Happy Holidays, Vulgarweed!
Title: I Run into You and Just Keep Running
For: Vulgarweed
Beta: Cactusrabbit
Rating: R
Pairings: Aziraphale/Crowley
Characters: Aziraphale, Crowley
Warnings: None
Summary: No matter the time or place in history, Crowley and Aziraphale keep bumping into each other in places where men go to be with other men, and there’s no polite way to watch someone else getting felt up.
Author's Notes: This story has bits that had to be left out for the sake of brevity but they will be added in later on and a sequel to this has already begun, much to my surprise. I couldn’t have asked for a more incredible idea or an idea that stretched me more as an author. I am so grateful to Vulgarweed for this prompt: “Aziraphale/Crowley; gay/bi-male history through the ages. No matter where or when, in every century, those two man-shaped beings who aren’t exactly men keep glimpsing each other in social spaces frequented by men who like to have sex with other men (certain taverns, parks, bath-houses, brothels, etc..). I imagine they’re both very awkward about it. But there must be a turning point.” You have given so much to this wonderful fandom and I am honored to have been able to write for you. I wish you the absolute happiest of holidays and a joyous New Year!
Athens, 411 BC
Crowley didn’t like Athens that much. It was alright, sure, you could get decent wine, the theatre was great, and the lamb was largely disease free, but the sanctimonious tone surrounding the war with Sparta was on his last nerve. Most Athenians felt quietly confident that the Gods were on their side. Crowley had had a good laugh at that and then been asked to leave the temple of Athena. Below had made it clear that it was time for him to move on though, and not a moment too soon. A red haired woman had been seen around the soldiers’ encampments and Crowley couldn’t get away fast enough.
As he wended his way to his last symposium, Crowley dug his nails into his beard and scraped. The stupid thing itched horribly. He’d not even wanted one but being young and beardless was an invitation to attention that Crowley didn’t want so a beard it was. He’d practically had to stop visiting the gymnasium just to avoid all the lustful approaches. Crowley took a distant view of lust. It was something that happened to other people and he was pleased to encourage it but personal involvement with it was akin to having a dog hump your leg. Distasteful and embarrassing for all involved.
Aziraphale could have Athens for all the good it did him. They’d largely managed to avoid each other due to the unfortunate requirement that they kill one another on sight so he’d no idea if Aziraphale was even still around, but he’d caught a whiff of holier-than-thou a few times amidst the smell of sweat, piss, and incense that pervaded the city.
The stone walls flared orange around him as the sun set into the bay of Phalerum. Athens had its moment. Still, no excuse for them letting a war go on for more than two decades and patting themselves on the back while it dragged forward.
The symposium had already reached the point in the night where everyone was talking and no one was listening. Well, the hetairai seemed patient enough and were exchanging looks with one another. A younger man with a dark beard was trying to explain to one of them, in-between stuffing figs into his mouth, that Lysistrata wasn’t at all funny and the generals very much knew what they were doing. Crowley had seen it and thought it was quite good.
He grabbed a cup of wine, settling down on a stool next to Ariston whose muscled bulk was sprawled on a klines that looked like it was ready to break.
Ariston nodded his head at the cup. “Don’t bother, Lycaeus over-watered it. It tastes like it’s never ever seen a grape.”
Crowley tasted it and grimaced, handing it to a servant. The room was getting warm from the bodies and he already wanted to leave but he had a stock of dildos that needed offloading before he departed. Sure, he could let them moulder away but why do that when he could sell them at a cut rate, flood the market, inspire lust and greed, and on top of that ruin the price for every other dildo merchant in town. Since Miletus had stopped trading with Athens the dildo market was locked. That had been a work of genius on Crowley’s part.
Ariston motioned to a young man seated next to him “My companion, Aristocles.”
Aristocles ducked his head “Plato, please.”
Ariston frowned, “That’s for me to call you.”
“I want everyone to call me that.”
“Well, work on your wrestling with a bit more dedication and perhaps they will.”
“My friends call me Plato, sometimes,” Aristocles muttered.
Ariston rolled his eyes.
Aristocles was indeed broad shouldered and deserving of the name Plato but he had the plush mouth and golden brown curls that Crowley knew were undeniable bait to every erastes in the city. Hopefully the boy would have a beard soon. It would hide that weak chin.
Crowley looked around hoping for someone he could sell to. He had a couple marks in mind and at least one of them had to be here. He thought he caught a glimpse of Kyros and made an excuse, leaving Ariston to his drink and Aristocles to being a sullen, spotty youth. He’d only just stood up when he caught a glimpse of Aziraphale in the corner. Not alone either. He was sitting daintily on an older man’s lap, chiton rucked up and mousy brown hair in a riot. Probably because the older man’s hand was buried in it and tugging Aziraphale’s mouth down to his. Crowley grabbed a cup of wine from a nearby servant and intended to drain it then make for the nearest exit.
Instead he accidentally drenched himself with wine and ended up dropping the kylix which clanged to the ground and cracked into shards. Guests gawked and then turned away from the soggy pool spreading around Crowley’s sandals.
Crowley wiped his face and checked to see if Aziraphale had noticed. Aziraphale had more than noticed. Aziraphale was staring at Crowley with a look that hovered between the disapproval of the righteous and vague embarrassment at being caught unawares, and then his eyes went lazy and fluttered up into his head. Crowley’s eyes flicked down against his will to see the man’s hand creeping up under Aziraphale’s chiton.
Crowley wanted to tell Aziraphale that he hadn’t come here to watch him get seduced, but given that their relationship prior to this had been based on killing one another, ruining one another’s plans, and generally being difficult, it didn’t seem like a good time to explain himself. He didn’t really feel like battling to the death either so he did what seemed most reasonable and bolted out the door into the falling night.
Crowley ducked into a taverna, pausing only to conjure dry clothes and sandals onto himself and asked for unwatered wine. He got a glare from the slave girl who brought it to him as he knocked it back and tried not to think about dildos, or Sparta, or Aziraphale, or anything.
Many cups later he threw money on the table and looked muzzily at the slave girl and mumbled “Take it, run. Steal what you can and get out of this stupid city.”
She didn’t speak but took the money and shoved it into her breast band, nodding at him like he was finally talking sense.
“You don’t want a stock of dildos do you?” He offered. She only looked at him, distinctly unimpressed, and walked away, muttering something in her own language that loosely translated to “Gods, save me from these Achaeans”.
He ambled out, letting his feet carry him down to the port. He’d leave the whole of his dildo stock in the temple of Zeus. It was exactly the kind of a ‘miracle’ a city on the verge of being fucked needed.
Court of King Charlemagne, Aachen, 787 AD
There was no such thing as a warm castle or palace, much to Crowley’s irritation. Every single room was draughty and those high arches, as atmospheric as they were, just meant more air to heat. No wonder the queen wore about seven layers of clothing. He pulled his wool cloak around himself and jarred open the library door. Crowley bit down on a growl and slammed the door shut again. Should he just start wearing a bell? This was the third time he'd caught Aziraphale and Alcuin together.
Charlemagne had things well in hand and probably didn’t need the likes of Aziraphale or Crowley around but Aziraphale already has his hooks into the monastery, as badly as that was going, so Crowley had to stick around and maintain the balance. They hadn’t had to kill each other in at least one hundred years and an uneasy détente had settled in, although Crowley was reconsidering that now. He was just trying to do his job and here was Aziraphale mucking around with humans.
Crowley heard an undignified squeal from inside the library and tried very hard not to guess which one of them had made that particular sound. He beat his fist on the door "When you're quite finished, there’s a book that the king would like retrieved." There wasn’t, he just wanted some peace and quiet and warmth. The library was one of the only moderately warm rooms in the palace, the only one that the builders hadn’t decided to turn into a monument to the ‘beauty of arches’.
Crowley kicked the door for good measure and Alcuin swanned out and down the corridor, the smooth bastard pausing only to nod warmly at Crowley. He started to move his hands in the sign of blessing and Crowley lunged for his wrist, letting his eyes flicker yellow.
“I wouldn’t if I were you.”
Alcuin instead clapped Crowley on the back with his free hand and laughed. “Clever trick! Aziraphale said you were good. Perhaps we can meet ourselves and talk once his majesty is on the campaigns again?”
Crowley only looked dumbly at him. That usually worked. It had worked so well it had caused a small riot in Constantinople. Well a large riot, but only half the city had been burned and Crowley had nothing to do with the burning or looting. Alcuin pulled away, straightening his robes and said “You know where to find me, I’m sure” before striding off down the hallway.
Aziraphale stepped out from the library, looking more rumpled than he ordinarily looked. “So sorry about that, dear boy.”
Crowley just stared at Alcuin’s retreating form “I see why you joined the monastery then. Plenty of flesh in need of what? Divine purification?”
“Don’t be rude,” Aziraphale combed his fingers ineffectually through his curls.
“I’m not the one having it off in the library like some idiot novice who can’t wait to get his robe up and his pants down!”
Aziraphale puffed up. “I know love must be quite uncomfortable for you, but I’m certainly not going to apologize for my behavior.”
“That wasn’t love!” Crowley laughed.
Aziraphale pursed his lips. “How would you know?”
Crowley stopped himself from grabbing a heavy tome and bludgeoning Aziraphale to death with it. “Do you think I don’t bloody remember what it was like up there? I know what love is, just because I don’t get around like you do, and don’t want to get friendly with the natives doesn’t mean I don’t know anything! If you want to be a sanctimonious prick about it then at least have the courtesy to do your shagging in private like a sane person.”
Aziraphale looked a little abashed. “I apologize, I shouldn’t have said that.”
“You’ve no reason to get involved with them like that anyway. They don’t even know what you are, it’s practically taking advantage.”
Aziraphale frowned, “Surely you should be in favor of that.”
Crowley sniffed, “S’alright when I do it, I’m supposed to. What’s your excuse?”
“There’s nothing wrong with what I’m doing. Angels are beings of love and there’s nothing against the rules about expressing that. Anyway, I think Alcuin has some idea of what I am - of what we are.”
“And you think Alcuin loves you?”
