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When they climb on the bus, amid the passengers who are only mildly confused as to why the bus is even here anyway, Aziraphale does something for the very first time. And perhaps not the only First he’ll have tonight, he ponders, considering it is also their first time navigating a world that didn’t end. But better start small.
He takes the seat right beside Crowley. They both know it’s just a silly, small detail. For millennia they’ve been meeting each other, sharing park benches and restaurant tables and whatnot.
But they both also know it’s not silly nor small. Every time they’ve met in public was either by accident or shrouded in pretense. Like taking different seats, or just far enough so it doesn’t look like they’re intentionally together (even though any onlooker could see them clearly talking to each other).
But now, who cares?
Heaven and Hell (and the antichrist, and his friends, and Satan himself, and a bunch of humans, and a hellhound) all know they’ve been… fraternizing.
So they waited for that bus together. Not feeling the need to look around, afraid to be seen. At Crowley's invitation to stay at his flat, Aziraphale surprised himself by responding with a short nod and a fond smile he couldn’t quite hold back. So he might as well sit right next to him on their way there, basking in his presence in companionable silence.
What’s the problem if the space between them is so small that their elbows can’t help but touch? And if Crowley sprawls his legs a bit too far, and Aziraphale can’t help but pressing his own thigh against him, that’s nobody’s business but their own.
Yet, there is still a tiny little part of Aziraphale’s mind that tells him to be careful, that someone might see. That he should sit somewhere else and spend the night in a hotel with a miraculously free suite and a safe cup of tea.
Something must show on his face — perhaps the stiff way he sits, barely touching the backrest, and looking straight ahead with unblinking eyes above pale cheeks. Who knows. And that’s when another First happens.
Slouching a bit too cool and casual, maybe suspiciously so, Crowley reaches out and covers Aziraphale’s hand with his. As if they did this all the time. As if neither of their hearts was beating out of their chests at the intimacy of the gesture.
And just like that, the little voice inside Aziraphale’s head is silenced, smothered by the warmth of Crowley's hand. Had he known that this light caress over his knuckles could wrap him in so much comfort, he would have sought it out sooner. Or, more likely, he was all too aware of it; and that’s exactly why he didn’t.
Emboldened by fluttering of his heart (but not so much as to avoid a slight tremble on his hand), Aziraphale turns his palm up and intertwines their fingers. He doesn’t miss the way Crowley’s shoulders seem to relax the tiniest bit from his purposefully-relaxed stance. The thrill of it makes Aziraphale almost giddy, forgetting for a second the situation that led them here.
Afraid to break the spell (or scare the other away), they barely move for the remainder of the journey. Their joined hands rest atop Aziraphale’s thigh until the bus makes its last stop, right in front of Crowley’s flat.
As they get up, their hands fall hesitantly apart. Aziraphale glances at Crowley, who was already looking at him.
“Ah.” He says, eloquently. “Here we are then.”
“Come on, angel” he says with a smile, and presses a hand on Aziraphale’s lower back to guide him inside. It lingers there for a moment more than it had to. His fingers seem to twitch towards Aziraphale’s again, but they stop. “Uh… This way.”
On the way up to the flat, both are all too aware of pinkies brushing with each step.
Arriving at the door, Aziraphale grabs Crowley’s wrist and makes him stop on his track.
“What is…?” He starts asking when he senses the presence of holy water, then trails off as he understands the scene before him. The door still half open, showing a small pool of holy water with a splash of demonic goo.
“I wasn’t going to step on it!” Crowley grumbles indignantly.
“Well, honestly, my dear.” The angel tuts at him while he miracles away the mess. The reproach is halfhearted at best, and mixed with a good deal of relief. “So that’s what you wanted it for? I thought…”
“I know what you thought.” He says, not unkindly. “I told you it wasn’t that.”
The second they walk in, Crowley takes off his glasses and sighs — or perhaps something of a huff. The door closes on its own and clicks shut.
Aziraphale wants to say that it was still very dangerous, he could have been splashed by the water on accident, and he shouldn't leave such things on the floor, for goodness sake! But he doesn’t.
Instead they just… stand there awkwardly for a moment. Not the kind of awkwardness brought on by the other person’s presence, of course. If anything, that is the only thing holding them both remotely sane. It’s just that usually there is a Thing to do, or to discuss. Whatever temptations or blessings are afoot, or what the bosses are planning, or — anything! And now…
“What now?” Aziraphale asks. “What do we… you know, do?”
“Nothing, I don’t think.” Crowley shrugs, staring at the floor. “Drink? Or…”
“Surely there is something we must do.” He interrupts with a whiff of nervousness that threatens to take hold. “Neither side is too happy with our little interference. I'm sure they will be busy for a moment, sorting out the mess of today. But the second they do, they’ll want to destroy us!”
Yellow eyes fix on him, reflecting none of Azirapahale’s fears. Suddenly there’s a wild rage in those eyes, and something else, much softer, that he doesn’t have the time to identify. Because then another First comes about.
Crowley takes a long step closer and wraps his arms tightly around Aziraphale. The angel instinctively puts his own arms around Crowley’s waist and splays his hands on the demon’s back. Like it’s the most natural thing in the world, holding each other close. (And, oh, it does feel all too natural).
“They will do no such thing” Crowley hisses, gripping him even tighter. His memory is filled by the smell of burning — of books and wood and home. Then, so gently that it nearly breaks Aziraphale’s heart, he adds. “I lost you once, angel. I will not let it happen again. You hear?”
“Oh.” It’s all he’s capable of murmuring. “My dear…”
Aziraphale forgets that Crowley had seen the burning bookshop, and thought that… He can barely imagine, arriving here alone and finding only puddles of holy water and no Crowley, and assuming… He can’t bear the thought.
