Chapter Text
Under Crowley’s adoring gaze, Aziraphale shifts and glances away, as if an errant spot on the wall is the most interesting thing in the room. It isn’t. Aziraphale is. There’s nothing and no one more fascinating in the entire world. Crowley’s heart might burst, seeing her lying like this with her shirt hanging open to reveal soft, fair skin. Crowley kisses a mole high atop Aziraphale’s collarbone.
“How’d I get so lucky?” Crowley asks when she raises her head. “We really found each other again, after all these years? And you want me?”
Aziraphale doesn’t answer with words, but her eyes fill with unshed tears. Her nod is nearly imperceptible, but it’s there. She’s here, in London, in Crowley’s flat. How?
This can’t be real.
Hooking a finger under Aziraphale’s chin, Crowley turns Aziraphale’s head and stares into beautiful blue-grey eyes. They’re as deep as any ocean, and far more enchanting. Their pull is stronger than any undertow. It would be easy to get carried away.
“You’re gorgeous, you know,” Crowley says, smiling softly. “I’ve always thought so.” Aziraphale closes her eyes, so Crowley drags that finger from her chin across her jaw and up her cheek to catch the first tear that falls. “Do you doubt it? Are you questioning my taste in women?”
This has the desired effect, and Aziraphale chuckles, opening her eyes.
“You’re always so sure of yourself,” Aziraphale says. “So confident.”
“Then you do trust my judgement?” Crowley asks, cupping Aziraphale’s cheek, admiring the pretty pink colour of it.
“I suppose I do,” Aziraphale says, taking a shaky, shallow breath. “What’s it like?”
Crowley tilts her head in confusion. “What’s what like? Having good taste? It’s great.”
“No, silly,” Aziraphale says, swatting playfully at Crowley’s shoulder. “Confidence.”
It’s Crowley’s turn to chuckle softly. “You’ve got to be kidding. Don’t you know how you walk through a room? Either you’re plenty confident or you’re damn good at faking it.”
Gently, she pushes Aziraphale’s shirt back and off her shoulder. Then she traces a line down the top of Aziraphale’s breast and skims along the lacy edge of her white bra, enjoying the texture. Smiling, Crowley remembers the first time she saw Aziraphale enter a room. She’d practically floated in with her back straight and her shoulders square, chin up as if daring anyone to try her.
“I’m hardly confident,” Aziraphale whispers, and she’s watching Crowley’s mouth.
“Yet somehow I’m convinced you know exactly what you want right now. And that you know you’ll get it.”
“What do I want?” Aziraphale asks in a low tone that suggests Crowley had better guess correctly.
“To kiss me again,” Crowley answers. If there’s any other answer to that question, she doesn’t want to hear it.
“I want to do much more than kiss you,” Aziraphale says. So, okay, it seems there’s at least one other answer that Crowley would like to hear.
“Do it, then,” Crowley says, leaning closer. “All of it.”
Aziraphale’s eyes go wide. “Oh, I wouldn’t know where to begin,” she says, as though she’s not already opening Crowley’s shirt.
Crowley smiles, and Aziraphale closes the distance between them at last, kissing her teeth for a second before Crowley can react, pucker up properly, and kiss her back.
No denying it’s real now.
Aziraphale pulls her down, wrapping her in a warm, tight embrace, and Crowley’s eyes sting with tears as she buries her face in Aziraphale’s neck.
Four years prior
Sleep won’t come. Aziraphale feels trapped, like her life has been reduced to the inside of a few small rooms. The struggle to put her unhappiness into words has lasted for years now. The feeling crept up so slowly that she can’t exactly pinpoint when it began, only that it’s growing stronger all the time.
She tries new hobbies, checking out book after book from the library and buying endless supplies. It all ends up in boxes, and it’s not as though they can afford for her to try everything. Jim is in graduate school, and they’re on a budget.
Then she turns to exercise. Running (good lord, no), yoga (yeah, maybe, but she’s not flexible at all), and even a shake weight (that thing must be a joke).
What I really need are friends, she thinks. Several moves, including the first one from London to the States, have left her lonely. They’re never anywhere long enough to put down roots. But this time it’s supposed to be different.
So she signs up for a book club and tries talking to people online. A few online friends have been helpful, but the book club doesn’t meet for a few days.
She thought things would be easier before they were in their thirties, but they’re constantly struggling to keep their heads above water. Every so often she and Jim have a half-hearted conversation about when they’ll be able to afford kids. Aziraphale feels guilty that she’s relieved when they inevitably agree it’ll be several more years before that can happen.
In the back of her mind, she wonders if she wants it to happen at all. Maybe we’ll run out of time, she thinks.
God, what an awful thing to hope for.
The problem is that Jim is her best friend and her husband. For most people, that wouldn’t be a problem at all. It shouldn’t be, she thinks. Aziraphale only wants to make him happy, and she can’t seem to do that.
When he rolls over in bed and rests a gentle hand on her hip, she closes her eyes. “I’m tired,” she lies before he even opens his mouth. She’s sticky with sweat and doesn’t feel attractive at all. “And it’s too hot.”
It’s becoming increasingly clear that she can’t make either of them happy. No matter how hard she tries, her failures are everywhere. Maybe I should stop trying all together. Who would even notice?