“Oh goodness, I should hope not,” Aziraphale looked as though the possibility had just occurred to him.
“Well he definitely doesn’t.” Crowley had no idea if that was true or not but he said it with conviction.
“Well, I wouldn’t say he wasn’t fond of me. We are friends of a sort. He was kind enough to sign a primer for me. It’s got a lovely inscription,” Aziraphale smiled proudly. "He really is quite good at a turn of phrase"
Crowley looked at the note that read 'Oh how sweet life was when we sat quietly midst all these books.'
"Hmph, it certainly was never as quiet as you seemed to think."
“Oh hush, serpent.”
Paris, 1670, Jardin des Tuileries,
Walking through a dark public park looking for a willing partner while stumbling over shrubs was overrated, Crowley decided. He had wanted to see what all the fuss was about but to end up with a coat sticky with sap or, Someone forbid, his silk hose ripped, well, there were things Crowley wasn't prepared to put up with. He approached a young man and found the least leaf and twig strewn place possible. Crowley was halfway through a seduction when he realized he couldn't make an effort. Any effort at all. Crowley begged off and said that he suddenly remembered he'd got the pox and should probably skip the shagging until that little problem cleared up.
The man bolted off in the direction of the Pavillon de Flore so quickly that Crowley felt vaguely insulted.
Crowley started to head towards the Seine, maybe a nice stroll and encouraging some petty theft would cheer him. Then the wind shifted and the stench of sewage rolled off the Seine. Like every being with a sense of smell and a lack of self-hatred, Crowley turned and headed in the opposite direction. He found himself smacking right into Aziraphale, who nervously straightened his wig.
"What are you do-nevermind..." Crowley gave up.
Aziraphale looked askance. "I saw that young man run off and thought perhaps I should make sure that you were alright."
Crowley shrugged, "I'm fine. Just passing through."
Aziraphale looked as though he was holding his breath.
"Yes?" Crowley sighed.
"You just seemed a bit -only very slightly- lonely."
"’Lonely’?” Crowley raised his eyebrows.
"You don't have to be though, I'm sure. Couldn't you just, you know…" Aziraphale wiggled his fingers.
"No thanks. Anyway, I thought you weren't supposed to encourage that sort of thing."
"Of course not! I'm just saying that if you're feeling…that, then it's a choice you've made and you only have yourself to blame."
Crowley's eyes goggled. "You're terrible at this. Is this how you comfort your flock?"
Aziraphale stood up straighter. "I'm simply pointing out what you're doing. Pointing out that you have a choice."
"Kindly stop pointing things out and piss off.”
"I'm only trying to help," Aziraphale looked irritatingly sincere.
"I didn't come here for your help!" Crowley hissed.
"Then why exactly are you here, in this quite particular place?"
Crowley clenched his fists in the lace at his cuffs. "Believe it or not, I didn’t come here to see you, Angel! I'm here because I like it. It's nice. People exercising their free will and being happy breaking whatever stupid rules there are. You wouldn't understand it, it's just, restful. Anyway, why are you here?"
"The call to love is sacred. I go where that is."
Crowley gestured to the gardens. "Love has a high tolerance for mud and twigs."
"It really does. Remarkable."
London, 1725 AD
Crowley let himself lay flat on the ornate Oriental rug. Well, it had been ornate, now it was threadbare from the tread of patrons. This had probably been a lovely whorehouse at one point. It was still a whorehouse, just perhaps less lovely.
Aziraphale hovered over him. "Are you quite alright, dear?"
"Touched a relic. Here for sanctuary." He groaned into the remaining threads.
Azirphale knelt down and put a hand to Crowley’s forehead, for some inexplicable reason. "Oh goodness! Is there something I can do?”
"Lemme die in peace."
“I’m performing a wedding in a moment. Will you be alright…there? I’ll be right back.”
“Think I’m being stomped to death, but it’ll pass.” Crowley dragged himself up onto a chaise lounge and grabbed a decanter of brandy, uncorking and taking a large gulp. “Will your side have something to say about doing molly house weddings?”
“Certainly not. I’m spreading love and faith.”
“I think the theme of this establishment is spreading something else.” Crowley curled around the decanter and tried to get comfortable.
“There’s no need to be rude,” Aziraphale huffed.
“Look, I’m going to get my head down and recover. Just, for Someone’s sake, don’t bless the place or I won’t be able to sleep.”
“Blessing the union?” Aziraphale bargained.
“Fine, just keep the happy couple away from me.” Crowley drained the decanter and closed his eyes.
Crowley didn’t wake for hours and not until an amorous pair shoved him off the chaise lounge and even then, it wasn’t until he’d got wine dribbled on him that he properly woke up.
Aziraphale helped him up. “You’ll have to find another sofa, I’m afraid.”
“Uurgh, How’d the wedding go, then?”
“I had to leave out the part about infinite forgiveness, mercy, and grace. The crowd was getting restless,” Aziraphale said sheepishly.
“I’m shocked.” There was a thunder of feet on the stairs and musicians began setting up in the parlor.
“Just throw me out the window,” Crowley begged. “I’m not staying for this.”
Aziraphale shouldered Crowley and guided him to the stairs. “Let’s find you a room, come along.”
“You bless those sheets clean before I touch them.”
“Obviously.”
Aziraphale led him up a flight of stairs and checked several rooms before opening the door to one of them, startling a couple. Crowley, deciding not to waste time, took on one of his demonic shapes. The couple quickly departed with only a minimal amount of screaming.
“We could have found another room,” Aziraphale tsked.
Crowley collapsed against the wall. “Bless it.”
Aziraphale said primly, “If you hadn’t wasted your powers on that cheap parlor trick, you could make it clean yourself.”
“Stop being an arse!”
Aziraphale waved a hand and Crowley flopped forward onto the bed, mumbling in the sheets “Shifting form was a mistake.” Aziraphale had not only cleaned the bed, he’d freshened the rug and banished the smoke stains from the ceiling and walls. There was also a fireplace that definitely hadn’t been there before.
“It certainly was. That poor couple were quite upset,” Aziraphale said, tucking Crowley under the covers and sitting on the bed beside him.
Crowley nestled in. “There’s not enough sin here. I’ll have to sleep for weeks.”
Aziraphale gave a thoughtful hum. “We could make our own sin, I suppose.”
“S’not a sin, as you repeatedly prove.”
“Well, I could let you tempt me into it,” Aziraphale countered.
“Doesn’t work that way.”
Aziraphale smiled, “Ye of little faith.”
Crowley shook his head “A pity shag from an angel is new low.”
“It’s not pity!” Aziraphale said stiffly.
“I’m going to sleep now,” Crowley announced. The room was stuffy and warm but he felt wretched. His head ached and he lay there, trying not to feel the world spinning around the single point that was him and the pressure of Aziraphale weighing down the bed beside him. He felt Aziraphale shift and a frisson rippled out through the room and through the building. Shouts, giggles, and cheers died away into the sounds of clothing being torn, groans, and flesh coming up against flesh.
Crowley cracked an eye open, “Was that you?”
Aziraphale only replied, “I’m sure you’ll feel better tomorrow, just rest dear.”
Crowley was going to press him on it but he couldn’t make his mouth cooperate to form words. The aching and dizziness were finally loosening their hold. He felt Aziraphale press his lips to his forehead and then heard him head down the stairs. Presumably to deal with the constables knocking on the door. Crowley could just make out Aziraphale’s voice insisting that the constabulary was intruding on a church choir rehearsal and not a molly house in the middle of an orgy, whatever noises they might be hearing.
Moscow, 1899, Sandunovskie Baths
Sleeping for nearly all of the nineteenth century hadn’t been his original intention but after London he’d developed a taste for sleep and one thing led to another. Upon waking he’d been shunted off to Russia and it had been made painfully clear to him that it didn’t matter how cold it was, he was to stay put. The cold was more brutal than anything he’d ever felt before. He’d never understood the allure of hard liquor until he felt the Russian winter blow right through him and settle in his bones. He blessed under his breath and pulled his enormous coat tighter around himself.
He had always hated communal bathing. Something about being in the same room as a person rubbing soap into their crevices was just unsettling. If it meant warmth though, he was willing to give it a try.
The attendants took his coat, his second coat, and his jumper, barely fitting them all in a numbered bin behind the counter. Crowley was led to the Male Top Class bathing rooms and left to strip down the rest of the way and wash. He peeled off his boots and enormous wooly socks, stretching his toes for the first time in what felt like years. His trousers and long underwear came off in one tug and Crowley remembered to make an effort. Blending in while nude usually required genitals. They looked pretty normal as far as he could tell. He hadn’t gotten up close to any in quite a long time but they’d do.
He scrubbed down, gritting his teeth. The warm water made his fingers and toes sting as feeling returned to them. He grabbed a small towel and headed into the wider banya, marveling at the marble pillars and intricate tiled floors. It was like all of Versailles had been eaten by Russian opulence and then thrown up in a very concentrated space. The blue of the water played off the gold filigree and the brassy glow of the lamps. He couldn’t find the steam room but flicked his tongue out for just a second, looking for it. A bath attendant stared at him for a moment before thinking better of bringing up a patron’s eccentricities. He opened the door to the parilka and sighed deeply, inhaling the damp vapor. There were three other men already stretched out on the wooden benches.
Crowley laid his own towel out and flopped onto his stomach, sighing deeply. The steam nearly burned. The air was so heavy he almost wanted to be a snake again just so he could feel it seeping into every scale. Someone poured a bucket of water on the stones and fresh steam rolled over the room. Crowley’s toes curled with delight and he let himself drift into a light sleep.
He awoke to being prodded with something leafy and leapt off the bench ready to flee. A young man with sharp eyes and a moustache was looking at Crowley appraisingly.
“Venik?” He rumbled.
Crowley looked at the leafy branch in the man’s hand and smiled nervously “Ah, no, thank you. I’m fine. Very kind of you though. Thoughtful.”
The man shrugged and held out the branch to him. “Would you? I would ask my friends but they’re otherwise engaged.” The two men were laying with their legs intertwined, lazily playing with one another’s hands. One of them made a rude gesture at the man holding the branch.
