Work Text:
Even after they settle into a cozy little cottage they found almost miraculously in the South Downs, the bookshop doesn't close. Not entirely. Aziraphale can't bring himself to do it, after all these years. The one thing the shop does lose is any semblance of regularity it once had in its hours of operation - not that they had been all that regular to begin with. Besides, that is of little matter; in the first place, the point of the shop existing isn't really to sell books at all. The more important thing is that it still makes quite a lovely place for him to come and read, and allows him to store his precious collection without risk of them entirely cluttering up the living space that Crowley, who isn’t overly fond of his usual clutter, must share with him. Although he has, of course, relocated a number of special favorites closer to home.
Whenever he gets a hankering to pop in, Crowley always comes with him. No matter what he'd been up to before, when Aziraphale brings it up, he never fails to just so happen to have the keys to the Bentley conveniently on hand and within a couple minutes, they’re on the road.
Aziraphale had quickly been rid of any fears that this was in any way an inconvenience to Crowley early on, talked down with a handful of soft-spoken words. Crowley, it turns out, is more than happy to nap on the sofa in the sunlight, drifting off to the sound of turning pages. As long as Aziraphale is there. Nothing else matters.
He’s not the only one that feels such a sentiment. These days, they are practically never parted. Although it's been months, being able to just exist in each other's presence, freely, without care or consequence, is still novel. Still thrilling. Aziraphale doesn’t think he’ll ever grow tired of it.
He’s been enjoying the benefits of that very thing for the last hour or so, sharing the old, well-loved sofa in the back room with Crowley, something they never used to do. And if they ever had, they certainly wouldn’t have shared it quite so closely. Currently, Crowley’s head is settled comfortably in his lap as he dozes, red hair fanned out around him in what Aziraphale can’t help but think is an ironic facsimile of a halo. One hand keeps careful hold of his pristine William Blake while the fingers of the other brush Crowley’s soft hair gently back from his forehead in rhythmic motions, cautious of disturbing him. Having been personally acquainted with heaven and its inhabitants for a not insignificant amount of time, Aziraphale can say with utmost confidence: this is much better.
At least it is until the bell above the door chimes, ringing musical and irritating to his ears. Only just managing to keep his disappointment relegated to a breathy sigh, Aziraphale sets his book carefully aside. He doesn’t really want to move, but he’d best make sure whoever has just come in doesn’t disturb anything up front. Or, heaven forbid, attempt to buy something.
He extracts himself from Crowley with the utmost care, lifting his head from his lap and replacing it atop an extremely conveniently located pillow that just so happens to now be exactly where Aziraphale had been sitting a moment previous. Crowley grumbles quietly, eyelids twitching in his sleep, unhidden by his sunglasses, which had been placed somewhere and forgotten about once they’d gotten safely inside, just the two of them. Aziraphale takes one last, self-indulgent moment to watch his face settle back into smooth contentment before he makes his way to the front.
Only one person has entered the shop - a man with neatly cropped, shrew brown hair and oversized, thick-rimmed glasses dressed in slacks and a sweater vest. Aziraphale thinks he might have seen him in once or twice before, but it’s hard to be certain. Generally, he tries his best to ignore any potential customers. At least, until they start looking just a little too interested in walking out with one of his books.
“If there’s anything I can help with, just give a shout,” Aziraphale says, trying his best to be genuine despite his thin patience and eagerness to get back to what he’d previously been doing.
The man jumps at the sound of his voice and looks to him, mumbling his thanks. Aziraphale smiles politely in return despite a nearly overwhelming desire to roll his eyes. After another moment, he settles in behind the front desk, resigning himself to just having to wait this out.
The potential customer browses slowly, inching along the shelves, and Aziraphale scans the area just behind the desk with a quiet hum. It doesn’t take him long to find what he’s looking for. There’s always at least one or two volumes tucked back here for when he just feels like reading in the front, or for instances such as this, when he can’t escape it. He grabs the one that he can see, pulling a face at the cover. He’s not much in a mood for Wollstonecraft, but it’ll have to do in a pinch.
He flips it open and scans through the pages, but finds his concentration waning. His mind keeps wandering to the back room. More specifically, to the demon sprawled across the sofa whose long legs hang partly off the opposite armrest even when he’s the sofa’s sole occupant. Perhaps they should just go home - once this gentleman leaves, of course. Continue what they’d been doing in the comfort of their own sitting room, where there would be no fear of further interruptions. And more privacy for other actions, ones that wouldn’t necessarily be appropriate in the semi-public sphere of the open bookstore.
Before he can get too lost in some of the more creative images coming to mind, his train of thought is interrupted by the sound of shuffling feet. He jerks his head up, startled, suddenly overcome with worry that while his head was in the clouds, the customer actually found a book that he wanted to buy. Meaning, Aziraphale would be spending the next five to thirty minutes desperately trying to dissuade him from doing just that.
But, no, the man is still scanning the shelves at a safe distance from the desk, even if he is looking just a bit too closely at the Tennessee Williamses. The footsteps, then, did not belong to him, but rather to Crowley, who, when Aziraphale spins his chair, he finds standing in the doorway to the back. Or rather, he’s leaning in the doorway, hair still delightfully ruffled from his nap. He is wearing a black turtleneck that Aziraphale knows firsthand is soft as down and black skinny jeans. He’s been starting to dress down more often lately, prioritizing comfort in what he wears, and Aziraphale loves the vulnerability of it. The sight of him brings a smile stretching across Aziraphale’s face, even if it’s accompanied by a twinge of disappointment when he notices that his sunglasses have returned to their perch atop his nose, successfully obscuring his eyes.
“Crowley,” he breathes, as if it’s been a decade since last they laid eyes on each other instead of five minutes.