“Okay,” he says. His hand slips away, and he turns his back to her again. It would be a familiar dance if they were still actually partners in it.
A better wife would snuggle up behind him, kiss his shoulder, and reach around to touch the long, hard length of him—a consolation prize for what he really wants.
Aziraphale does none of those things.
Cutting the engine on her classic red convertible, Antonia Crowley takes in the darkening sky and the thunderhead cloud looming large and beautiful to the west. Better put the top up, she thinks, before the sky falls.
“Listen, Ana, I should get inside. It’s about to rain,” Crowley says into her phone. She's parked in front of a garage that’s bigger than most houses. “Are you sure you don’t need this flat for the next three months?”
“It’s called an apartment in the States, Crowley,” Anathema says. “And no one will be there for at least six months. Stay as long as you like.”
“You rich people and your summer homes, your winter homes, your cottages in the South Downs. No one’s ever actually in them.”
“You are.”
“Touché. How’d I get lucky enough to have a friend like you?” Crowley asks fondly as she rolls up the old hand-crank windows and secures the soft top.
“Being at the right party at the right time helped. And the fact that you’re a stone-cold hottie.”
“Oh please, Ana. You’re all talk,” Crowley teases. “You haven’t made a move on me once. Some bisexual you are.”
“That doesn’t mean I can’t appreciate a pretty face. Or gorgeously long, wavy red hair. I’d kill for your hair.”
“So you’ve said. And I’ve cut most of it off. What a shame for you. Anyway, your hair is beautiful,” Crowley says, meaning it. Two large raindrops splatter against her freckled forearm. “So where’s this hidden key?”
“Walk around the left side of the garage,” Ana says. The apartment is above the garage of a much larger vacation home. Crowley walks left. “See the wooden staircase?”
“Got it. Hurry up. The rain will be here any second.”
“Go up to the top of the steps. You’ll see a door. Feel along the trim above it.”
Dark spots are forming on the porch all around her as Crowley reaches up into the dirt and cobwebs, fumbling until she feels the metal teeth of a key.
“Got it. You’re just lucky there weren’t any spiders up there,” Crowley says as she turns the key in the lock and steps inside. It smells stale and dusty, and all of the furniture is covered in white sheets. “What is this, a haunted house?”
“Ha-ha, Crowley. You’re welcome, by the way.”
The rain suddenly comes pouring down in one solid sheet. Crowley closes the door, and the sound of the downpour becomes muffled background noise. Her suitcase is still in the back seat of the Cadillac, but she can get it later. Peeling back the protective cover, she sits down on the sofa.
“Thanks, Ana. Now tell me. What the hell is there to do in Michigan?”
Holding a romance novel against her chest like a shield, Aziraphale arrives at the book club, which is held in one of the member’s homes. There are already several people there, even though she’s precisely on time. She’s always precisely on time.
“Do you know what she said to me?” says a British voice from the next room. “‘There’s the lake.’ And then she paused meaningfully, as if there’s nothing else to do here.” Several people laugh. “So I’ve been on the beach every day. Obviously.”
Standing up straighter, Aziraphale moves the book to one hand and drops her arm to her side. When she rounds the corner, the women are laughing even louder. There are three of them, but Aziraphale’s eyes are drawn to the long neck of a skinny redhead who’s laughing so hard her head nearly hits the wall behind her. Her curls are cut in a bob that almost touches her shoulders, and she’s covered in freckles.
“Hello,” says a voice to her right, and Aziraphale automatically turns to shake the hand of a stern-looking woman in a frilly white top. “I’m Michaela. This is Sara and Crowley.”
Sara rolls her mechanical wheelchair closer, so they can shake hands. Then Aziraphale turns to Crowley, who unfolds her long limbs and saunters over.
“Hey,” Crowley says, taking her hand.
“Lovely to meet you,” Aziraphale says. Since she’s out of practice, she spends far too much time concentrating on making the correct amount of eye contact with each of them.
“Oh, you’re British as well, are you?” Crowley asks.
“I am!”
“Hearing your voice almost makes me homesick,” Crowley says, dropping her hand. “Almost.”
“There’s wine,” Michaela says, passing them both a glass without asking if they’d like any. It’s fine, really, because Aziraphale does want wine, copious amounts of it, actually. She drinks half of the glass right away.
“Whoa there.” Crowley says. “Give me a chance to keep up.”
“There are a few more of us coming,” Michaela says. “Then we’ll get started.”
“We hardly ever actually read the book,” Sara says.
“You don’t?” Aziraphale asks, trying not to let the disappointment show on her face. “Then what makes it a book club?”
“Exactly,” Crowley says as they move to sit on the sofa. “Would’ve been nice to know. Why'd I read this if no one else was going to? It wasn’t very good, and there weren’t even any queer characters.”
“It does lack diversity,” Aziraphale adds. “Everyone’s paired off into heterosexual couples at the end, and I mean everyone. Seems a bit unlikely that they’d all be straight, don’t you think?”
Crowley leans closer, resting her elbow on the arm of the couch and her chin in her hands. Aziraphale can’t help but notice how kind her light brown eyes are.
“What sort of diversity would you like?” Crowley asks. “A couple of gay guys? A bisexual? Lesbians?”
“Any of the above,” Aziraphale says, instantly feeling a connection between them. Am I making a friend already? “All of the above, perhaps. Whatever it takes to make it more interesting.”