The man put the branch down and held out a hand to Crowley. “Pasha.”
Crowley tentatively took it. “Crowley.”
“Can you use venik?”
“Ah, maybe?”
“You pat and slap the skin. It’s for circulation.” He gave Crowley a once-over. “I doubt you could hurt me, so don’t be afraid to use your strength.” Pasha laid down on a bench and looked expectantly at Crowley who picked up the venik and cautiously tapped Pasha with it.
The men on the bench giggled and Crowley tried to thwack Pasha harder but found his heart wasn’t really in it, he never had the temperament for anything like physical torture. Pasha sighed in resignation. “You can just rub it against the skin. Birch is good for it.”
Crowley scrubbed Pasha down with it and tried to keep his mind on the motion rather than the strangeness of petting someone with a shrub. Pasha motioned for Crowley to stop and sat up. “Are you sure I can’t return the favor? The circulation helps keep you warm when you leave.”
Crowley eyed the birch suspiciously, it seemed too pleased with itself. “No thanks.”
“Come, let’s use the pool.” Pasha strode out and Crowley trailed after. Pasha hadn’t even bothered with his towel, he just walked to the edge of the pool naked and slipped in. Crowley scuttled over to the stairs and stepped down into the water, leaving his towel behind. The other men in the pool were having a boisterous conversation that seemed to only rise in volume. Pasha glided over to Crowley and let his hand settle on Crowley’s knee.
“You’re very handsome.”
“I like your moustache. I’ve considered growing one but the upkeep, the products, the grooming, it’s really quite a commitment and of course you need the bone structure like, well you,” Crowley babbled.
“Nonsense, I’m sure you’d look just as handsome with a moustache.” Pasha leaned in and nuzzled Crowley’s cheek. Crowley felt the hand creep up his thigh and cup his hip.
Pasha nodded to their surroundings, “We can go somewhere more private if you like or perhaps you’d like to stay here for a bit and cool down?”
Crowley dunked his head in the water and came up again, water streaming down his face and into his eyes. He pushed his hair back and with gusto he wasn’t sure he felt said, “Where did you have in mind?”
Pasha smiled and gave Crowley a quick peck on the cheek, then hoisted himself out of the water and stood, offering a hand to Crowley as he walked up the steps again.
Crowley felt something tickling the back of his mind and looked around. Aziraphale was there glaring at him, eyes narrowed.
Pasha raised an eyebrow. “Friend of yours?”
Crowley grabbed his towel and wrapped it around himself saying “I’ll just be a second.” He marched over to Aziraphale and grunted, “What?”
Aziraphale shrugged irritably, “Nothing, of course. Just surprised.”
"Okay, well, I'm trying to get a leg over if you don't mind."
"I don't mind at all, you're free to do just as you like!"
"I know!"
Aziraphale’s jaw twitched. "I hope,” he looked as though he was gathering strength “that you and your friend have a lovely time." He spun on his heels and headed for one of the steam rooms.
"Thank you ever so much!" Crowley yelled after him.
Pasha came up beside Crowley "Is he, jealous? I didn't come here for trouble."
"No, he's just annoyed I'm on his patch. He's more territorial than you'd think."
Pasha looked uneasy "I don't find that hard to believe. You’re sure I am not upsetting a former lover? I have to advance and I'm not going to risk it all over a bit of rough with you."
"Rough?" Crowley scoffed.
Pasha’s eyebrows raised, "You're not...in the business?"
"These hands have never done honest work in all their time, thank you."
"You know, I think I see some of my friends. Could we leave this for another time?"
Crowley crossed his arms "By which you mean don't follow me and never speak to me again."
Pasha shrugged, "Yes."
“Honesty is overrated."
"Goodbye, Crowley. If you still want company, go ask Kozlov if any of his boys are free. Tell him I sent you, he won't overcharge."
"Charitable of him."
Pasha shook his head and stalked off towards the bar. Crowley just slunk back into an empty parilka, closed his eyes and tried to let the steam take him away.
New York, 1925, Greenwich Village
New York was delicious. Everything was dirty, expensive, difficult, illegal, and unstoppable. Between the mob, the bribery, the coercion, the police, and the corruption, he felt half-drunk most of the time. He’d wandered around just basking in the warm glow of rules being bent then nipped into a bar when he caught the scent of Angel. Aziraphale and he hadn’t spoken about Russia but they’d got quite civilly drunk together in Japan and nodded to each other in the streets of Rio De Janeiro so things seemed mostly alright.
The bar was dimly lit and had a reassuringly sticky floor. Several men were clustered around the bar talking. A dark skinned woman in a tux was belting songs on a small makeshift stage. A mob contingent sat quietly in the back. Tables full of men and women in outfits ranging from furs and eveningwear to workman’s jumpsuits were nodding their heads to the music and struggling to order drinks. A thickset man with a military tattoo on his forearm looked appreciatively at Crowley and tilted his head in offer. Crowley winked but shook his head and searched around for Aziraphale.
He found Aziraphale in a corner booth wearing a loose green drop-waist gown slipping off one shoulder, lipstick smeared across his mouth. Somehow his hair had been done into finger waves. He was nestled between two women in tightly tailored suits, nearly nodding off and then occasionally sipping from a highball that looked like it was full of poison, which given the quality of gin available, was a definite risk. One of the women occasionally passed Aziraphale a napkin so he could dab drink off his lips.
Crowley stared, unblinking at the strange and unaccountable vision that was Aziraphale in drag. He felt something twist in his belly, an uncomfortably warm and attentive interest in Aziraphale that felt more than collegial. He considered leaving but Aziraphale spotted Crowley and his face lit up in a drunken grin. "Crowley! How nice to see you, my dear boy! How have you been?"
One of the women raised an eyebrow suspiciously but Aziraphale was already wriggling under the table to crawl towards Crowley, stumbling out and rising on wobbly legs. He was wearing heels and they were certainly doing favors for his arse. The green of the gown set off his eyes perfectly and the drop waist clung exactly where a small pudge had developed just above Aziraphale's hips. He looked nothing like a woman. Or a man. Or an angel or a human or anything Crowley could even name. He just looked purely Aziraphale. Crowley's mouth went dry.
"It’s so lovely to see you here! You know, I think New York is much nicer than it’s given credit for. This establishment hasn’t been bothered once, you know.”
Crowley thought of the mob men in the corner and their careful bribes to keep the “fairy bar” open. “Spirit of cooperation, I suppose.”
Aziraphale lightly patted his sides, looking for something "I’ll never understand why these don’t have pockets. Do you have a cigarette?"
Crowley conjured one and passed it to Aziraphale who took it clumsily in his mouth. A young man in a sailor suit that was definitely not Navy issue offered a light.
Aziraphale nodded politely. "You're too kind, dear. Thank you." He seated himself at the bar and gestured to Crowley to join him. Aziraphale took a heavy drag of the cigarette and sighed, smoke curling out his mouth. "You know, I always hated pipes but cigarettes are lovely."
Crowley without thinking blurted, "They cause terrible things to happen to humans, you know."
Aziraphale looked sadly at his cigarette. "Do they? That's terrible!"
Crowley fiddled anxiously with an ashtray, trying to think of what to say. "Can I have a drag?"
Aziraphale pushed the cigarette into Crowley's face, nearly burning him. He took Aziraphale's hand, the skin so warm Crowley near let go, and placed it against his lips, pulling at the cigarette. He could feel the tackiness on it from Azirpahale's lipstick.
Crowley relished the hot tendrils in his throat and blew out a long sigh of smoke.
"You haven't made any remarks about my outfit."
Crowley shrugged, trying for indifference "Looks nice."
Aziraphale looked quietly pleased "Do you mean that? One of the kind young men did my hair for me. I wasn’t going to bother with all this but I haven’t worn women’s clothing since I was in Cymbeline and it’s always good to learn more about humans, of course."
Crowley nodded along dumbly, offering "Green suits you. Your lipstick’s a bit smeared though."
Aziraphale’s hand flew to his mouth. "Oh is it? It's horribly tricky stuff. I’m not sure how they manage it.”
Crowley blinked and Aziraphale's lipstick was perfect. "Did you just miracle your lipstick?"
"No one could possibly keep it in place without a minor miracle," Aziraphale said airily, then studied Crowley’s face so intently that Crowley visibly twitched. "You'd look good in lipstick, I think. You have the…panache? The something to carry it off."
Crowley grimaced "Perhaps but the feel of it is disgusting. On purpose of course."
"S'not so bad. Sort of silky. Here, I'll show you." Aziraphale pitched forward a bit too hard and caught Crowley half on the mouth, pressing his lips firmly against his and pursing them, trying to smear lipstick onto Crowley. Crowley felt hot tingles prickling all over before remembering that this wasn't a kiss so much as a terrible idea poorly executed and pulled back. Aziraphale let his lips go with a smack and looked at his handiwork.
"You look lovely,” Aziraphale beamed.
Crowley was keenly aware of the lingering warmth where Aziraphale's lips had just been and of the waxy feel of lipstick on his mouth. "Pink isn't really for me," he mumbled.
"Nonsense!"
Crowley licked his lips, catching a faint taste of gin from Aziraphale and felt his face flush.
Aziraphale fiddled with the hem of his dress. "I don't suppose you'd walk me home? I would stay but the heels are rather uncomfortable and even the corset is starting to pinch."
Crowley bit the inside of his cheek, trying to focus on what Aziraphale was saying and not the fact that he now knew about Aziraphale’s undergarments "You can just miracle yourself into something a little more err…forgiving."
"You know how I feel about miracling new clothes." Aziraphale said firmly.
Crowley shook himself. "Yes, fine, I'll walk you home. Are you really walking home like this?" It looked uncomfortable enough to stand in, let alone walk in.
Aziraphale shrugged. "It's only a few blocks. I haven't been bothered before."
Crowley tried to sound casual. "Sober up first, I'm not catching you if you trip and fall."
Aziraphale's eyes sharpened and he sat up straighter. "Oh goodness, these shoes are much worse than I thought."
"My people do excellent work."
