear God his mouth-- as Crowley kisses his way back down Aziraphale's throat. Yes, this, the two of them, together, is power. Power only strengthened every time Warlock's eyes flicker over their entangled hands. Every time Anathema sends a text to both of their mobiles. Every time Newt makes sure they are left two adjacent cushions on the sofa. Each time Sky introduces "Az's husband Crowley," or one of the Them runs their names together, Azncrowley, in a rush. Power.
We will only grow stronger, he thinks, as Crowley shifts to open himself and welcome Aziraphale home.
Let them try.