If Aziraphale’s life were a romance novel, it would begin with a girl no one wanted to date, at least according to all available evidence. All through school, her friends dated and swooned over boys. When asked who she fancied, she’d choose the first non-threatening boy she could think of. There was no harm in it, she reasoned, since he would never be interested in her anyway.
It worked fine. Except. Except Aziraphale wanted to be like her friends. She was convinced that she was missing out on an important part of life. At minimum, she’d like someone to spend time with while her friends were on dates, someone to accompany her to dances.
She wondered if, by chance, spending time with someone, getting to know him better, would mean she would grow to love him.
In uni, she finally saw the chance to try. There, she had a lovely friend group, one that had recently acquired an American student named Jim. Jim was sweet and funny, and when Aziraphale laughed at his jokes, he looked at her like she was the only other person in the room.
Aziraphale had never been noticed that way before, never felt like a boy would choose her out of a whole crowd of people.
Jim pursued her. When he asked her on a date, she said yes. Jim could talk to anyone about anything, and he loved to hear about Aziraphale’s interests. It was nice. It was new and fun and casual.
Experimenting with various sexual activities was fun, too, at first. Aziraphale enjoyed learning what people liked, and finding out what turned Jim on was like finding out anything else about him. They didn’t go wild, but she learned several things about herself. She preferred the use of hands for giving and receiving pleasure. She didn’t mind giving oral pleasure occasionally, but rarely enjoyed receiving it. As for penetration, she didn’t particularly enjoy it, but everyone was always saying that it would get better.
People are always changing, after all.
Jim frequently talked about his plan to return to the States after he graduated, and Aziraphale assumed that would be the natural end to their relationship. It seemed like a reasonable assumption. So she anticipated the pain of that parting and prepared herself for its inevitability.
Then Jim asked her to go with him, and she promised to think about it. They’d have a place to live with his family, who would help them find jobs. The idea of moving to another country was frightening, but Jim would be with her. And they loved each other.
It seemed like too much to wish for, but all she had to do was say yes. Ultimately an adventure with Jim seemed better than whatever she’d do without him. Especially because she had no idea what that would be.
Jim proposed immediately upon hearing her affirmative answer, dropping to one knee right there in the park. He hadn’t even bought a ring yet, and, after saying yes, she assured him she didn’t need one. They should save their money, after all.
When book club is over, Crowley walks the short distance home. Since she started traveling, she hasn’t stayed anywhere more than three months, and that’s the way she likes it. Completely free, untethered. Her savings aren’t unlimited, but she’s planned and saved for this.
She goes wherever the wind takes her, and today the wind took her to Aziraphale. Well, more specifically, a flyer on a random corkboard brought her to the book club, which brought Aziraphale to her.
Not only is Aziraphale beautiful, with wavy blond hair pulled back in a low ponytail and the most kissable lips, but they connected instantly, talking like they’d known each other for years. Crowley found herself on the edge of her seat the entire time, wondering what intelligent, thoughtful thing Aziraphale would say about the incredibly dull book they had read. Apparently they were the only ones who’d read it. Imagine that. At first, Crowley vowed not to read any more of them when Michaela told her that the book club is really nothing more than an excuse to drink and gossip.
Then Aziraphale lit up from the inside when Crowley had asked her what she thought about it, offering constructive criticisms and analysis. As far as she’s concerned, that's a good enough reason to read the next horrible novel. To discuss it with Aziraphale.
At first she thought that it was strange for a book club to meet weekly, but considering there isn’t any actual reading happening, it works out fine. Each week the members choose a book. Some of them even purchase it. Why? She can’t quite figure that out. To convince their husbands they’re reading? To support the authors? Crowley has so many questions.
And most of them are about Aziraphale.
Is she single? (She should’ve asked, or checked for a wedding ring.) What’s she doing in the States? What does she do for work? What made her join the book club? Would she like to sit on the beach and read together?
Crowley files that last one away for future use and orders a pizza. She’s had too much to drink, and there’s still no food in the fridge.
When Aziraphale gets home, Jim is watching television.
“Hey, honey. How was book club?” he asks, turning to look at her with a smile.
“Lovely. I think I’ll keep going,” she answers, smiling back.
“Yeah? You make some friends?”
“Possibly. It’s too soon to say,” Aziraphale says, sitting next to him. “I did hit it off with someone. She thought my jokes about that mediocre novel were amusing. No one else laughed, but they wouldn’t have gotten the jokes due to the fact that none of them actually read it.”
“They didn’t?” Jim says, chucking. “Doesn’t seem like your crowd at all.”
“Maybe not. But I’m not sure I have a crowd. I don’t know. It used to be easier to make friends, didn’t it?” Aziraphale asks, but she doesn’t wait for him to reply. “Having a shared activity helps, I think. And I’m determined not to overthink every interaction from this evening.”
Jim pats her knee. “Good.”
Aziraphale expects her vow not to overthink things to last about five minutes. She gets started tidying up the house, a task that Jim certainly couldn’t be bothered with while she was gone, and waits for her doubts to creep in like they always do.
Instead she finds that she’s smiling and humming to herself the entire time.
The next novel is worse than the first one. Crowley tosses it onto the sofa. There’s only one chapter left, and the book club meets tomorrow. There’s plenty of time to read the ending, but it’s so boring that she might fall asleep.