Aziraphale shrugged on his coat and generously tipped the coatcheck girl who smiled at Crowley and whispered "Good taste!"
Aziraphale preened slightly.
The streets were dimly lit, city maintenance was optional in Greenwich apparently. More than one drunk was urinating against a wall or leaning dazedly against a wall, mumbling. Aziraphale nodded sweetly at all of them and Crowley tried to just hurry him past.
Aziraphale stopped at a basement apartment and leaned against the rail. "Thank you."
Crowley shrugged with forced indifference. "It's fine, I needed a walk anyway."
"Of course" Aziraphale said in a tone that suggested he didn't believe Crowley at all.
Crowley bit his tongue and leaned in, pecking Azirpahale's cheek. He smelled like cheap cigarettes and bad gin. "I'll see you around,” He said, hurrying off before Aziraphale could reply.
London, July 2013
Crowley and Aziraphale were arguing. A normal state of affairs but it was rarely about whether or not it was acceptable to go to a club. Aziraphale tossed the last of the bread to the ducks, who quacked mournfully at the empty bag. "I simply haven't been in awhile and I'd like to."
"You haven't ever been and I don't know why you'd want to go now,” Crowley countered.
"In this little corner of the world, things are slightly better. That's worth celebrating."
"And in the other many corners?"
"It will be better." Aziraphale said with finality. Every now and then Aziraphale's angelic warrior side flickered through and Crowley had a moment where he worried that he should hide. It was easy to ignore the fact that Aziraphale could wield a sword effortlessly and with brutal efficiency, but Crowley had never forgotten the sight of Aziraphale spattered with blood, the sword slung over his shoulder still snapping with fire.
The club Aziraphale chose at random was predictably crowded and Crowley immediately regretted ever saying he’d go with Aziraphale. Aziraphale, indifferent to the chaos, was dancing. Well dancing was maybe a charitable description, moving at the same time as music was playing was perhaps more accurate. It gave the illusion of dancing to anyone not looking closely. Crowley clenched with secondhand embarrassment but no one else seemed to care that Azirapahale was the strangest 'dancer' on the floor. His movements were formal and posture erect, he looked out of time and Crowley swore he could almost hear the strains of the gavotte over the swoops and booms of the party music.
Aziraphale gestured to Crowley to come onto the dancefloor but Crowley just shook his head and toasted to Aziraphale. He finished the song and made his way through the crowd as the music slid into the next bass line.
Aziraphale took his drink from Crowley. "I think we may be too old for places like this.” The lights were flashing purple and green, throwing strange shadows across the room. A man in a speedo and British flag was swirling in the middle of the dance floor, hips writhing with every thud from the music.
Crowley pulled his sunglasses further down his nose to watch the action unfold "Only by a few thousand years."
Aziraphale smiled at two girls walking past, hands intertwined and heads bent close. They looked to be about sixteen, had probably snuck in with fake IDs, Crowley figured proudly.
"You don't need to smile like that,” Crowley said. “They're going to break up soon. The one with the scarf is already eyeing the DJs assistant."
Aziraphale pursed his lips "They're happy right now. And anyway, you don’t know that."
"I have a pretty good guess."
Aziraphale looked curiously at Crowley. "What do you think will happen with us then?"
Crowley shrugged. "Nothing. We'll just do this until we lose to one side or the other."
"I don't think that's true," Aziraphale frowned.
"Fine, what do you think is going to happen?"
Aziraphale paused and then, as though making a decision said, "I think you're going to kiss me."
"I am not!” Crowley croaked, choking on his drink.
Aziraphale smiled placidly "It's quite alright, dear. I'm fine with being kissed by you."
"That's big of you," Crowley coughed, clearing tequila from his lungs.
"You don't have to do it now if you'd rather wait. I need to get back to the shop anyway. There's a delivery from a rare book dealer in Chelmsford I'm expecting. She sent a courier but I expect he's just left it at the door. I have a lovely port if you want to come in."
"You hate port."
"Well, yes, but the woman at the shop said it was quite good and I thought of you, so."
“Fine, I’ll try the port.”
Aziraphale nodded in satisfaction.
The package had indeed been left in the rain. Aziraphale grumbled as he miracled it dry, opening the box and checking the pages for damage. Crowley puttered into the kitchen and pulled out glasses and a few bottles. He flicked on the radio and listened to the first few seconds of The Archers before quickly turning it to Radio 3.
Crowley drank the port as Puccini played in the background and Aziraphale fussed with storing his newest treasure. He finally situated it and joined Crowley at the table, pouring a generous glass of Malbec for himself.
Crowley tapped absently at the bowl of his glass. “What makes you think I’ll kiss you?”
Aziraphale looked thoughtful and then made an apologetic face, murmuring “Faith.”
Crowley scowled “Cheap, angel.”
Aziraphale had the decency to look embarrassed “Yes, it is, but sometimes it’s the only answer, I’m afraid.”
“Do you think it's really so easy? We've got, what? A few thousand years of opposition behind us. Large entities invested in us. A history of disagreements ranging from deadly to irritating.”
“I think it is that easy, yes. I doubt we're so important as all that.”
Crowley raised an eyebrow. “We stopped an apocalypse. I'd say we may have attracted some minor notice.”
“Well, yes, there was that. But it's been very quiet since then, don't you think?”
“Maybe they're biding their time,” Crowley shuddered.
“Possibly,” Aziraphale conceded. “Even so, I think it's worth the risk.”
Crowley finished his glass of port and said, with much more bravado than he felt, “Well, it’s terribly flattering of course and your taste in partners is obviously improving but I’m going to have to decline. You're not exactly known for your lengthy relationships and I’m not going to throw over a thousand years of this for a look in your pants.”
Aziraphale looked miffed “It wouldn’t be like that, you know. I have never had anyone that I felt I wished to be in a “relationship” with or that wished to be in one with me. That is, if you wanted to be in one with me, of course.” He trailed off unsure.
Crowley poured more port immediately and drank several large gulps. “Then this is…different.”
“Very probably as different as it is possible to be,” Aziraphale looked achingly sincere and was about to continue when Crowley flinched.
“I’m asking nicely, angel, please don't say it. Even if you think you mean it I really don't want to hear you say something you’ve said a million times before. If this is us, then it’s us.”
Azirphale visibly struggled to not say the three words that Crowley couldn't possibly credit and finally, forcing his lips to bend into the shapes necessary said "You're important to me."
Crowley’s lip quirked in a grin. "That's much better, actually." He felt a little flutter in his chest, but that was almost certainly the port, which was really very good.
"Glad you approve, but I assume you know what I meant." Aziraphale replied, acidly.
Crowley let his fingertips creep towards Aziraphale’s wrist until they were just resting beside it "The subtext was just below a scream.”
"And do you?" Aziraphale moved his wrist a little closer to Crowley’s fingers.
"Do I what?"
"Feel similarly…?"
Crowley inwardly squirmed "You are…important to me too."
Aziraphale smiled nervously. "I know you imagine this to be old hat for me, but I assure you I've never done this with anyone that I…feel is important to me. In the way that you are important. It was all fine of course but compared to you, well, there really isn't comparing."
Crowley took Aziraphale’s hand in his and relished the warmth. "I’m…pleased to hear it. Now would you take me to bed and show me what all the fuss is about."
Aziraphale worried his lower lip between his teeth. "I'm afraid I don't have a bed. It just never seemed necessary."
"Well, we're blessed well not doing this on the kitchen counter," Crowley was going to pull away in order to cross his arms but Aziraphale held onto his hand.
Aziraphale looked thoughtfully at the counter "We could…"
"We're not. It's going to be in a bed or not at all. C'mon, I'm sure I can whip something up." Crowley squeezed Aziraphale’s hand and forced himself to let go and see what the situation was upstairs. There was a moment of terror that he might somehow never touch Aziraphale again, that Aziraphale would vanish when he wasn’t looking, but in 6,000 years he hadn’t shaken Aziraphale once so he tried to lean on that, a fact which had never before brought him comfort.
By the time Aziraphale reached the top step, the bedroom, formerly home to a broken in squashy chair, several stacks of books and a threadbare blanket was dominated by a large bed covered in a fluffy muted grey and green duvet and pillows.
"Oh goodness, that looks expensive,” Aziraphale said, stroking the duvet.
Crowley nodded, because it was expensive and he preferred it that way. "It’s worth it.”
"Yes, of course, it's just, is it missing from somewhere?"
"From my flat."
Aziraphale cocked his head at Crowley. "This is where you sleep?"
Crowley flopped down onto it, flicking off his shoes. "You knew I had a bed."
"I suppose I did, I just didn't imagine I would ever see it," Aziraphale sat gingerly on the edge. "It's all rather intimate."
Crowley blinked. "We're going to have sex, I'd think that's to be expected."
"You know what I mean.” Aziraphale didn’t expand beyond that.
There was a moment of awkward silence and Crowley waded in with a brittle smile. "So, is this the part where we undress?"
Aziraphale looked slightly wrongfooted. "It's meant to be spontaneous."
"Look, I'm assuming this won't be the one and only time we do this, so we can try for perfection later on. Let's just focus on the basics, shall we?"
"This is an act of spiritual union, not putting together a piece of flatpack furniture,” Aziraphale grumbled.
Crowley pinched the bridge of his nose. “Excellent job keeping the expectations reasonable."
Aziraphale laid a soothing hand on Crowley’s leg "I apologize. I just want it to be everything you'd hope."
Crowley felt uncomfortably raw in the face of Aziraphale’s earnestness. "I don't have any hopes other than that neither of us ends up discorporated. If it’s not the worst thing that we’ve ever done together, then that’ll be enough,” he joked.
Aziraphale looked hurt. "Really dear, we needn't do this if you don't want to."
“I want to, that’s why I’m here. You notice how I’m in the room with you and not running down the street screaming?”
“You don’t seem very enthusiastic.”
Crowley rolled his eyes and then launched himself at Aziraphale, very messily catching him on the mouth. They bumped teeth, and noses, and Crowley accidentally licked Aziraphale’s eyelid a bit but mostly it was wonderful. Aziraphale groaned and hauled Crowley to the bed, knocking over a side table in the process. Aziraphale screeched as air hit him, finding himself naked beneath an equally naked Crowley who said defensively “I’m showing enthusiasm.”