“Was wondering why you left,” Crowley says with a small nod, looking past him at the stranger still in the shop. His voice is low and still rumbly from sleep, and the sound of it makes Aziraphale’s insides turn just a little more mushy than they were before. When he glances back over his shoulder, following Crowley’s gaze, he notices that the man’s back is still to them. He seems not to have noticed the entrance of a third party into the room at all.
“Ah, yes,” Aziraphale says, distractedly. He stands and takes a step closer and is met with a raised eyebrow as he eases his way into Crowley’s space. His voice is soft, just above a whisper, when he says, “I was thinking. As soon as this gentleman has taken his leave, why don’t we return home? I’m sure I’d quite like to have you back in my lap. This time without any interruptions.”
His hands smooth down the barely-there wrinkles in Crowley’s sweater, trailing slowly over his chest.
Crowley’s second eyebrow shoots up to join the first and he hums through the grin fighting its way onto his face. He catches one of Aziraphale’s hands in his own, stroking his thumb across his knuckles and bringing his palm to his lips. It’s a barely there kiss, a lighting-quick press, and then Crowley is lowering their hands between them, still not letting go.
“I adore the way you think,” he says, saffron eyes gleaming at him from over the rim of his glasses. The distinct hint of a purr rumbling beneath the words has Aziraphale’s whole body erupting into pleasant shivers.
It takes a tremendous amount of willpower for him to step back. More than anything, he wants to just shove the damned customer out the door and pull Crowley into his arms right here and now, snogging him without even bothering to breathe. He doesn’t, of course; that would be downright indecent. But he doesn’t let go of his hand either.
At least not until he remembers quite suddenly the Blake left still sitting, forgotten, atop the end table next to the sofa. He’d just been getting to the best part, and really it would be a shame to-
“Angel?”
Crowley’s voice is still quiet, meant just for his ears, and his previous, irritatingly handsome grin has melted into a frown.
“It’s nothing,” Aziraphale assures. Too quickly. He sucks in a breath. Before Crowley can even start to protest, he continues, “Just… I had hoped to finish off what I’d been reading before, well...”
His free hand points discreetly behind him, in the direction of the man who is somehow still taking his time creeping along the bookshelves.
“I thought you were going to finish me off,” Crowley says teasingly, without any heat in it. Aziraphale’s tongue flicks out unconsciously to wet his lips.
“Of course, my dear,” he says. “I do have my priorities in order. I had just thought I might enjoy something to occupy myself while you recovered.”
“Is that so?” Crowley’s grip tightens on Aziraphale’s hand. Despite the clear excitement Aziraphale’s unspoken promises spark on his face, there is nothing but fondness underlying his next words. “Go. Get your book.”
Aziraphale channels all of the affection he is bursting with into one last squeeze of Crowley’s hand before he drags himself away, already longing to feel his touch once more the moment they are parted. Drinking in one more look of him, exuberant in the knowledge that he’ll still be right there when he returns, Aziraphale finally turns and saunters back into the back room, practically wiggling with joy.
The book is right where he left it, undisturbed, and he snatches it up, fingers stroking over the spine in a brief caress. He spins back towards the front and stops quite suddenly. He knows Crowley is just beyond the doorway, waiting to escort him to his black metal chariot and snatch him away back to the privacy of their own home. But, well. There were a couple other books he had been meaning to take home with him, and really, it would be a shame to let this opportunity pass by. After all, he wasn’t certain when they would next be around.
Perhaps against his better judgement, Aziraphale turns back around. He knows those are around here, somewhere…
After a couple minutes more that he hadn’t planned to spend searching, he has a neat stack of half a dozen books which may or may not include a couple extras that caught his eye when he’d passed them while shuffling through the piles on the floor. Satisfied and feeling just a tad guilty for keeping Crowley waiting, he carefully picks up his collection where it had been gathering height atop the end table and balances it in practiced hands for transport back to the front.
The first thing he notices upon stepping through the doorway is that Crowley is not where he left him behind the desk. The second thing he notices, as he’s carefully depositing the books in his arms atop said desk, is the sound of an unfamiliar voice carrying across the otherwise quiet shop.
“So, you come here often, then?”
Aziraphale’s first assumption is that a second customer had managed to sneak themselves into the shop while he’d been in the other room and has taken up conversing with the first. He nearly groans aloud in frustration at the very thought. He doesn’t get a chance, however, because just then he hears a familiar half-hum, half-snort.
Followed by Crowley’s voice drawling, “Suppose you could say that.”
Aziraphale braces his hands atop the desk and stretches up so he’s standing on his toes, leaning forward so he can see just beyond the shelves to where, sure enough, two figures are standing, engaged in conversation. Well, engaged is perhaps overselling it. Crowley has his arms crossed over his chest and he’s propped up with one elbow against a nearby display cabinet, staying carefully clear of the glass. He appears to be more engaged with looking over his nails than he is with the man in front of him - the same and still, fortunately, only customer, who is wringing his own hands in front of himself. He keeps shooting glances over his shoulder at Crowley.
There is a moment of silence, and Aziraphale is just about to call him back, assuming whatever thread had started this impromptu conversation has run its natural course.
That is, until the man clears his throat.
“I’ve stopped in once or twice before, after work. I-I work nearby, you see. This place has quite the impressive collection, as you must know. I do enjoy just browsing the Wordsworths-” Aziraphale pulls a face, “- there are so many. How old do you suppose they all are? They seem in top condition…”
Aziraphale would almost be preening at the unintended praise within the man’s rambling sentences if it weren’t for the unfamiliar twisting somewhere deep in his gut. He’s pretty sure it has less to do with what the man’s saying than the way his eyes trail down Crowley’s profile while he’s not watching.
“I dunno anything about that. You’d have to ask him,” Crowley says, twisting at the waist so he makes eye contact with Aziraphale at the same time as he jerks a thumb over his shoulder to indicate where he’s standing.
The man follows his gesture and his eyes go wide when he sees Aziraphale, who raises a hand and waves reflexively, smiling sheepishly from where he’s still leaned over his desk at a rather uncomfortable angle.