This cannot go on. She’s going to insist that she and Aziraphale have a say in what books are chosen. If they keep reading saccharine stories with laughable sex scenes, Crowley won't be able to stomach it.
And Crowley wants to keep going back, if only to get closer to Aziraphale.
With a sigh, she skips to the last page. A wedding, really? He’s a lump, and she’s vapid. They have negative chemistry. I can’t wait for Aziraphale to tear this apart.
Stepping out on the balcony, she pulls up reviews for gay romances. Best to start with stories featuring two men first. They’re always a crowd-pleaser, especially when the crowd is mostly straight women.
Mostly.
Crowley hopes she isn’t the only queer one in the group. That’s always lonely. It had never been a problem in Soho, but here? In a small Midwestern town? It can take a while to find her people. They’re always present, of course, but this country is vast and can feel maddeningly isolating at times. She has had to make an effort to meet people, but it’s worth it.
What started as a need to get away from her broken relationship, an urge to put as much distance between herself and her ex as possible, had morphed into something else. An identity, maybe. A quest. An adventure.
It’s been a year now, and she’s moved on from that nightmare. Yet Crowley keeps going. If she keeps moving, then reality can never catch up with her.
Slippery as a snake, she thinks. I can slither out of anything.
Crowley goes to sleep without reading the last chapter. What’s the point when she knows the ending already?
After a lie-in the next morning, she spends the afternoon on the beach under a big umbrella, dozing off.
If she dreams about Aziraphale, she forgets all about it by the time she wakes up. Definitely by the time she takes a rideshare to Sara’s house. Those dreams are obviously not on her mind when she sees Aziraphale sitting in an Adirondack chair looking adorably like she’s not used to reclining that far.
Crowley drapes herself over the chair next to Aziraphale, managing to sit sideways in a seat that’s vehemently against such an action. Crowley kicks her legs as they dangle in mid-air over the armrest. She might not be able to stand up later, but it’s all worth it when Aziraphale laughs loudly and boisterously, gracing her with a big smile.
“I'm glad you're here, Crowley,” Aziraphale says. “And I see you’ve figured out how chairs work, proving you’re not from another planet as we’ve all secretly suspected.”
“That’s a relief. I was worried you’d spotted me from moment one,” Crowley says. Then she feigns shock. “Wait!”
“Ah, you’ve fallen into my clever trap,” Aziraphale says.
“Well, my evil plans have been thoroughly thwarted,” Crowley jokes. Her smile is so big that it hurts her cheeks.
But it doesn’t last. Aziraphale turns in her direction and Crowley catches the glint of her gold wedding band in the evening sun. Right. Yeah. Of course an angel like her would be taken. Figures. Not the end of the world. At least we can be friends.
Luckily, Aziraphale doesn’t seem to notice the way her face falls, because Uriel walks up and asks what Aziraphale thinks of the book. Carefully, Crowley rearranges her long limbs until she’s sitting as the chair’s designers intended.
“...up until the end, that is,” Aziraphale says. “That’s where it lost me entirely. What did you think of it, Crowley?”
“Hm? Oh, the same,” Crowley agrees.
It only takes two glasses of wine to sweep her disappointment about the ring under the rug and get Crowley to start ranting about the plot of that rubbish novel.
“Anyway, is there going to be a vote on what book we read next, or do I have to start taking hostages?” Crowley jokes.
“There’s a list,” Michaela says.
“I see,” Aziraphale chimes in, making meaningful eye contact with Crowley over the rim of her wine glass. “And who composes this list? Are we able to make amendments? I’d at least like to vote on it, as Crowley suggested. It would be more democratic.”
“Change the list?” Michaela asks, placing an apparently offended hand over her heart.
Crowley rolls her eyes, and Aziraphale snorts, holding back a laugh. Oh, now we’re in a proper conspiracy.
“Exactly so,” Aziraphale responds, smiling much too sweetly for the situation. How is the way she tilts her head so charming? “It’s one of those great, unchangeable plans, now, is it?”
“Well,” Michaela starts.
“Lighten up, Mickey,” Sara says. “It’s not like the rest of us are reading the books anyway. Let the newcomers pick one.”
“I told you not to call me that. But whatever,” Michaela says. Then she turns to Aziraphale. “Fine. What do you want to read next week? We'll be happy to vote on anything you suggest.”
Crowley expects Aziraphale to get out a list of options, likely written out in perfect script on an actual piece of paper, but instead she turns and nods at Crowley as if to say, Go on then.
“Actually, I have a recommendation,” Crowley says. Or three. Or six. Best to start with one, though. “How do we feel about,” here Crowley pauses, suppressing a shudder at the idea of using BookTok terms, especially because that’s not her scene at all. Needs must when leading people astray. Temptations should always be presented in terms that the target audience understands, Crowley thinks, drawing on her dark past in advertising. “A higher spice level?”
Sara’s eyes grow wide, and several women turn to whisper to each other, likely explaining to their confused companions what that means.
“Well, I don’t know...” Michaela starts.
“Mickey,” Sara says. “Let her talk.”
“It’s a second chance romance with two gay men who used to be best friends. Very spicy,” Crowley adds, doubling down on her sins.
The vote is unanimously in favour of Crowley’s nomination.