“You’ve enthused my clothes out of existence.”
“I’ll buy you new ones,” Crowley promised, diving in to kiss Aziraphale’s neck with entirely too much wetness. Aziraphale rolled Crowley under him and moved to straddle him. Crowley felt a strange pressure and looked down. Normally making an effort required, well, effort. Aziraphale just took him in hand and shifted against him, rocking slightly, “Ah, that’s even better than I thought it would be.”
Crowley shuddered, “Just how much did you think about it?”
“I very much lost count.” he moved down Crowley’s body, bringing himself eye to eye with Crowley’s cock, eyes hooded “And I couldn’t possibly say how many times I’ve wanted to do this to you. For days. Until you couldn’t even speak. I rather think we’ll have to work up to that though.” Aziraphale punctuated it with kisses to Crowley’s thighs.
Crowley whined high in his throat and then choked as Aziraphale took him into his mouth. It was slippery and hot and felt like every delicious thing at once. Crowley was so overwhelmed with the flood of heat in him that he didn’t move, just stared and felt the twisting pleasure in him ratcheting up at a speed that made his chest hurt.
Aziraphale grabbed Crowley’s hand, which was clenched in the duvet and put it on his head. Then pulled off of Crowley’s cock and said crisply “It’s quite alright if you’d like to fuck my mouth, you know.” Then calmly went back to laving Crowley and circling the head of his cock with a tongue that Crowley couldn’t quite believe was moving like that. Then he watched Aziraphale’s hand move down between his own legs. Aziraphale’s eyes went slightly crossed and he groaned.
Crowley’s mind caught up with what Aziraphale was doing and then there was darkness. There was also light, and electricity, and burning, and the sensation of feeling every single thing at once and not being able to make sense of any of it except to make noise and thrash. There was also some screaming that was probably him but he couldn’t be sure.
Crowley’s vision cleared just in time to feel Aziraphale collapse, his face nuzzling Crowley’s hip as he shuddered through his orgasm. Aziraphale turned on his side, still shaking a little, and struggled to get up towards Crowley, wrapping around him.
“It normally takes longer than that, I’m assuming,” Crowley panted.
“Practice, dear,” Aziraphale said, miracling them clean again. Crowley privately thought a shower was still in order but couldn’t bear to get up and do anything about it.
Crowley was nodding off, between the warmth of Aziraphale at his back, the comfort of his own bed, and the melty bliss that had spread through him. There was a quiet cough from Aziraphale.
“Yes, angel?”
“I just wondered how you liked it.”
Crowley rolled over to look at Aziraphale “If you’re fishing for compliments on your sexual prowess, I think your side has something to say about Pride being a sin.” He shoved his arm under Aziraphale and draped the rest of himself on top of Aziraphale who sighed and let Crowley arrange him to his satisfaction.
“Well, I thought it was lovely,” Aziraphale announced.
Crowley sighed in lazy contentment “I can see the appeal.”
“Oh! Well that’s alright then.”
“Mm.” Crowley tucked his nose into Aziraphale’s hair and fell asleep. Aziraphale politely remained still, holding Crowley while he slept and occasionally kicked, and quietly composed a list in his head of every single act he intended to introduce Crowley to.
For: Vulgarweed
Beta: Cactusrabbit
Rating: R
Pairings: Aziraphale/Crowley
Characters: Aziraphale, Crowley
Warnings: None
Summary: No matter the time or place in history, Crowley and Aziraphale keep bumping into each other in places where men go to be with other men, and there’s no polite way to watch someone else getting felt up.
Author's Notes: This story has bits that had to be left out for the sake of brevity but they will be added in later on and a sequel to this has already begun, much to my surprise. I couldn’t have asked for a more incredible idea or an idea that stretched me more as an author. I am so grateful to Vulgarweed for this prompt: “Aziraphale/Crowley; gay/bi-male history through the ages. No matter where or when, in every century, those two man-shaped beings who aren’t exactly men keep glimpsing each other in social spaces frequented by men who like to have sex with other men (certain taverns, parks, bath-houses, brothels, etc..). I imagine they’re both very awkward about it. But there must be a turning point.” You have given so much to this wonderful fandom and I am honored to have been able to write for you. I wish you the absolute happiest of holidays and a joyous New Year!
Athens, 411 BC
Crowley didn’t like Athens that much. It was alright, sure, you could get decent wine, the theatre was great, and the lamb was largely disease free, but the sanctimonious tone surrounding the war with Sparta was on his last nerve. Most Athenians felt quietly confident that the Gods were on their side. Crowley had had a good laugh at that and then been asked to leave the temple of Athena. Below had made it clear that it was time for him to move on though, and not a moment too soon. A red haired woman had been seen around the soldiers’ encampments and Crowley couldn’t get away fast enough.
As he wended his way to his last symposium, Crowley dug his nails into his beard and scraped. The stupid thing itched horribly. He’d not even wanted one but being young and beardless was an invitation to attention that Crowley didn’t want so a beard it was. He’d practically had to stop visiting the gymnasium just to avoid all the lustful approaches. Crowley took a distant view of lust. It was something that happened to other people and he was pleased to encourage it but personal involvement with it was akin to having a dog hump your leg. Distasteful and embarrassing for all involved.
Aziraphale could have Athens for all the good it did him. They’d largely managed to avoid each other due to the unfortunate requirement that they kill one another on sight so he’d no idea if Aziraphale was even still around, but he’d caught a whiff of holier-than-thou a few times amidst the smell of sweat, piss, and incense that pervaded the city.
The stone walls flared orange around him as the sun set into the bay of Phalerum. Athens had its moment. Still, no excuse for them letting a war go on for more than two decades and patting themselves on the back while it dragged forward.
The symposium had already reached the point in the night where everyone was talking and no one was listening. Well, the hetairai seemed patient enough and were exchanging looks with one another. A younger man with a dark beard was trying to explain to one of them, in-between stuffing figs into his mouth, that Lysistrata wasn’t at all funny and the generals very much knew what they were doing. Crowley had seen it and thought it was quite good.
He grabbed a cup of wine, settling down on a stool next to Ariston whose muscled bulk was sprawled on a klines that looked like it was ready to break.
Ariston nodded his head at the cup. “Don’t bother, Lycaeus over-watered it. It tastes like it’s never ever seen a grape.”
Crowley tasted it and grimaced, handing it to a servant. The room was getting warm from the bodies and he already wanted to leave but he had a stock of dildos that needed offloading before he departed. Sure, he could let them moulder away but why do that when he could sell them at a cut rate, flood the market, inspire lust and greed, and on top of that ruin the price for every other dildo merchant in town. Since Miletus had stopped trading with Athens the dildo market was locked. That had been a work of genius on Crowley’s part.
Ariston motioned to a young man seated next to him “My companion, Aristocles.”
Aristocles ducked his head “Plato, please.”
Ariston frowned, “That’s for me to call you.”
“I want everyone to call me that.”
“Well, work on your wrestling with a bit more dedication and perhaps they will.”
“My friends call me Plato, sometimes,” Aristocles muttered.
Ariston rolled his eyes.
Aristocles was indeed broad shouldered and deserving of the name Plato but he had the plush mouth and golden brown curls that Crowley knew were undeniable bait to every erastes in the city. Hopefully the boy would have a beard soon. It would hide that weak chin.
Crowley looked around hoping for someone he could sell to. He had a couple marks in mind and at least one of them had to be here. He thought he caught a glimpse of Kyros and made an excuse, leaving Ariston to his drink and Aristocles to being a sullen, spotty youth. He’d only just stood up when he caught a glimpse of Aziraphale in the corner. Not alone either. He was sitting daintily on an older man’s lap, chiton rucked up and mousy brown hair in a riot. Probably because the older man’s hand was buried in it and tugging Aziraphale’s mouth down to his. Crowley grabbed a cup of wine from a nearby servant and intended to drain it then make for the nearest exit.
Instead he accidentally drenched himself with wine and ended up dropping the kylix which clanged to the ground and cracked into shards. Guests gawked and then turned away from the soggy pool spreading around Crowley’s sandals.
Crowley wiped his face and checked to see if Aziraphale had noticed. Aziraphale had more than noticed. Aziraphale was staring at Crowley with a look that hovered between the disapproval of the righteous and vague embarrassment at being caught unawares, and then his eyes went lazy and fluttered up into his head. Crowley’s eyes flicked down against his will to see the man’s hand creeping up under Aziraphale’s chiton.
Crowley wanted to tell Aziraphale that he hadn’t come here to watch him get seduced, but given that their relationship prior to this had been based on killing one another, ruining one another’s plans, and generally being difficult, it didn’t seem like a good time to explain himself. He didn’t really feel like battling to the death either so he did what seemed most reasonable and bolted out the door into the falling night.
Crowley ducked into a taverna, pausing only to conjure dry clothes and sandals onto himself and asked for unwatered wine. He got a glare from the slave girl who brought it to him as he knocked it back and tried not to think about dildos, or Sparta, or Aziraphale, or anything.
Many cups later he threw money on the table and looked muzzily at the slave girl and mumbled “Take it, run. Steal what you can and get out of this stupid city.”
She didn’t speak but took the money and shoved it into her breast band, nodding at him like he was finally talking sense.
“You don’t want a stock of dildos do you?” He offered. She only looked at him, distinctly unimpressed, and walked away, muttering something in her own language that loosely translated to “Gods, save me from these Achaeans”.
He ambled out, letting his feet carry him down to the port. He’d leave the whole of his dildo stock in the temple of Zeus. It was exactly the kind of a ‘miracle’ a city on the verge of being fucked needed.
Court of King Charlemagne, Aachen, 787 AD
There was no such thing as a warm castle or palace, much to Crowley’s irritation. Every single room was draughty and those high arches, as atmospheric as they were, just meant more air to heat. No wonder the queen wore about seven layers of clothing. He pulled his wool cloak around himself and jarred open the library door. Crowley bit down on a growl and slammed the door shut again. Should he just start wearing a bell? This was the third time he'd caught Aziraphale and Alcuin together.