“Wordsworth,” Crowley murmurs. “Hmm. Right bastard, he was.”
The man turns quickly away from Aziraphale, looking a touch more flustered than he had a moment previously.
“R-Right,” he says. He raises his arm, glancing at his wrist, which is notably bare. “Oh! Look at the time, I really must go before I miss my bus.”
Crowley hums noncommittally. He’s switched focus to swiping two fingers across the spine of one of the books nearest him and then squinting at the volume after rubbing his fingers together with his thumb. Meanwhile, the man next to him looks just a little too closely and lets his gaze linger just a little too long as it sweeps Crowley from head to toe.
“I’ll see you around again sometime,” he says, voice low, but not low enough.
Aziraphale’s hands squeeze into fists atop his desk. Crowley sighs.
“It’s likely.”
The man nods, chewing on his bottom lip. He casts a glance over at Aziraphale, ducking his head quickly when he sees him still watching, although the self-satisfied smile on his face doesn’t fade. He hurries to the door, the bell jangling above him as he leaves. Not, of course, without stealing one last eyeful of Crowley before he goes.
Aziraphale’s eyes are still narrowed at the door after it closes behind him. A strange feeling simmers under his skin, something that’s like an itch but not. Or at least, not one that any amount of scratching would make go away.
“He was getting a little too nosy around some of your Victorians.” Crowley’s voice is much closer than he’d expected, and Aziraphale blinks, turning to see him standing no more than a foot away, hands stuffed in the pockets of his jeans. “Thought I’d intervene. I know how much you like some of them.”
Aziraphale can’t help the smile that floats to his face, and any lingering annoyance he has towards the customer that had just been through disappears, along with whatever had been making him itch. He gets the sudden, irresistible urge to pull Crowley to him and smash their lips together, right here and now.
And so that’s exactly what he does, standing up straight and fisting both hands into the fabric of his sweater to better draw him in.
Crowley’s eyes widen, but he makes no move to pull away. In fact, instead, his hand comes up to weave through Aziraphale’s hair, touch tender as he responds in kind.
Aziraphale pulls back first, with one final hardy press of lips to Crowley’s cheek, and lets his hands fall back to his sides. Crowley blinks at him, for a long moment not saying or doing anything. His high cheekbones are highlighted by an absolutely lovely pinkish blush. He clears his throat and averts his eyes, letting them land instead on the freshly arrived pile of books next to Aziraphale on the desk. He drops his hand and raises an eyebrow.
“So, that’s your book?” he asks, corner of his mouth twitching in barely-concealed amusement.
“Oh, hush,” Aziraphale huffs, still smiling. “Shall we go, then?”
“Love to.”
Aziraphale goes to grab for his stack of reading material, but before he can lay a finger on it, it’s snatched right out from under him. Crowley balances the books in his arms, taking a moment to steady them under his chin before lowering them again just enough so that he can speak comfortably.
“Don’t,” he warns, with no real heat behind it.
With a smile still splitting his face, and his heart full to near bursting with affection, Aziraphale ignores him and says, “You’re so good to me, Crowley.”
It’s another week before they return to the bookstore. Up until that day, every time Aziraphale considers it, something bitter and vile tickles at the edge of his conscience, and he remembers the vague, altogether plain and not that interesting features of a man with too-large glasses and a really quite unattractive sweater vest. Remembers the practically indecent way in which he’d dared lay eyes on Crowley.
But, as it tends to, time lessens the wound, and, more importantly, Aziraphale misses his books. Sure, he has plenty of them in the cottage, enough to keep himself preoccupied for another millennium at least. (He’s considered it - spending a decade or two without ever leaving the house. Just indulging ceaselessly in Crowley’s presence, in every way he could have him. He’s not certain he wouldn’t miss some of the earthly pleasures he’s come to enjoy, but it would likely be worth it.) But, there’s just something about the atmosphere of the shop that makes it such a comfort. It has more of a scent to it - of paper and leather, but also of eloquence and imagination.
That’s why, while they’d been milling around back at home, Aziraphale had suggested moving their milling here. Not that their cottage wasn’t comfortable - in fact, he found it to be extremely so, especially since he could truly, with no hint of insincerity, call it theirs. He’d just felt he could use a bit of that inspiration his shop seems so apt to provide.
He takes a moment, just a fleeting one, away from the task at hand, closing his eyes and breathing deep, focusing on that very same scent.
The task at hand involves him sitting behind the shop’s desk, which he’d had to carefully clear in order to accommodate Crowley’s laptop. He’s not accustomed to using it, but he’s not completely incapable, either. Still, he’s a little relieved that there’s very little running of the thing actually involved. All he has to really do at the moment is scroll down, and maybe up again when something that he’d previously missed catches his eye.
“An Instant Pot? I don’t even know what that could be,” Aziraphale grumbles, squinting over the rim of his glasses at the image of the item on the list as he reads it off. He doesn’t need the glasses, of course, he’s just found he rather enjoys how they look and feel, and it’s become something of an unconscious habit to don them while working on anything that requires his utmost concentration. “And Catan? ”
“You don’t have to know,” Crowley sighs from the armchair he’s currently draped over across from the desk, although there’s no real exasperation in it. “What’s important is that they enjoy it. Which they will. They made the list themselves, after all.”
Aziraphale huffs up at him, but when he turns his face from the computer, he finds whatever unhappy expression might have been making itself known on his face fading away. Crowley has his legs swung up over one armrest, his head nestled comfortably against the plush chair back. There’s a magazine in his hands that he’s only been idly flipping through and he’d positioned his seat in just the right spot so that the sunlight creeping through the front windows finds the exposed skin of his neck and where his sleeves are rolled up, baring his arms. He looks positively cozy, limbs lax and expression serene. He’s pretty as a picture.