Aziraphale is greedy; she wants too much. Carefully, she reminds herself that her life is plenty good as it is. She and Jim are doing okay. They have each other. They’re not well off, but they aren’t living on the street or scraping for meals.
There’s nothing wrong. Why does it feel like there is?
Stretching, she climbs out of bed. None of this is Jim’s fault, even though he gets to keep sleeping, wrapped around his pillow like a koala while she dresses for her soul-sucking retail job. It won’t be forever. He’ll get his PhD, and then she’ll figure out what she wants to do. It isn’t this job. All she ever wants to do is send the customers away so she can read her book, like they’re a problem rather than the reason she gets paid. Not that the money is enough to compensate her for dealing with their nonsense.
“I’m leaving,” she says, gently squeezing Jim’s shoulder.
He blinks his eyes open and wipes the drool from his cheek. “Huh?”
“I’m going to work.”
“Right,” he says, propping himself up on his pillow and looking a bit more alert. “Have a good day, sunshine.”
It’s a nickname that goes back to when they first met. She’d jokingly told him never to call her that again, and he smiled and said, “No promises.” He’s obviously using it to cheer her up.
“Stop it,” she says, swatting his shoulder and smiling despite herself.
“Have a good day at work,” he says, smiling back. “See you tonight.”
After planting a peck on his cheek, she walks out, turning around just in time to see him burrow back under the blankets.
Work is both frustrating and understimulating as usual, but she reads on her lunch break. The book Crowley suggested is leagues above what they’ve been reading in terms of quality of writing and what Crowley had referred to as “spice level.” Thank goodness for context clues regarding that terminology, or Aziraphale might have expected references to Dune.
The only issue is that those scenes can be awkward to read in the break room. Still, she cannot put it down. The intensity of the attraction between the main characters is fascinating and well-written, leaving a warm feeling in Aziraphale’s heart and…other areas.
I hope that doesn’t come up tonight, Aziraphale thinks, amused.
The day is half over, and tonight she’ll get to see her friends. Rather than think too much about it, she’s decided to consider them all her friends. It feels right. They might not all be close, but she and Crowley, at least, appear to have made a connection. And Sara has been chatting with them more and more. It’s a lovely start.
The discussion that evening is lively and fun. Several more people have at least cracked open the book this time, and that’s an accomplishment in and of itself. When she says as much to Crowley, the statement causes a blush to spread across Crowley’s cheeks.
“Wouldn’t have happened without your help,” Crowley says.
Then it’s Aziraphale’s turn to blush. “We make a good team, don’t we?”
Maybe she’s imagining it, but Crowley’s smile looks sad, the way the corners or her mouth almost curl down.
“Yeah. We do.”
The silence that follows borders on awkward. Aziraphale refuses to let it be. She blurts out the first thing that comes to mind. “What are you doing after this?”
Crowley shoves her hands into her pockets—well, her fingers, anyway. The pockets aren’t big enough for her hands. “Not sure. There’s nothing to eat in my flat. Er, the apartment where I’m staying.”
“Oh, then you simply must come back to mine for supper,” Aziraphale says without thinking. “I put a pot roast in the slow cooker earlier today, and it’s more than Jim and I could ever eat.”
“I don’t want to impose,” Crowley says, peering at her feet.
“But you’ve nothing to eat, and we have plenty,” Aziraphale says. “Come on. It’ll be fun, and there’ll be whisky.”
Aziraphale wrings her hands, waiting anxiously for Crowley’s reply.
Crowley notices Aziraphale’s nervous hands, and needs to smooth over those feelings, to make everything better. There’s nothing for it. She has to accept the invitation.
“Say no more,” Crowley says. “I’d be happy to go to yours.” And meet your husband. Oh god, what if it’s awkward?
When they get there, Aziraphale’s house is nothing like she imagined it would be. It’s small, for one, and none of the furniture matches. There are loads of books, but other than that it’s rather plain. Something smells delicious, though, as she steps through the door.
“Hey, honey!” a man shouts from the kitchen.
Right. That would be the husband. Jim. Crowley plasters a smile on her face. She has absolutely no idea what to expect from this guy. He sounds American, but Aziraphale hasn’t said a single word about him before today. Odd, that. Shouldn’t she at least have mentioned him?
“I invited Crowley,” Aziraphale says.
Jim peeks around the corner, and he’s handsome, with dark hair and eyes that nearly disappear when he smiles. Why hadn’t Crowley expected him to be handsome? “Oh, yeah?”
“You remember me talking about her,” Aziraphale prompts.
“I do,” Jim says, sounding pleased. He walks out with a towel draped over his shoulder and holds out his hand. He’s broad-shouldered with a chiseled jaw and is approximately the same height as Crowley. “Nice to meet you, Crowley. Aziraphale talks about you all the time. All good things, of course.”
“Good things? Really? I thought I’d made it clear that I am not nice. I’m afraid you’ve been lied to,” Crowley jokes. It isn’t to cut the tension, although she’d worried about that on the way over. Somehow the situation isn’t tense at all, which makes it even weirder.
Not that she’d expected to feel jealous or anything. But Crowley would be lying if she told herself she wasn’t attracted to Aziraphale. She’d never act on it, but the feelings are still there.
“I don’t know what to tell you. Aziraphale thinks you’re the bees knees, don’t you hon?”