Charlemagne had things well in hand and probably didn’t need the likes of Aziraphale or Crowley around but Aziraphale already has his hooks into the monastery, as badly as that was going, so Crowley had to stick around and maintain the balance. They hadn’t had to kill each other in at least one hundred years and an uneasy détente had settled in, although Crowley was reconsidering that now. He was just trying to do his job and here was Aziraphale mucking around with humans.
Crowley heard an undignified squeal from inside the library and tried very hard not to guess which one of them had made that particular sound. He beat his fist on the door "When you're quite finished, there’s a book that the king would like retrieved." There wasn’t, he just wanted some peace and quiet and warmth. The library was one of the only moderately warm rooms in the palace, the only one that the builders hadn’t decided to turn into a monument to the ‘beauty of arches’.
Crowley kicked the door for good measure and Alcuin swanned out and down the corridor, the smooth bastard pausing only to nod warmly at Crowley. He started to move his hands in the sign of blessing and Crowley lunged for his wrist, letting his eyes flicker yellow.
“I wouldn’t if I were you.”
Alcuin instead clapped Crowley on the back with his free hand and laughed. “Clever trick! Aziraphale said you were good. Perhaps we can meet ourselves and talk once his majesty is on the campaigns again?”
Crowley only looked dumbly at him. That usually worked. It had worked so well it had caused a small riot in Constantinople. Well a large riot, but only half the city had been burned and Crowley had nothing to do with the burning or looting. Alcuin pulled away, straightening his robes and said “You know where to find me, I’m sure” before striding off down the hallway.
Aziraphale stepped out from the library, looking more rumpled than he ordinarily looked. “So sorry about that, dear boy.”
Crowley just stared at Alcuin’s retreating form “I see why you joined the monastery then. Plenty of flesh in need of what? Divine purification?”
“Don’t be rude,” Aziraphale combed his fingers ineffectually through his curls.
“I’m not the one having it off in the library like some idiot novice who can’t wait to get his robe up and his pants down!”
Aziraphale puffed up. “I know love must be quite uncomfortable for you, but I’m certainly not going to apologize for my behavior.”
“That wasn’t love!” Crowley laughed.
Aziraphale pursed his lips. “How would you know?”
Crowley stopped himself from grabbing a heavy tome and bludgeoning Aziraphale to death with it. “Do you think I don’t bloody remember what it was like up there? I know what love is, just because I don’t get around like you do, and don’t want to get friendly with the natives doesn’t mean I don’t know anything! If you want to be a sanctimonious prick about it then at least have the courtesy to do your shagging in private like a sane person.”
Aziraphale looked a little abashed. “I apologize, I shouldn’t have said that.”
“You’ve no reason to get involved with them like that anyway. They don’t even know what you are, it’s practically taking advantage.”
Aziraphale frowned, “Surely you should be in favor of that.”
Crowley sniffed, “S’alright when I do it, I’m supposed to. What’s your excuse?”
“There’s nothing wrong with what I’m doing. Angels are beings of love and there’s nothing against the rules about expressing that. Anyway, I think Alcuin has some idea of what I am - of what we are.”
“And you think Alcuin loves you?”
“Oh goodness, I should hope not,” Aziraphale looked as though the possibility had just occurred to him.
“Well he definitely doesn’t.” Crowley had no idea if that was true or not but he said it with conviction.
“Well, I wouldn’t say he wasn’t fond of me. We are friends of a sort. He was kind enough to sign a primer for me. It’s got a lovely inscription,” Aziraphale smiled proudly. "He really is quite good at a turn of phrase"
Crowley looked at the note that read 'Oh how sweet life was when we sat quietly midst all these books.'
"Hmph, it certainly was never as quiet as you seemed to think."
“Oh hush, serpent.”
Paris, 1670, Jardin des Tuileries,
Walking through a dark public park looking for a willing partner while stumbling over shrubs was overrated, Crowley decided. He had wanted to see what all the fuss was about but to end up with a coat sticky with sap or, Someone forbid, his silk hose ripped, well, there were things Crowley wasn't prepared to put up with. He approached a young man and found the least leaf and twig strewn place possible. Crowley was halfway through a seduction when he realized he couldn't make an effort. Any effort at all. Crowley begged off and said that he suddenly remembered he'd got the pox and should probably skip the shagging until that little problem cleared up.
The man bolted off in the direction of the Pavillon de Flore so quickly that Crowley felt vaguely insulted.
Crowley started to head towards the Seine, maybe a nice stroll and encouraging some petty theft would cheer him. Then the wind shifted and the stench of sewage rolled off the Seine. Like every being with a sense of smell and a lack of self-hatred, Crowley turned and headed in the opposite direction. He found himself smacking right into Aziraphale, who nervously straightened his wig.
"What are you do-nevermind..." Crowley gave up.
Aziraphale looked askance. "I saw that young man run off and thought perhaps I should make sure that you were alright."
Crowley shrugged, "I'm fine. Just passing through."
Aziraphale looked as though he was holding his breath.
"Yes?" Crowley sighed.
"You just seemed a bit -only very slightly- lonely."
"’Lonely’?” Crowley raised his eyebrows.
"You don't have to be though, I'm sure. Couldn't you just, you know…" Aziraphale wiggled his fingers.
"No thanks. Anyway, I thought you weren't supposed to encourage that sort of thing."
"Of course not! I'm just saying that if you're feeling…that, then it's a choice you've made and you only have yourself to blame."
Crowley's eyes goggled. "You're terrible at this. Is this how you comfort your flock?"
Aziraphale stood up straighter. "I'm simply pointing out what you're doing. Pointing out that you have a choice."
"Kindly stop pointing things out and piss off.”
"I'm only trying to help," Aziraphale looked irritatingly sincere.
"I didn't come here for your help!" Crowley hissed.
"Then why exactly are you here, in this quite particular place?"
Crowley clenched his fists in the lace at his cuffs. "Believe it or not, I didn’t come here to see you, Angel! I'm here because I like it. It's nice. People exercising their free will and being happy breaking whatever stupid rules there are. You wouldn't understand it, it's just, restful. Anyway, why are you here?"
"The call to love is sacred. I go where that is."
Crowley gestured to the gardens. "Love has a high tolerance for mud and twigs."
"It really does. Remarkable."
London, 1725 AD
Crowley let himself lay flat on the ornate Oriental rug. Well, it had been ornate, now it was threadbare from the tread of patrons. This had probably been a lovely whorehouse at one point. It was still a whorehouse, just perhaps less lovely.
Aziraphale hovered over him. "Are you quite alright, dear?"
"Touched a relic. Here for sanctuary." He groaned into the remaining threads.
Azirphale knelt down and put a hand to Crowley’s forehead, for some inexplicable reason. "Oh goodness! Is there something I can do?”
"Lemme die in peace."
“I’m performing a wedding in a moment. Will you be alright…there? I’ll be right back.”
“Think I’m being stomped to death, but it’ll pass.” Crowley dragged himself up onto a chaise lounge and grabbed a decanter of brandy, uncorking and taking a large gulp. “Will your side have something to say about doing molly house weddings?”
“Certainly not. I’m spreading love and faith.”
“I think the theme of this establishment is spreading something else.” Crowley curled around the decanter and tried to get comfortable.
“There’s no need to be rude,” Aziraphale huffed.
“Look, I’m going to get my head down and recover. Just, for Someone’s sake, don’t bless the place or I won’t be able to sleep.”
“Blessing the union?” Aziraphale bargained.
“Fine, just keep the happy couple away from me.” Crowley drained the decanter and closed his eyes.
Crowley didn’t wake for hours and not until an amorous pair shoved him off the chaise lounge and even then, it wasn’t until he’d got wine dribbled on him that he properly woke up.
Aziraphale helped him up. “You’ll have to find another sofa, I’m afraid.”
“Uurgh, How’d the wedding go, then?”
“I had to leave out the part about infinite forgiveness, mercy, and grace. The crowd was getting restless,” Aziraphale said sheepishly.
“I’m shocked.” There was a thunder of feet on the stairs and musicians began setting up in the parlor.
“Just throw me out the window,” Crowley begged. “I’m not staying for this.”
Aziraphale shouldered Crowley and guided him to the stairs. “Let’s find you a room, come along.”
“You bless those sheets clean before I touch them.”
“Obviously.”
Aziraphale led him up a flight of stairs and checked several rooms before opening the door to one of them, startling a couple. Crowley, deciding not to waste time, took on one of his demonic shapes. The couple quickly departed with only a minimal amount of screaming.
“We could have found another room,” Aziraphale tsked.
Crowley collapsed against the wall. “Bless it.”
Aziraphale said primly, “If you hadn’t wasted your powers on that cheap parlor trick, you could make it clean yourself.”
“Stop being an arse!”
Aziraphale waved a hand and Crowley flopped forward onto the bed, mumbling in the sheets “Shifting form was a mistake.” Aziraphale had not only cleaned the bed, he’d freshened the rug and banished the smoke stains from the ceiling and walls. There was also a fireplace that definitely hadn’t been there before.
“It certainly was. That poor couple were quite upset,” Aziraphale said, tucking Crowley under the covers and sitting on the bed beside him.
Crowley nestled in. “There’s not enough sin here. I’ll have to sleep for weeks.”
Aziraphale gave a thoughtful hum. “We could make our own sin, I suppose.”
“S’not a sin, as you repeatedly prove.”
“Well, I could let you tempt me into it,” Aziraphale countered.
“Doesn’t work that way.”
Aziraphale smiled, “Ye of little faith.”
Crowley shook his head “A pity shag from an angel is new low.”
“It’s not pity!” Aziraphale said stiffly.
“I’m going to sleep now,” Crowley announced. The room was stuffy and warm but he felt wretched. His head ached and he lay there, trying not to feel the world spinning around the single point that was him and the pressure of Aziraphale weighing down the bed beside him. He felt Aziraphale shift and a frisson rippled out through the room and through the building. Shouts, giggles, and cheers died away into the sounds of clothing being torn, groans, and flesh coming up against flesh.