He’d been the one to pull up the page that Aziraphale is currently scrolling through - and has been for the last hour at least - shortly after which he’d taken up his current position, listening as Aziraphale has gone back and forth.
“Oh, I just can’t decide,” Aziraphale huffs. And, no, he is decidedly not pouting. “I’d like to give them something practical, but, while that may be useful, I don’t know if it would really make them happy. And something less practical doesn’t necessarily seem personal enough.”
Crowley sighs, closing his magazine and letting it fall against his chest.
“Aziraphale-” and that softness with which he says it still never fails to make Aziraphale’s heart leap in his chest, “-they’re getting married. It’s going to be the happiest day of their lives. Whatever we get them, I’m sure it couldn’t possibly ruin that.”
We. Aziraphale doesn’t miss the casual way he says it, as if he’s not even thinking about it. He may not be. It still makes his chest flutter.
“You’re right, of course, dearest.” He smiles up at Crowley, who catches the look and returns it with his own upward quirk of the lips. He breathes and it feels like some of the pressure has been released from his chest.
“Besides, there’s no rule against picking more than one gift.”
Aziraphale finds himself grinning wide at that. As simple a solution as it is, he hadn’t actually considered the option. Of course. Multiple presents would make it much easier for him to narrow down his options.
“You’re brilliant. Why don’t you come over here and help me-”
Before the complete thought can even make itself known to the room, the bell above the door chimes. Aziraphale turns his sunny expression from Crowley towards the door, ready to acknowledge the interruption only briefly and then return right back to what he’d been doing.
“Hello, can I help you with anything in particular?” Aziraphale asks. And then, he freezes.
Inexplicably, impossibly, it’s the same man who had entered the shop the last time they’d been open. He’s sure of it. The man who he’d felt a rather insistent urge to garrote.
The smile drops from his face for only a second before he manages to replace it with a similar expression, although one that may be more strained. That same uncomfortable itching sensation prickles under his skin.
“Just looking,” the man says quickly, ducking his head.
Aziraphale resists the urge to snap at him to look elsewhere! and instead nods, letting him carry on.
He catches Crowley’s eye as he’s turning back to look at the laptop screen, for lack of a better distraction, and notices his frown and the accompanying furrow in his brow that’s as loud as any spoken question.
He shakes his head in response, the sight of Crowley’s concern doing wonders to put him at ease. He almost looks like he’s going to protest, possibly slither out of his chair altogether and across the room to come properly talk to Aziraphale. But, after a second, he just shrugs, stretching languidly and settling back into his seat, perhaps to let himself really doze this time.
Aziraphale returns to the screen in front of him, although if he does keep one part of his attention on the man browsing through his store, well, he does that to every customer. To an extent.
Except, at one point, while he’s reading over a lengthy paragraph detailing the actual functions of an Instant Pot - the name of which is starting to seem more and more misleading - he must have stopped paying close enough attention. Because there is the distinct sound of something, or rather several somethings, tumbling to the floor, accompanied by a quiet string of curses. All of which is coming from the opposite end of the shop from where he’d been certain he’d just seen the customer.
His head snaps up to see the man looking well and properly frazzled as he stands over what had once been a neat pile of books (not necessarily organized, but all in their right and proper places so that Aziraphale knew exactly how to find them) and now resembles more of a lopsided hill, or the carnage left behind by a child after emptying their toybox.
He doesn’t even get a chance to push his chair back, because the moment he starts to think about moving he’s interrupted by a loud, familiar huff from the middle of the room.
“I’ve got it,” Crowley grumbles, tossing the magazine that had still been laying across his chest to one side so that it lands carelessly open and gracefully swinging his legs over the chair so he can stand, twisting his neck from one side to another as he does so. With one finger, he tips his glasses just far enough down his nose that he can toss a wink at Aziraphale over the top of them before pushing them back up.
With another over-loud sigh that’s more than just borderline rude (considering the circumstances, Aziraphale is willing to let it go, just this once) he spins around the side of the armchair and, with his usual saunter, makes his way to where the man is now kneeling, trying to pile fallen books into his arms and possibly doing more harm than good.
Crowley crouches down, inserting himself forcibly into the situation and immediately taking it into his own hands without having to shove the man aside. In fact, he doesn’t even touch him. But the man still jumps like he’s been hit, face turning a shade that does nothing to compliment his mustard button-up.
“O-Oh, I’m so terribly sorry. Dear me, I really am so uncoordinated sometimes,” the man rambles.
Crowley offers something of a grunt. If it does contain some actual form of words, they’re not ones Aziraphale can parse from his current distance. Were he not so annoyed, and were it not because of this particular customer, Aziraphale would find Crowley’s efforts sweet.
As it is, he watches, trying not to glare too much as the man kneels next to Crowley while they both work to clear the mess from the floor. He doesn’t miss the way he keeps shooting glances towards Crowley out of the corner of his eye, even while Crowley’s attention remains resolutely on the task at hand, almost obsessive in his focus.
Aziraphale especially does not miss it when Crowley goes to reach for a book and the man does the same in the same moment, their hands brushing briefly together. Crowley is the one to move away first, holding out his hand instead so that the man can transfer the book he’s currently holding into his possession, all while muttering a fresh string of breathless apologies.
He doesn’t miss it the fourth or the fifth time the same thing happens, either.
Although he does have a brand new desire to ignite just a tiny little fire. One that would rather miraculously affect nothing except for the customer who is-
Who has just stood while Crowley is still bent at the waist, and whose eyes are most certainly and without any trace of knowledge of the word subtlety fixed very pointedly on Crowley’s rear. A fact that Crowley, still carefully stacking books atop each other, is entirely ignorant of.
The persistent itch under Aziraphale’s skin erupts quite suddenly into a boiling, burning sensation that forces its way to the surface. Without even thinking about it, he bolts upright, pushing his chair back loudly. The two other men in the store turn to look at him, the stranger even letting out a little ‘Eep!’ as he does. Crowley, now standing straight, has both eyebrows raised high in his direction.