“The bees knees?” Crowley repeats. “What is this? The Jazz Age?”
“I didn’t—” Aziraphale starts.
“That does sound like something you’d say, angel,” Crowley says, chuckling.
“Angel?” Jim asks.
Whoops. “You know. All sweetness and goodness and light. Don’t you think your wife is an angel?”
“When you put it that way? No,” Jim says, chuckling and nudging his wife playfully in the ribs with his elbow. “Are you sure you have the right Aziraphale?”
Damn it. Why does he have to be likeable?
“Very funny, dear,” Aziraphale says, but she’s smiling. “Shall we eat? I promised our guest pot roast and whisky.”
“Of course. Take a seat, Crowley. You get the food, and I’ll get the drinks?” Jim asks, touching his wife’s lower back. Crowley is invited to take a seat while the couple moves around each other like they do this every day. Maybe they do.
The food is good, really good, and Crowley is hard to please. The whisky is only okay, but that doesn’t stop them from drinking plenty of it. Soon the three of them are leaning back in their chairs, completely stuffed.
“So,” Jim asks. “Aziraphale tells me you haven’t been home in over a year?”
“To London? No. I don’t have any reason to go back,” Crowley says.
“And you travel all over?”
“Yep. Made my way around the Continent, then Canada, and now I’m here. I started in New York, and I’ve been moving west. My friend, Anathema, is letting me stay at her lake house for a few months. Well, not the main house. I don’t need that much space.”
“What an adventure,” Aziraphale says as she clears their plates. They move to the sofa. “How long do you plan to keep traveling?”
“Don’t have a plan, really. Maybe I’ll go to Asia after this. Or South America. Or I could get tired of it and go home. Part of the fun is the spontaneity.”
“Well, I envy you. Not so much the travel, although aspects of that sound nice. But the freedom,” Aziraphale says, staring into the middle distance.
When Crowley glances at her smart watch, it’s past ten. “I really should get home. Thanks for having me,” she says, pulling up a rideshare app on her phone.
“Of course! We had a lovely time. We should do this more often,” Aziraphale says, “while you’re in town.”
“Absolutely,” Crowley says. “You should come to the lake with me. Ana was right. It’s great. Since the homes are all owned by rich people, it’s basically a private beach. Wear a suit and bring your book.”
“Really? That sounds lovely. I’m not working tomorrow, actually,” Aziraphale says. “Unless that’s not enough notice.”
“Tomorrow's great,” Crowley rushes to assure her. She doesn’t like the sad look on Aziraphlae’s face. “My schedule is open.”
Aziraphale perks up. Much better.
“Wonderful. Allow me to give you my number, and you can text me when you’re ready to meet.”
While Aziraphale creates a contact for herself in Crowley’s phone, Jim is nowhere to be seen.
Relaxing in the shade while reading becomes their regular ritual. Only after the heat and humidity become unbearable do they cool off in the icy waters of Lake Michigan. Even at the height of summer, it never truly gets warm.
Aziraphale glances up when Crowley sets aside her book and stares out at the water. A single lock of red hair blows wildly in the wind, dancing next to Crowley’s ear. Her hairline is wet with perspiration, and her cheekbones have exponentially more freckles than they did when Aziraphale met her. Aziraphale feels like a city girl finally seeing the night sky in the country. There’s so much that hadn’t been visible before, and all of it is beautiful.
Crowley sighs, and why would that do something to Aziraphale’s heart? Why does it squeeze tighter in her chest as Crowley closes her eyes and parts her lips ever so slightly? What’s going through her mind right now? Aziraphale wants to know everything there is to know about her friend, and yet they’ve been sitting in comfortable silence for a long time.
Some days are like that. Neither of them feels much like talking, preferring the simple joy of existing in proximity to each other. Some days they spend laughing and talking—about silly things or deep things—but they rarely talk about themselves. Aziraphale wonders if they’re avoiding personal topics or if they skipped over them because they already felt like they knew each other when they met. It’s how Aziraphale felt, anyway. She still does.
She and Crowley can communicate entire complicated thoughts with one glance, one raised eyebrow.
It’s September, one of those days that reminds her of the middle of July. Sweltering. Beside Crowley, a small radio plays “Sea of Love.” It sounds like it’s coming from far away, some distant shore.
It’s been a few months now. Will Crowley be moving on soon? Dread settles in the pit of Aziraphale’s stomach like a rock.
“Go for a swim?” Crowley asks, keeping her eyes on the water.
“Could do,” Aziraphale allows, watching her friend carefully. Crowley slumps forwards, her back curving as she traces circles in the sand with her finger. Something about the way she’s holding herself conveys a deep melancholy.
“Hot enough yet? I know you like to wait until you can’t take the heat for a second longer,” Crowley says, digging her toes into the sand.
“It is pretty awful,” Aziraphale confirms. She’s surprised that Crowley has noticed that. Aziraphale has never actually said so.
“Don’t want to be the one to decide?” Crowley asks, and Aziraphale feels perceived a second time.
Aziraphale hums. For once, she knows what she wants. “Whatever will make you happy.”
Crowley chuckles dryly. “That’s a completely different question,” she says, tossing a handful of sand away from them. Then she’s quiet for a moment, and Aziraphale slips her bookmark between the pages of her novel and waits. “Yeah. Let’s go, angel.”