Crowley cracked an eye open, “Was that you?”
Aziraphale only replied, “I’m sure you’ll feel better tomorrow, just rest dear.”
Crowley was going to press him on it but he couldn’t make his mouth cooperate to form words. The aching and dizziness were finally loosening their hold. He felt Aziraphale press his lips to his forehead and then heard him head down the stairs. Presumably to deal with the constables knocking on the door. Crowley could just make out Aziraphale’s voice insisting that the constabulary was intruding on a church choir rehearsal and not a molly house in the middle of an orgy, whatever noises they might be hearing.
Moscow, 1899, Sandunovskie Baths
Sleeping for nearly all of the nineteenth century hadn’t been his original intention but after London he’d developed a taste for sleep and one thing led to another. Upon waking he’d been shunted off to Russia and it had been made painfully clear to him that it didn’t matter how cold it was, he was to stay put. The cold was more brutal than anything he’d ever felt before. He’d never understood the allure of hard liquor until he felt the Russian winter blow right through him and settle in his bones. He blessed under his breath and pulled his enormous coat tighter around himself.
He had always hated communal bathing. Something about being in the same room as a person rubbing soap into their crevices was just unsettling. If it meant warmth though, he was willing to give it a try.
The attendants took his coat, his second coat, and his jumper, barely fitting them all in a numbered bin behind the counter. Crowley was led to the Male Top Class bathing rooms and left to strip down the rest of the way and wash. He peeled off his boots and enormous wooly socks, stretching his toes for the first time in what felt like years. His trousers and long underwear came off in one tug and Crowley remembered to make an effort. Blending in while nude usually required genitals. They looked pretty normal as far as he could tell. He hadn’t gotten up close to any in quite a long time but they’d do.
He scrubbed down, gritting his teeth. The warm water made his fingers and toes sting as feeling returned to them. He grabbed a small towel and headed into the wider banya, marveling at the marble pillars and intricate tiled floors. It was like all of Versailles had been eaten by Russian opulence and then thrown up in a very concentrated space. The blue of the water played off the gold filigree and the brassy glow of the lamps. He couldn’t find the steam room but flicked his tongue out for just a second, looking for it. A bath attendant stared at him for a moment before thinking better of bringing up a patron’s eccentricities. He opened the door to the parilka and sighed deeply, inhaling the damp vapor. There were three other men already stretched out on the wooden benches.
Crowley laid his own towel out and flopped onto his stomach, sighing deeply. The steam nearly burned. The air was so heavy he almost wanted to be a snake again just so he could feel it seeping into every scale. Someone poured a bucket of water on the stones and fresh steam rolled over the room. Crowley’s toes curled with delight and he let himself drift into a light sleep.
He awoke to being prodded with something leafy and leapt off the bench ready to flee. A young man with sharp eyes and a moustache was looking at Crowley appraisingly.
“Venik?” He rumbled.
Crowley looked at the leafy branch in the man’s hand and smiled nervously “Ah, no, thank you. I’m fine. Very kind of you though. Thoughtful.”
The man shrugged and held out the branch to him. “Would you? I would ask my friends but they’re otherwise engaged.” The two men were laying with their legs intertwined, lazily playing with one another’s hands. One of them made a rude gesture at the man holding the branch.
The man put the branch down and held out a hand to Crowley. “Pasha.”
Crowley tentatively took it. “Crowley.”
“Can you use venik?”
“Ah, maybe?”
“You pat and slap the skin. It’s for circulation.” He gave Crowley a once-over. “I doubt you could hurt me, so don’t be afraid to use your strength.” Pasha laid down on a bench and looked expectantly at Crowley who picked up the venik and cautiously tapped Pasha with it.
The men on the bench giggled and Crowley tried to thwack Pasha harder but found his heart wasn’t really in it, he never had the temperament for anything like physical torture. Pasha sighed in resignation. “You can just rub it against the skin. Birch is good for it.”
Crowley scrubbed Pasha down with it and tried to keep his mind on the motion rather than the strangeness of petting someone with a shrub. Pasha motioned for Crowley to stop and sat up. “Are you sure I can’t return the favor? The circulation helps keep you warm when you leave.”
Crowley eyed the birch suspiciously, it seemed too pleased with itself. “No thanks.”
“Come, let’s use the pool.” Pasha strode out and Crowley trailed after. Pasha hadn’t even bothered with his towel, he just walked to the edge of the pool naked and slipped in. Crowley scuttled over to the stairs and stepped down into the water, leaving his towel behind. The other men in the pool were having a boisterous conversation that seemed to only rise in volume. Pasha glided over to Crowley and let his hand settle on Crowley’s knee.
“You’re very handsome.”
“I like your moustache. I’ve considered growing one but the upkeep, the products, the grooming, it’s really quite a commitment and of course you need the bone structure like, well you,” Crowley babbled.
“Nonsense, I’m sure you’d look just as handsome with a moustache.” Pasha leaned in and nuzzled Crowley’s cheek. Crowley felt the hand creep up his thigh and cup his hip.
Pasha nodded to their surroundings, “We can go somewhere more private if you like or perhaps you’d like to stay here for a bit and cool down?”
Crowley dunked his head in the water and came up again, water streaming down his face and into his eyes. He pushed his hair back and with gusto he wasn’t sure he felt said, “Where did you have in mind?”
Pasha smiled and gave Crowley a quick peck on the cheek, then hoisted himself out of the water and stood, offering a hand to Crowley as he walked up the steps again.
Crowley felt something tickling the back of his mind and looked around. Aziraphale was there glaring at him, eyes narrowed.
Pasha raised an eyebrow. “Friend of yours?”
Crowley grabbed his towel and wrapped it around himself saying “I’ll just be a second.” He marched over to Aziraphale and grunted, “What?”
Aziraphale shrugged irritably, “Nothing, of course. Just surprised.”
"Okay, well, I'm trying to get a leg over if you don't mind."
"I don't mind at all, you're free to do just as you like!"
"I know!"
Aziraphale’s jaw twitched. "I hope,” he looked as though he was gathering strength “that you and your friend have a lovely time." He spun on his heels and headed for one of the steam rooms.
"Thank you ever so much!" Crowley yelled after him.
Pasha came up beside Crowley "Is he, jealous? I didn't come here for trouble."
"No, he's just annoyed I'm on his patch. He's more territorial than you'd think."
Pasha looked uneasy "I don't find that hard to believe. You’re sure I am not upsetting a former lover? I have to advance and I'm not going to risk it all over a bit of rough with you."
"Rough?" Crowley scoffed.
Pasha’s eyebrows raised, "You're not...in the business?"
"These hands have never done honest work in all their time, thank you."
"You know, I think I see some of my friends. Could we leave this for another time?"
Crowley crossed his arms "By which you mean don't follow me and never speak to me again."
Pasha shrugged, "Yes."
“Honesty is overrated."
"Goodbye, Crowley. If you still want company, go ask Kozlov if any of his boys are free. Tell him I sent you, he won't overcharge."
"Charitable of him."
Pasha shook his head and stalked off towards the bar. Crowley just slunk back into an empty parilka, closed his eyes and tried to let the steam take him away.
New York, 1925, Greenwich Village
New York was delicious. Everything was dirty, expensive, difficult, illegal, and unstoppable. Between the mob, the bribery, the coercion, the police, and the corruption, he felt half-drunk most of the time. He’d wandered around just basking in the warm glow of rules being bent then nipped into a bar when he caught the scent of Angel. Aziraphale and he hadn’t spoken about Russia but they’d got quite civilly drunk together in Japan and nodded to each other in the streets of Rio De Janeiro so things seemed mostly alright.
The bar was dimly lit and had a reassuringly sticky floor. Several men were clustered around the bar talking. A dark skinned woman in a tux was belting songs on a small makeshift stage. A mob contingent sat quietly in the back. Tables full of men and women in outfits ranging from furs and eveningwear to workman’s jumpsuits were nodding their heads to the music and struggling to order drinks. A thickset man with a military tattoo on his forearm looked appreciatively at Crowley and tilted his head in offer. Crowley winked but shook his head and searched around for Aziraphale.
He found Aziraphale in a corner booth wearing a loose green drop-waist gown slipping off one shoulder, lipstick smeared across his mouth. Somehow his hair had been done into finger waves. He was nestled between two women in tightly tailored suits, nearly nodding off and then occasionally sipping from a highball that looked like it was full of poison, which given the quality of gin available, was a definite risk. One of the women occasionally passed Aziraphale a napkin so he could dab drink off his lips.
Crowley stared, unblinking at the strange and unaccountable vision that was Aziraphale in drag. He felt something twist in his belly, an uncomfortably warm and attentive interest in Aziraphale that felt more than collegial. He considered leaving but Aziraphale spotted Crowley and his face lit up in a drunken grin. "Crowley! How nice to see you, my dear boy! How have you been?"
One of the women raised an eyebrow suspiciously but Aziraphale was already wriggling under the table to crawl towards Crowley, stumbling out and rising on wobbly legs. He was wearing heels and they were certainly doing favors for his arse. The green of the gown set off his eyes perfectly and the drop waist clung exactly where a small pudge had developed just above Aziraphale's hips. He looked nothing like a woman. Or a man. Or an angel or a human or anything Crowley could even name. He just looked purely Aziraphale. Crowley's mouth went dry.
"It’s so lovely to see you here! You know, I think New York is much nicer than it’s given credit for. This establishment hasn’t been bothered once, you know.”
Crowley thought of the mob men in the corner and their careful bribes to keep the “fairy bar” open. “Spirit of cooperation, I suppose.”
Aziraphale lightly patted his sides, looking for something "I’ll never understand why these don’t have pockets. Do you have a cigarette?"
Crowley conjured one and passed it to Aziraphale who took it clumsily in his mouth. A young man in a sailor suit that was definitely not Navy issue offered a light.
Aziraphale nodded politely. "You're too kind, dear. Thank you." He seated himself at the bar and gestured to Crowley to join him. Aziraphale took a heavy drag of the cigarette and sighed, smoke curling out his mouth. "You know, I always hated pipes but cigarettes are lovely."