The angel buries his face in the crook of Crowley's shoulder, pressing his lips on him with what is barely a kiss. Only a light brush on the exposed skin of his neck, just above the hem of his shirt. A small and innocent sharing of comfort, to feel that both are alive, well and here.
But Crowley lets out a sharp intake of breath, and his fingers twitch on their strong grasp. Such a reaction only spurs Aziraphale on to do something that is probably not very angelic. (But then again, he was never one to deny himself a good temptation. Not when it came to Crowley).
So he does it again. With purpose, this time. His own breath hitches as he slowly brings his lips to Crowley’s skin and plants what could not be mistaken by anything else other than a soft and deliberate kiss.
Crowley’s hands hold him closer still, nearly gripping the back of his clothes. With slow deliberation, Aziraphale drags his nose and lips along Crowley’s neck and jaw. Then tilts up his own face until he can plant a lingering kiss right on the snake tattoo near the demon’s temple.
Meanwhile, Crowley had been frozen in place. Surely that was just a friendly moment? Surely Aziraphale didn’t mean… he wouldn’t want… surely he’s too pure of heart for… well, for him.
But the way they are holding each other, nearly gripping for dear life (Crowley knows he is; the dearest in all of his life). And the way Aziraphale is kissing his face oh so delicately, like he is something precious.
Crowley turns his face to the side just enough to find Aziraphale’s eyes. And, although slightly unsure, what he sees in those bright blue eyes is not only want, but love. Their faces are so close already, their mingled breaths feeling like one, both move barely a fraction and they are kissing.
Their lips move together with the excited hesitation. It’s tentative, and delicate, and a little bit scared. Someone makes a small sound, almost a moan, which reverberates through both of them.
Then it becomes sure, and firm, and a little bit desperate. Aziraphale brings his hand to cup the side of Crowley’s face, deepening the kiss.
Crowley takes advantage of their height difference and dips Aziraphale back, then presses him not-so-gently against the nearest wall. The small gasp the angel breathes against his lips is the best thing he’s ever tasted. The closeness is intoxicating. His angel is here — not only “alive” here, but at this flat and back in his own body. A delicious body which is currently wrapped around Crowley’s, so soft and warm and greedy. He can’t help himself but take a hard nip at Aziraphale’s lower lip, and the deep moan that escapes his angel’s throat this time makes it very hard to stop.
Hard in more ways than one, for some time amid all the kissing and groping they both independently decided to make an Effort. Each meant to ask the other about it, or at least communicate the intention. But it is difficult when all the words turn to sighs, and now Crowley can clearly feel Aziraphale's Effort poking at his hip.
Crowley takes a handful of angelic ass and pulls him as close as possible, and the sweet pressure makes both grunt. They are grinding and panting into the wall, desperate hands groping everywhere while their hungry lips refuse to part. It happens in the messiest, most human way possible. To them, nothing short of divine.
Aziraphale presses both hands on Crowley’s chest and drags them up and over his shoulders, pulling off his jacket. Crowley lets go of his angel only enough to let the clothing fall on the floor, then he takes the hint and follows suit. Much less delicately, he shoves away Aziraphale’s coat and pulls it away himself.
There’s an annoyed grunt when Crowley pauses the kiss, and it makes him smile. Aziraphale's expression tries to be stern, but only manages to be entirely blissed out. Not breaking eye contact, Crowley undos the already crumpled bowtie and throws it to the side. There’s way too many layers. Why so many? He slowly — too slowly — starts to unbutton the top of the angel’s shirt. As cool fingers brush the heated oversensitive skin, Aziraphale’s eyes flutter.
Crowley dives right in, biting his way up Aziraphale’s neck and then peppering it with sloppy kisses. Judging by the hands that comb through his hair and grip him ever closer, he’s on the right track. He licks the vibration of the angel’s sharp moans straight from his throat.
A particularly hard bite pulls a loud gasp from Aziraphale, and Crowley is about to apologise. But the angel starts all but humping the demon’s leg, then it’s too much. Honestly, Crowley thinks it’s a wonder he’s lasted this far without losing his mind entirely.
Aziraphale feels Crowley tugging at his trousers, but going further.
“Angel…?” The whisper is all he can do in this state.
Aziraphale is touched by the checking, even if unnecessary (why else would he be sporting a penis?). Not much more put together, the angel answers back with an enthusiastic nod and a hard grind.
Then his trousers are nearly ripped open, and long fingers waste no time to wrap around his (brand new) cock. The perfect pressure and an expert squeeze make his legs weak. His own fingers dig at the back of the demon’s neck, and pull him down for a hard kiss.
Crowley takes them both in his hand and starts pumping them together. It’s fast, and messy, and a bit bumbling — just like Crowley. The thought makes Aziraphale moan louder into the other one’s mouth, and with the hand that isn’t busy pulling on red hair, he grips the demon’s shoulder and brings him even closer. Always closer. It’s barely even possible at this point without them occupying the same body, but Aziraphale can try.
It’s all bruising holds and toothy kisses. There will be time for delicateness later, and slow adoration. But after today, what they need most is exactly this. Proof of life — their own, each other’s, humanity’s.
Both spill over Crowley’s hand all too soon, but they don’t let go yet. This particular First didn’t last much, but it didn't have to. They have time to start over later. All the time in the world.
Crowley rests his forehead against Aziraphale’s. Their chests heave in perfect synch.
“My angel” he breathes against pink swollen lips.
He takes Aziraphale’s hand and pulls him toward the bedroom, where the recently miracled king-size bed awaits with a bottle of red wine beside it.
They’ll figure out what Agnes meant, and they’ll fix it. They’ll find the Bentley, and what’s left of the bookshop, and fix everything they can. But later.
The world didn’t end. And right now, their world is all inside this room.