Standing up with an adorable grunt, Crowley stretches her long arms above her head. As she does, the bow securing the back of her black bikini top slides upward, exposing the tan line it created on another day, when it was tied slightly differently. Aziraphale stares at the muscles of Crowley’s shoulders, content to stay where she is for a moment longer. Then Crowley’s hands move down, and tug at the bottom of her suit, which had begun to ride up.
It really is hot today, Aziraphale thinks, as the heat hits her all at once, like a blow. Rising to her feet, she removes her flimsy coverup and tucks it under her book, so the wind won’t take it.
With pendulum hips, Crowley saunters towards the lake, and Aziraphale follows. There really is no other choice than to trail behind her friend like a lost puppy.
They stop at the edge of the water and let the waves lap at their feet. The massive lake—which she would have described as an inland sea before she lived here—never truly gets warm. It’s deep and potentially dangerous, but when one is overheating, the chill is a welcome change.
It’s Aziraphale’s turn to stare out at the horizon. There are a few boats out there, but the beach itself is sparsely populated today. They have this area essentially to themselves.
Crowley’s fingers twitch at her sides, a sure sign that she’s about to run directly into the waves. She rarely ever eases into it, which is what Aziraphale prefers to do. There have been a few times where Crowley has stayed back and waited for Aziraphale to get acclimated by walking slowly into the surf, letting each part of her body get used to it before stepping further in. This, apparently, is not going to be one of those days.
Precisely as predicted, Crowley takes a deep breath, exhales, and sprints into the water, throwing her arms over her head when the water reaches her hips and half-diving into the rolling waves, getting smaller as she swims into the distance.
At some point, Aziraphale had unknowingly clenched her fists at her sides. Shaking them out, she clears her head and hurries to follow Crowley, not wanting to be left behind. The cold nearly takes her breath away, but she keeps going, knowing that she’ll get used to it. Trusting the process.
Out a little further, Crowley disappears for a moment. When she surfaces, she pops up like a cork, water cascading down her upper body until she sinks back down with only her head visible. Aziraphale swims closer.
“I needed that,” Crowley says.
Aziraphale smiles. Lifting her feet from the sandy, rocky bottom, she lets herself sink. The sound of the water all around her is a pleasant white noise. Crowley must be saying something, because she hears her muffled voice before rising up again, gasping for air.
“Ah! Much better,” Aziraphale agrees.
They stand there, side by side. It’s the perfect depth, everything submerged but their heads. Then Crowley’s hand rises from the water and moves towards her.
“You’ve got a little something,” Crowley says, sweeping Aziraphale’s hair from her forehead and plucking something green from it. It dangles in front of Aziraphale’s eyes before Crowley tosses it back into the water.
Crowley is so close. They stare at each other, and a warm feeling runs pleasantly through Aziraphale’s body before Crowley looks away. Suddenly the warmth is gone, and Aziraphale shivers.
“It’s almost autumn,” Aziraphale says, regretting it immediately. They don’t talk about this, about Crowley leaving. Against her will, the words come out anyway. “I don’t want you to leave.”
Crowley closes her eyes and licks her lips slowly. Then she turns to look at Aziraphale again, her gorgeous brown eyes sparkling in the sun.
“I can stay longer,” Crowley says simply.
“Oh, would you?” Aziraphale can’t hold back her wide smile.
When Crowley smiles back, the warmth returns. Aziraphale nearly reaches out, her hand moving slowly through water that feels much too thick. Crowley’s eyes drop down, almost like she’s looking at Aziraphale’s mouth, and her smile falters.
“Yeah. No problem, angel,” Crowley says, abruptly turning to swim back to shore.
Despite the chill reaching down to her bones, Aziraphale remains in place for a while. She watches Crowley emerge from the lake, dripping as she struts back to her beach towel and flops down on her stomach. Frozen in place, Aziraphale wonders what it means that it was so easy to convince Crowley to stay.
She’s no closer to an answer when something slimy brushes against her calf, pulling her out of her thoughts. Slowly, Aziraphale walks back to the beach, back to reality.
“Not that I’m complaining,” Ana says, her voice tinny on speakerphone as Crowley paces the room, “but I thought you were leaving in the fall. It’s almost November.”
“Yeah, well. I like it here,” Crowley answers vaguely.
“I bet you do. How’s Aziraphale?”
“Aziraphale is fine,” Crowley grumbles.
“It’s practically winter,” Anathema says. “I don’t mind you staying if you want. No one uses the place in the winter, but there’s a reason for that. You won’t like the cold. All that snow. Multiple feet of it sometimes, Crowley.”
“I get it. It’s time I move on anyway,” Crowley says, peeling the label from the neck of her beer bottle.
“You’ve been saying that for weeks now,” Ana says gently. “Do you want to talk about it?”
“No,” Crowley says, moving on to the next label. It’s wet, and sticks to her finger. “She asked me not to go.”
That day pops into Crowley’s head often, usually at inconvenient times. She’ll find herself remembering the look on Aziraphale’s face when she asked her to stay. The pleading in her eyes was too much to bear. How could Crowley have done anything but agree? Then Aziraphale had lit up like the sun when Crowley had agreed. And for a fleeting moment, Crowley had thought Aziraphale was going to kiss her.
“If I recall, that was also weeks ago,” Ana points out.