Aziraphale… Well, Aziraphale stands there. Still as a statue, fists clenched at his sides, eyes flickering between the two before finally settling on Crowley. He didn’t have a plan. He’d just reacted in a manner that even he could tell was uncharacteristic for him. And there’s nothing he can really do, now. Besides outright kicking the stranger out of the building, which, of course, would be unspeakably rude. Suddenly much less sure of himself, he mumbles an excuse that sounds weak to his own ears and beats a hasty retreat to the back, wringing his hands together as he goes.
He prattles aimlessly about for a couple minutes, head spinning. In the immediate aftermath, he’s more ashamed of his outburst than anything else. He can only imagine what Crowley will have to say about it all. Finding himself with nothing better to do and a need to calm his nerves, he sets the kettle on and whips himself up a cup of cocoa. (With plenty of extra marshmallows.)
Even after it is done, he doesn’t return to the front. Not right away. He takes his glasses off and carefully folds them before setting them aside, and then he leans against the counter just sipping at his drink until it goes lukewarm. It does help his nerves, however. Then again, that might have something to do with the distance - the ability to take a step back for just a few minutes and give himself room to breathe.
He doesn’t know how long it is before he finally works up the resolve to return, downing the last dregs of his long-cold cocoa before he does. He straightens his collar and pulls at his cuffs, more out of nervousness than anything else, although he won’t admit that to himself, and then, finally, walks back down the short hallway.
He’s not sure what he’s expecting to see when he returns - maybe things returned to the way they’d been, at least partially, with the books restacked and Crowley lounging in his chair while his new least-favorite customer continued to browse and steal looks not meant for him. (Something he’s trying resolutely not to think about.)
What he isn’t expecting is to find Crowley sitting in the seat Aziraphale had been previously occupying, his sunglasses folded on the desk next to him and the other man nowhere in sight.
“Oh. Where did-?”
“Left,” Crowley answers, turning in his seat so he can look Aziraphale up and down with those gorgeous golden eyes - and, oh, he’ll never tire of seeing them - “You alright?”
He says it casually, but the concern is written all over his face, soft and genuine. Aziraphale offers him a smile that feels just a little more tense than he would have liked.
“Just getting something to drink.” It’s not a lie.
“Ah. Well.” Crowley stands up, ignoring Aziraphale’s hand-waving protests as he does. “I’m sorry about your books. I know you’re rather particular about where they’re kept.”
Coming from anyone else, it might have been a backhanded insult. From Crowley, however, the statement is only fond.
“It’s nothing, my dear,” Aziraphale reassures him. He remembers brushing hands and wandering eyes and swallows. No, the books were not a problem at all. “Thank you for your assistance. That was very kind.”
Crowley scoffs, ducking his head, but doesn’t protest. Instead, he steps aside and gestures to the chair he’d been occupying just a minute ago. He clears his throat.
“Well, then. Weren’t you in the middle of asking me to help? Why don’t we get this over with, then?”
Aziraphale beams. He’s surprised that Crowley recalled that, when he’s pretty sure he’d never actually gotten around to finishing asking. What with all the commotion, he hadn’t even remembered what he’d been in the midst of himself.
He retakes his seat, this time with Crowley leaning over the desk, hovering next to him. And if one of his hands sneaks around to rest lightly in the center of Aziraphale’s back, well, that’s alright.
Later, as the day is getting well on its way to becoming night, after they have spent enough time scrolling up and down and up the registry to settle on at least one gift (the first of many) and Crowley has since retreated to the sofa in the back to resume his snooze, Aziraphale remembers the recently disturbed stacks of books. He’d just flipped the sign and closed the blinds and had been on his way to rouse Crowley so that they could return home when he catches the pile in the corner of his eye, neat if not a little lopsided compared to how they’d been.
Supposing he had better retake stock of them before he forgets all about it, he sighs and crouches down next to them. And forgets, momentarily, to breathe.
The books hadn’t been in any particular order - or, rather, they hadn’t been in any kind of order that followed set rules or logic other than these are their set places, and if Aziraphale ever needed to find them, he would know exactly where to look.
Which is exactly why it’s so remarkable that, despite being scattered hither and yon, the books have returned to the exact same order in which they’d been. A feat that could only have been accomplished by one demon.
And so, taking in a big, gulping gasp of breath to make up for the ones he’d missed while staring, mystified, Aziraphale runs back to the sofa where Crowley is resting and wakes him not to suggest they leave, but instead to push him further into the cushions.
They return to the bookshop twice in the next week, and both times, against every statistical probability, the same man is there as well. It briefly occurs to Aziraphale that, perhaps, this isn’t just any regular human after all. Perhaps the attention he’s been paying Crowley is rooted in more secret, more hellish motivations. It’s a theory he doesn’t linger on long. He doesn’t have Crowley’s demonic senses, sure, but at no point had he detected anything quite so sinister from the man. He’d picked up on a couple other sins from him while he’d been looking at Crowley, yes. But nothing purely evil.
He recalls the man having said something about working nearby, and reckons that’s a much more likely explanation for his continued appearance. After all, if he passed by the shop regularly anyway, he’d surely notice when it was open.
To Aziraphale’s immense satisfaction, when he shows up the while they’re there for the second time in the week, by pure happenstance, Crowley has just stepped out. He’d offered to run to the grocery store around the corner when Aziraphale had realized he’d run out of the rose petal tea he’d been so craving. (He could have miracled it, sure, but it was just never quite the same.) Uncoincidentally, the man hadn’t stayed more than five minutes after apparently realizing that Crowley wasn’t there.
If Aziraphale had been prone to any other doubts about what had been happening, which he hadn’t been, that incident would have erased them once and for all. But, that’s not the final straw. No, his breaking point comes the next time around.
By this point, Aziraphale has come to accept that, apparently, whenever they are in the store, this insufferable man will be too. Which, alright, at least he can prepare himself. And as long as he doesn’t do anything untoward (at least, not more so than he has already) then maybe, just maybe, Aziraphale can find it in himself to continue silently ignoring him indefinitely.
Which is what he’s trying valiantly to do right now, on a sunny Wednesday afternoon, a minute after the man entered the store, just as predicted.
Crowley is curled up comfortably in an armchair, one leg pulled up to his chest and the other hanging over the edge of the seat. He’s got his nose buried in a book for once, a rare sight that makes Aziraphale’s heart flutter every time he glances up. Even if it is a newer book - one of the ones he keeps around for actually selling, one meant for young adults (the centerpiece of the cover art is a large red pin, one that’s stuck into a map that fades into the background) - and even if Crowley’s brow is furrowed in concentration.
Aziraphale, meanwhile, is comfortable in his own seat across from him with his own lovingly worn Milton and a mug of long-cold cocoa on the side table next to him. And, in his opinion, he’s doing a fantastic job of ignoring the man who’s currently fingering up some of his fortunately less valuable or sentimental early 20th century manuscripts - he’s pretty sure he’s currently got his hands on a Fitzgerald, but it’s fine, that’s none of his concern. He’d even gone so far as to not greet the man when he’d entered.
(At which point, if he’d been paying attention, he would have noticed Crowley breaking concentration on his novel in order to raise both eyebrows in his direction and blink in surprised confusion for a handful of moments. Of course, he hadn’t been paying attention, which was on account of the fact that he’d been doing such a good job of resolutely ignoring the customer who had just walked in.)
Turning one cheek will do quite nicely, Aziraphale thinks. It’s the perfect way to ward off the unpleasant feelings that have been churning inside him every time he’s so much as thought of this man. As long as he can keep this up, there will be no further issues. Even if forced ignorance means that, after five minutes of not turning a single page, he’s wound so tightly that he nearly leaps out of his chair when the bell above the door chimes a second time.
His book slams closed, the sound ringing out like a shot ricocheting off the wood and he blinks at it for a moment before his head snaps up. The first thing he sees is Crowley, who is staring at him, eyes clearly wide even behind his sunglasses. The sunglasses Aziraphale hadn’t even seen him put back on even though he surely must have when the door had opened the first time. The second thing he sees is the other man, whose eyes are also on him for a change, although he quickly looks away once he’s been caught.
Only when he hears the sound of someone trying very hard to be subtle about clearing their throat despite there being no other noise in the space they’re occupying does Aziraphale remember the door. When he looks over, he’s expecting to see another customer - just the thing he needs right now - but is instead somewhat relieved when he is met with the familiar sight of a khaki International Express uniform.
Heat rising to his neck, Aziraphale stands quickly, ducking his head as he mutters to Crowley for no particular reason, “Excuse me, dear.”
The delivery woman is still standing just inside the door. Fortunately, she doesn’t look the least bit agitated, despite the rather large square box propped against her hip. In fact, when he stops in front of her, she only smiles.
“Mr. Fell,” she greets in that professional casual manner in which two people only acquainted through their individual work spheres sometimes address each other. “Been a while.”
“Oh. Indeed,” Aziraphale says, offering her a smile in return.
Although he only receives mail of this sort perhaps once a month or less, she has been the one showing up on his doorstep for, oh, several years now, he thinks. An incredibly pleasant woman, and perhaps the least likely delivery driver in all the country to encounter road troubles of any sort, thanks to a little divine influence.
She presents him with the clipboard that had been laid atop the package, shifting things in her arms with a not insignificant grace that’s like a minor acrobatic balancing act all its own.
“You been keeping well, then?” she asks with the exact amount of interest that is polite while also being entirely genuine. “How’s the new place?”
Aziraphale thinks of the cottage. The beautiful, verdant green plants dotting every windowsill with their shiny leaves and the breeze through open windows causing curtains to gently sway, and the serenity of golden eyes blinking slowly up at him under the first creeping rays of the morning sun. He sighs.
“Wonderful.”
“Glad to hear it,” she says.
He’s scrawling his name on the designated line with careful, flowing strokes, and still thinking of home when he hears the yelp, followed by a loud, dull thunk.
He nearly drops the pen in his hand. When he whips around, there are two things very notably absent from his line of sight. Or rather, one human and one demon.
“Crowley?” he calls, trying and mostly failing to quell the note of panic in the query.
When there is no immediate answer, he drops the pen in his hand and spins on his heel, setting a brisk pace back into the middle of the store.
“Mr. Fell?” the delivery woman calls after him before he can take two steps. He glances back to see her holding the box in her hands in front of herself questioningly.
“Oh! Yes. Please, just set it down anywhere there’s room. I’ll get to it in a bit,” Aziraphale answers without slowing his pace. “Thank you so very much!”
He thinks, briefly, about her getting home safely to her wife, and then he’s thinking of nothing at all, because he rounds the corner and stops.
Aziraphale’s least favorite customer hadn’t gone far, and neither had Crowley. In fact, they’re both just around the back of one of the shelves. When he sees them, he stops abruptly next to his desk with the hand he’d extended to keep from colliding with it instead finding a grip on the edge of the wood.
Crowley is standing there, looking just fine except for the fact that his arms are hooked under the arms of the other man, who is currently entirely reliant on Crowley to remain upright, what with the way nearly his entire back is currently plastered to Crowley’s chest while just the heels of his shoes anchor him to the floor.
With a grunt likely born more of annoyance than any actual effort, Crowley easily pushes the man forward so he’s standing on his own two feet once again and then proceeds to adjust his jacket, looking disgruntled as he brushes his hands over it. The man whips around so he’s facing Crowley, staring up at him with a look in his wide eyes that makes something in Aziraphale twist itself up into ugly knots.