“Yeah. Worse now, though.”
“You got attached.”
“I broke so many of my rules this stop, Ana. What am I doing?” The labels are nothing but a pile of shredded paper now.
“You like her.”
Crowley groans. After she has been so careful not to say it out loud, Ana goes and ruins it.
“Is that so bad?” Ana asks.
“The worst. She’s married, Ana.”
“I know that. But it doesn’t change the facts as they stand. What are you going to do?”
Crowley picks up the bin and sweeps the paper into it. Then she tosses back the last of the beer and drops it in the bin with a thud. “I’m gonna leave.”
“When?”
“End of the week.”
“What are you going to tell Aziraphale?”
“I don’t know. But I’m going to see her tonight at book club.” Crowley sighs.
“You don’t want to tell her in private?” Ana asks.
“Better not,” Crowley says, trying to imagine Aziraphale’s reaction. Will she cry? Crowley can’t stand the idea of it, and if there are other people around, well, Aziraphale is the type to keep it together when there’s an audience. It’s cowardly. But if she cries, I’ll have to comfort her. If I hug her, I’ll have to let go.
Ana hums. “I’m just saying…”
“Well, don’t. Don’t. Listen, Ana, I’ve gotta go.” Off of this phone call and away from Michigan for good.
For the next couple of hours, Crowley stress cleans, even going as far as to take the Cadillac through a car wash before driving it to book club, which is ironically at Aziraphale’s house this time.
“Hello, Crowley!” Jim says when he opens the door to let her in. He’s always so damn friendly. “The girls are in the living room,” he adds, encouraging her to walk ahead of him. He peeks through the doorway, looking at his wife. “I’m going to the gym and then to work, so I’ll be out of your hair.”
Aziraphale walks over to him. “You can stay if you want,” she says.
“Nah. I haven’t worked out today, and I’ve got a lot to do at the lab. Have fun, ladies,” he says to the room before turning to Aziraphale. “Love you.”
Aziraphale kisses him on the cheek. “Love you, too. Mind how you go.”
When they finish discussing the book and it comes time to vote on the next one, Crowley realises the depth of her mistake. She’d hoped to pull Aziraphale aside at the end of the meeting when there were still plenty of people lingering, but she could speak to her individually. But when she looks around the room, seeing so many faces that have been kind to her over the weeks, she sees friends, people she doesn’t want to leave without explaining herself.
“Listen,” Crowley says to the room when there’s a pause in conversation. Everyone turns to look at her, but Crowley only looks at Aziraphale. “I’m sorry this is such short notice, but before we vote on the book for next week, I have something to say.”
Aziraphale’s smile falters, and her body tenses up. Then her lip quivers, and Crowley’s heart aches. “You’re leaving.”
Crowley rubs the back of her own neck, breaking eye contact to look at the floor. “Yeah. I won’t be at the next meeting. I’m moving on, this Friday.”
“Oh,” Sara says, touching Crowley’s shoulder. “We’ll miss you.”
“Yeah, it won’t be the same without you,” Muriel says.
Most people offer kind words or a hug. Aziraphale stays quiet, sitting with her hands clasped in her lap until the others are gone.
“Angel?” Crowley asks from her spot on the sofa, across the room. “You okay?”
Aziraphale sniffles and shrugs. “I’ll be all right. You’ll stay in touch? Text me?”
“Sure,” Crowley says. “I’m sorry about the announcement. I wanted to tell you after they’d gone, but then I realised that they’re my friends, too. Not like you are, of course, but I’ll still miss them.”
“So you’ll miss me, then?” Aziraphale asks quietly. She’s sitting very still.
“Of course I will,” Crowley says, getting up. Her legs carry her to Aziraphale’s chair, and she crouches down so she can look Aziraphale in the eye. “Of course,” she repeats. “Hey.”
“You’re my best friend,” Aziraphale says, placing her hand over Crowley’s where it sits on the armrest.
“You’re mine, too,” Crowley says. “Well, besides Ana. But I can have more than one.”
This makes Aziraphale smile, even if it is small and sad.
“You and Jim are my only friends,” Aziraphale says. “I have to work tomorrow. And Friday, too. What time are you leaving?”
“Early,” Crowley says, and Aziraphale closes her eyes.
“Oh.”
“I can drop by the store and say goodbye on my way out of town,” Crowley says. Her legs are starting to cramp, so she stands up. “I’ve got to go.”
“Of course,” Aziraphale says, nodding absently, as though she doesn’t even know she’s doing it. “Let me walk you out.”
Crowley doesn’t want to be walked out. She wants to stay, wants to wrap Aziraphale in a hug and never let her go. That’s the problem. It’s exactly why she needs to leave. And it needs to be a clean break.
“Goodbye, angel,” she says when Aziraphale opens the door to let her out.
“Goodbye, Crowley. Mind how you go.”
When the door shuts with a click, Crowley turns around and takes several shaky breaths. Tiny snowflakes dance in the wind. There aren’t any leaves on the trees. Summer is well and truly over. Hell, even autumn has passed.
Nothing lasts forever.
It’s clear what she has to do. Crowley wipes the tears from her cheeks. Then she drives home. There’s no way she can wait until Friday. She packs her suitcase and gets into the car, forcing herself to leave right away.
If she doesn’t do it now, she never will.