“O-Oh. My god,” the man stammers without taking his eyes off of Crowley for a second. “I’m sorry, I- I- Thank you. So much. Y-You-”
“Oh, yeah,” Crowley grunts, still fussing with his jacket. “Sure.”
There is a moment of pause. The perfect chance for Aziraphale to wedge himself physically between them, to double check on his demon; even though he surely wasn’t brought to harm, there’s still always that worry - Except, he’s frozen. Watching this foolish, clumsy human blink around the stars in his eyes that are directed at exactly the wrong subject while his own chest burns.
“Listen.” The man stops. Clears his throat and ducks his head. Restarts. “S-So, here’s the thing. I’ve been meaning to ask anyway. W-Would you-?”
“Crowley.”
It’s out of his mouth before he can think better of it. His voice sounds off even to his own ears - too flat, but also somehow as stern as it is strangled.
The man startles and Crowley immediately abandons the efforts he was making with his jacket to meet Aziraphale’s eyes. His annoyance melts away in an instant, expression turning soft, and he starts marching straight over to meet him, talking before he’s even taken a step.
“It was nothing. Look, I’m fine!You, however. Is something-?”
He doesn’t get to finish his question.
He doesn’t get to finish his question because the moment he is close enough, Aziraphale’s hands fist into the lapels of his jacket and spin him round so that his back slams against the edge of the desk. He’s pretty sure he hears something clatter to the floor. He doesn’t care.
“Angel!”
If there had been a follow-up to that exclamation, Aziraphale doesn’t get to hear it, because he’s smashing his lips against Crowley’s.
Crowley hums a startled sound into his mouth, but his head tilts and his hands flutter against Aziraphale’s back before settling themselves in. He seems content to be a passive participant in this dance, meeting Aziraphale’s desperate, hungry kisses at half-speed, although not without eagerness of his own.
They slot together easily - perfectly matched puzzle pieces. Aziraphale relishes it, basks in the waves of forceful adoration exploding from Crowley, perhaps the most pure an emotion he’s ever felt. It’s dizzying.
He forces himself away before he can drown in it, only barely hearing the incomprehensible stammering of the man that he’d honestly almost forgotten was still in the building. Crowley looks past him, gaze levelled over his shoulder, and grins a serpentine grin as he lowers his sunglasses until they’re perched on the end of his nose. And then he winks. At which point, Aziraphale hears the front door open with a bang accompanied by the clamor of the bell above it as it swings. Open and then shut again.
It’s only then, after another second of blinking up at Crowley, that Aziraphale releases his death grip on his jacket and takes a long step back, giving him room to breathe. Or, perhaps, giving himself room.
Crowley’s attention turns back on him and his smirk drops. The lapels of his jacket are still wrinkled where Aziraphale’s hands had found them. But he doesn’t move other than to settle more comfortably against the desk and raise his hand to snap his fingers. As soon as he does, the bookshop around them grows just a touch dimmer than it had been a moment ago. Aziraphale twists to glance at the front and sees that, as he’d suspected, the shades have been drawn. It’s likely the sign has been flipped to closed and the door has been locked as well.
Facing forward again, he’s somewhat surprised to see that Crowley’s sunglasses have disappeared from his face and have been tucked neatly instead into his jacket pocket. Despite that fact, his countenance is still uncharacteristically neutral.
“Alright,” he says. “Not that that wasn’t enjoyable, but. Would you care to tell me what’s gotten into you?”
Aziraphale considers lying, but it wouldn’t do. He’s no good at it, or so Crowley has told him. Besides, the way he ducks his head, an unpleasant heat burning in his cheeks, gives him away regardless.
So, instead of denial, he goes for deflection.
“I-It’s really nothing you need to concern yourself with-”
“Angel. Aziraphale.” Crowley reaches for his hand and he allows it to be taken. “I would never force you to talk to me. I just- I- You’ve been acting weird. Just in the last few weeks. And- And you know I’m here, right? Our side and all that.”
He clears his throat, fingers twitching against Aziraphale’s. Despite the hesitant way he says the words, the conviction behind them is unquestionable. They need to have this conversation, of course they do, but Aziraphale is considering holding back, waiting and taking a handful of hours to recollect himself first.
One swipe of Crowley’s thumb across his knuckles, so gentle and sure, and that thought is gone.
“It’s silly,” he says. When he looks up, he sees that furrow in Crowley’s brow that says he’s about to argue, but he continues before he can start. “It’s just- For a while now, every time we’ve opened the shop, that man has shown up - the same one who was here just now - and the way he looks at you! It’s- It’s lecherous, and even worse is that it’s always when you’re not looking.”
He’s aware that Crowley is blinking down at him with visible surprise, and he could likely stop there and still get his point across. But the proverbial floodgates have been opened, and now that he’s started, he’s not going to stop until he lets everything right out in the open.
“It’s a violation! I-I mean, he was very nearly fondling you that one time he tripped over the rug and straight into you. I don’t think that was by accident, by the way. I couldn’t say anything, of course, that would have been, well, unmannerly. But I haven’t been able to stand watching it happen! And you’ve never said anything, either. Sort of... Sort of like what you’re doing at the moment.”
Crowley tilts his head to squint at the door and then back to Aziraphale, and then back and forth once more. Aziraphale is expecting… he’s not sure what, exactly, but it’s not the next words that leave Crowley’s mouth, that’s certain.
“What’s-? That was the same human? You’re sure?”
Aziraphale releases his hand suddenly in a burst of exasperation that leads him to crossing his arms, hunching rather miserably in on himself.
“Crowley! Do be serious; I’m trying-”
“I am being serious.”
Aziraphale freezes. It’s his turn to feel caught off-guard. Admittedly, that was not a possibility that he had considered. Crowley is frowning back at him, but not with any measure of upset. It’s more curious. Perhaps a bit uncertain.
“You should know I don’t pay a lick of attention to the people that come in here. I’m surprised you did, actually. And sure I’ve noticed the- the- attention.” His nose wrinkles in that way it only ever has when he’s trying not to let his annoyance be known. “But I never said anything because, well, you’re always telling me to be nicer to the customers.”
Aziraphale turns his head aside. Of course. He’s given Crowley a number of small lectures over the years in relation to that exact concern. It just had to be now, under these circumstances, that he finally started to pay them any mind.
“I’m still not sure what that-” Crowley stops. A few seconds pass full of nothing but sudden, unbearable silence. “Wait. Were… Were you jealous? ”
Aziraphale feels a sensation that he dimly recognizes as shame burning up through his lungs. Slowly, he raises his head. He's expecting to see Crowley's face lit up. Teasing and gleeful, or, at the very least, amused. Aziraphale wouldn't blame him. After all, he's still supposed to be an angel and, although that's unimportant to either of them anymore, now the sin of envy is just one more he can officially cross off the list.
But what he sees is nothing like that.
Crowley's expression is… soft. There's really no better way to describe it. Soft, and just a bit sad. He's gone entirely still, hands at his sides.
"Oh, angel." It comes out breathless. Aziraphale's heart shakes. "Of course I didn't pay a human any mind. Of course not. I have all that I could ever want standing right in front of me. Heaven, I hate myself a little bit for sounding so maudlin.”
Aziraphale falters.
“Oh dear,” he says, taking another step back and turning around, dragging his hands over his face. “Oh dear, it seems I’ve gone and made a mess of things. I really have been terribly foolish, haven’t I?”
“Just a bit.”
Aziraphale straightens up, flattening his bowtie against his collar, and, infused with a new surge of determination, spins around again. He’s surprised to come face to face with Crowley - he hadn’t even heard him move - close enough that Crowley’s hands easily grasp his hips and hold him steady when he finds himself stumbling backwards. He refuses to let himself be deterred, however, and his brow is still drawn tight in seriousness when he starts to speak.
“I owe you-”
“Sh, sh, sh, ” Crowley hushes, inserting himself easily into Aziraphale’s space. He’s so close that Aziraphale’s hands raise automatically to rest flat against his chest for lack of anywhere else to go. The smile has returned to his face, small but radiant in its warmth. “Don’t. There’s no need.”
Aziraphale huffs, pulling a face that is certainly not a pout and in no way reminiscent of one. One hand trails absently down Crowley’s chest.
“Maybe so. But I’d still like to say it, and I will.” Crowley rolls his eyes and Aziraphale’s chest only swells with impossibly more affection. “I’m so sorry. I was being, well, a bit of a bastard, if I’m honest.”
Crowley snorts, loud and bright, and Aziraphale grins.
“Apology accepted.”
Utterly unable to help himself, Aziraphale rests one hand against Crowley’s cheek and stretches up into him for a kiss. It’s chaste, and quick, and it makes his head spin with the force of the pure emotion pulsing forth from Crowley.
He bounces back on the balls of his feet, eyes fluttering open just in time to see Crowley’s gaze shift away. He’s chewing on his lip, and Aziraphale’s smile fades.
Crowley is by no means a delicate creature. Not physically and - if facing down both the end times and Satan himself head on is any indication - not mentally, either. But there’s something about the way he looks when his glasses are off, something Aziraphale is still getting used to after millennia of seldom seeing him without them. He’s more open, of course, but that means he’s more fragile as well.
Aziraphale’s thumb strokes over his cheek with a featherlight touch.
“Crowley-”
“It’s fine, angel.” He tries a smile, but it doesn’t quite fit.
“Dearest, please,” Aziraphale coaxes.
Without warning, Crowley catches his hand, pulling it away from his cheek to bring it to his lips instead, ducking his head as he does. His warm breath tingles against Aziraphale’s skin.
“You know, don’t you?” he asks, the faintest tremble audible in his voice. “That I- B-Because I don’t say it. Not nearly as often as I think it. Or feel it. But I can. Or I can try. If that’s what you need.”
Aziraphale pulls his hand just far enough free of Crowley’s grasp to be able to turn it and weave their fingers together, holding tight. His free hand brushes a lock of red hair back from Crowley’s forehead and lingers there. Crowley leans into his touch and the look he levels at Aziraphale when he raises his eyes makes him feel as though his heart will burst.
“I know.”
Crowley raises his head without letting go of Aziraphale’s hand and he visibly swallows.
“Good,” he says with a nod that is far more confident than the way his voice strains. “Because I do. I love you.”
“And I love you.”
Unable to help himself for another second, Aziraphale hooks his arms around Crowley’s neck and tugs him down into a kiss. A proper one, this time, that makes Crowley’s arms slink around his middle and pull them flush together. One that they’re both smiling into as they move together. He can feel Crowley’s sweet little sounds of satisfaction against his lips, and he’s sure he’s making some of his own.
He doesn’t know how long it is before Crowley leans away, not letting go even as he does. Everything about him is relaxed, from his expression of open reverence to his hands against Aziraphale’s back.
“Y’know, next time if you say something first, I have no problems putting an appropriate bit of proper demonic fear into one little human. Although…” His eyes shine, and the curve of his mouth spells mischief. “If it means getting you to throw me against your desk, maybe I’m better off not interfering.”
“Crowley!” Aziraphale chastises in a scandalized tone of voice that is betrayed by the grin spreading across his face.
“Just saying.”
Aziraphale shakes his head and presses a closed-mouth kiss against his lips. And then a third and fourth.
“I think I’d very much like for you to take me home now.” He’s close enough that his mouth brushes Crowley’s with every word. “You can show me just how much you love me.”
He doesn’t miss the way Crowley shudders, the fine hairs on the back of his neck standing on end as Aziraphale’s fingers trace lightly across his skin. Or the soft hiss that he breathes in return.
“That I can do,” he says.
And he does.