Crowley without thinking blurted, "They cause terrible things to happen to humans, you know."
Aziraphale looked sadly at his cigarette. "Do they? That's terrible!"
Crowley fiddled anxiously with an ashtray, trying to think of what to say. "Can I have a drag?"
Aziraphale pushed the cigarette into Crowley's face, nearly burning him. He took Aziraphale's hand, the skin so warm Crowley near let go, and placed it against his lips, pulling at the cigarette. He could feel the tackiness on it from Azirpahale's lipstick.
Crowley relished the hot tendrils in his throat and blew out a long sigh of smoke.
"You haven't made any remarks about my outfit."
Crowley shrugged, trying for indifference "Looks nice."
Aziraphale looked quietly pleased "Do you mean that? One of the kind young men did my hair for me. I wasn’t going to bother with all this but I haven’t worn women’s clothing since I was in Cymbeline and it’s always good to learn more about humans, of course."
Crowley nodded along dumbly, offering "Green suits you. Your lipstick’s a bit smeared though."
Aziraphale’s hand flew to his mouth. "Oh is it? It's horribly tricky stuff. I’m not sure how they manage it.”
Crowley blinked and Aziraphale's lipstick was perfect. "Did you just miracle your lipstick?"
"No one could possibly keep it in place without a minor miracle," Aziraphale said airily, then studied Crowley’s face so intently that Crowley visibly twitched. "You'd look good in lipstick, I think. You have the…panache? The something to carry it off."
Crowley grimaced "Perhaps but the feel of it is disgusting. On purpose of course."
"S'not so bad. Sort of silky. Here, I'll show you." Aziraphale pitched forward a bit too hard and caught Crowley half on the mouth, pressing his lips firmly against his and pursing them, trying to smear lipstick onto Crowley. Crowley felt hot tingles prickling all over before remembering that this wasn't a kiss so much as a terrible idea poorly executed and pulled back. Aziraphale let his lips go with a smack and looked at his handiwork.
"You look lovely,” Aziraphale beamed.
Crowley was keenly aware of the lingering warmth where Aziraphale's lips had just been and of the waxy feel of lipstick on his mouth. "Pink isn't really for me," he mumbled.
"Nonsense!"
Crowley licked his lips, catching a faint taste of gin from Aziraphale and felt his face flush.
Aziraphale fiddled with the hem of his dress. "I don't suppose you'd walk me home? I would stay but the heels are rather uncomfortable and even the corset is starting to pinch."
Crowley bit the inside of his cheek, trying to focus on what Aziraphale was saying and not the fact that he now knew about Aziraphale’s undergarments "You can just miracle yourself into something a little more err…forgiving."
"You know how I feel about miracling new clothes." Aziraphale said firmly.
Crowley shook himself. "Yes, fine, I'll walk you home. Are you really walking home like this?" It looked uncomfortable enough to stand in, let alone walk in.
Aziraphale shrugged. "It's only a few blocks. I haven't been bothered before."
Crowley tried to sound casual. "Sober up first, I'm not catching you if you trip and fall."
Aziraphale's eyes sharpened and he sat up straighter. "Oh goodness, these shoes are much worse than I thought."
"My people do excellent work."
Aziraphale shrugged on his coat and generously tipped the coatcheck girl who smiled at Crowley and whispered "Good taste!"
Aziraphale preened slightly.
The streets were dimly lit, city maintenance was optional in Greenwich apparently. More than one drunk was urinating against a wall or leaning dazedly against a wall, mumbling. Aziraphale nodded sweetly at all of them and Crowley tried to just hurry him past.
Aziraphale stopped at a basement apartment and leaned against the rail. "Thank you."
Crowley shrugged with forced indifference. "It's fine, I needed a walk anyway."
"Of course" Aziraphale said in a tone that suggested he didn't believe Crowley at all.
Crowley bit his tongue and leaned in, pecking Azirpahale's cheek. He smelled like cheap cigarettes and bad gin. "I'll see you around,” He said, hurrying off before Aziraphale could reply.
London, July 2013
Crowley and Aziraphale were arguing. A normal state of affairs but it was rarely about whether or not it was acceptable to go to a club. Aziraphale tossed the last of the bread to the ducks, who quacked mournfully at the empty bag. "I simply haven't been in awhile and I'd like to."
"You haven't ever been and I don't know why you'd want to go now,” Crowley countered.
"In this little corner of the world, things are slightly better. That's worth celebrating."
"And in the other many corners?"
"It will be better." Aziraphale said with finality. Every now and then Aziraphale's angelic warrior side flickered through and Crowley had a moment where he worried that he should hide. It was easy to ignore the fact that Aziraphale could wield a sword effortlessly and with brutal efficiency, but Crowley had never forgotten the sight of Aziraphale spattered with blood, the sword slung over his shoulder still snapping with fire.
The club Aziraphale chose at random was predictably crowded and Crowley immediately regretted ever saying he’d go with Aziraphale. Aziraphale, indifferent to the chaos, was dancing. Well dancing was maybe a charitable description, moving at the same time as music was playing was perhaps more accurate. It gave the illusion of dancing to anyone not looking closely. Crowley clenched with secondhand embarrassment but no one else seemed to care that Azirapahale was the strangest 'dancer' on the floor. His movements were formal and posture erect, he looked out of time and Crowley swore he could almost hear the strains of the gavotte over the swoops and booms of the party music.
Aziraphale gestured to Crowley to come onto the dancefloor but Crowley just shook his head and toasted to Aziraphale. He finished the song and made his way through the crowd as the music slid into the next bass line.
Aziraphale took his drink from Crowley. "I think we may be too old for places like this.” The lights were flashing purple and green, throwing strange shadows across the room. A man in a speedo and British flag was swirling in the middle of the dance floor, hips writhing with every thud from the music.
Crowley pulled his sunglasses further down his nose to watch the action unfold "Only by a few thousand years."
Aziraphale smiled at two girls walking past, hands intertwined and heads bent close. They looked to be about sixteen, had probably snuck in with fake IDs, Crowley figured proudly.
"You don't need to smile like that,” Crowley said. “They're going to break up soon. The one with the scarf is already eyeing the DJs assistant."
Aziraphale pursed his lips "They're happy right now. And anyway, you don’t know that."
"I have a pretty good guess."
Aziraphale looked curiously at Crowley. "What do you think will happen with us then?"
Crowley shrugged. "Nothing. We'll just do this until we lose to one side or the other."
"I don't think that's true," Aziraphale frowned.
"Fine, what do you think is going to happen?"
Aziraphale paused and then, as though making a decision said, "I think you're going to kiss me."
"I am not!” Crowley croaked, choking on his drink.
Aziraphale smiled placidly "It's quite alright, dear. I'm fine with being kissed by you."
"That's big of you," Crowley coughed, clearing tequila from his lungs.
"You don't have to do it now if you'd rather wait. I need to get back to the shop anyway. There's a delivery from a rare book dealer in Chelmsford I'm expecting. She sent a courier but I expect he's just left it at the door. I have a lovely port if you want to come in."
"You hate port."
"Well, yes, but the woman at the shop said it was quite good and I thought of you, so."
“Fine, I’ll try the port.”
Aziraphale nodded in satisfaction.
The package had indeed been left in the rain. Aziraphale grumbled as he miracled it dry, opening the box and checking the pages for damage. Crowley puttered into the kitchen and pulled out glasses and a few bottles. He flicked on the radio and listened to the first few seconds of The Archers before quickly turning it to Radio 3.
Crowley drank the port as Puccini played in the background and Aziraphale fussed with storing his newest treasure. He finally situated it and joined Crowley at the table, pouring a generous glass of Malbec for himself.
Crowley tapped absently at the bowl of his glass. “What makes you think I’ll kiss you?”
Aziraphale looked thoughtful and then made an apologetic face, murmuring “Faith.”
Crowley scowled “Cheap, angel.”
Aziraphale had the decency to look embarrassed “Yes, it is, but sometimes it’s the only answer, I’m afraid.”
“Do you think it's really so easy? We've got, what? A few thousand years of opposition behind us. Large entities invested in us. A history of disagreements ranging from deadly to irritating.”
“I think it is that easy, yes. I doubt we're so important as all that.”
Crowley raised an eyebrow. “We stopped an apocalypse. I'd say we may have attracted some minor notice.”
“Well, yes, there was that. But it's been very quiet since then, don't you think?”
“Maybe they're biding their time,” Crowley shuddered.
“Possibly,” Aziraphale conceded. “Even so, I think it's worth the risk.”
Crowley finished his glass of port and said, with much more bravado than he felt, “Well, it’s terribly flattering of course and your taste in partners is obviously improving but I’m going to have to decline. You're not exactly known for your lengthy relationships and I’m not going to throw over a thousand years of this for a look in your pants.”
Aziraphale looked miffed “It wouldn’t be like that, you know. I have never had anyone that I felt I wished to be in a “relationship” with or that wished to be in one with me. That is, if you wanted to be in one with me, of course.” He trailed off unsure.
Crowley poured more port immediately and drank several large gulps. “Then this is…different.”
“Very probably as different as it is possible to be,” Aziraphale looked achingly sincere and was about to continue when Crowley flinched.
“I’m asking nicely, angel, please don't say it. Even if you think you mean it I really don't want to hear you say something you’ve said a million times before. If this is us, then it’s us.”
Azirphale visibly struggled to not say the three words that Crowley couldn't possibly credit and finally, forcing his lips to bend into the shapes necessary said "You're important to me."
Crowley’s lip quirked in a grin. "That's much better, actually." He felt a little flutter in his chest, but that was almost certainly the port, which was really very good.
"Glad you approve, but I assume you know what I meant." Aziraphale replied, acidly.
Crowley let his fingertips creep towards Aziraphale’s wrist until they were just resting beside it "The subtext was just below a scream.”
"And do you?" Aziraphale moved his wrist a little closer to Crowley’s fingers.
"Do I what?"
"Feel similarly…?"
Crowley inwardly squirmed "You are…important to me too."
Aziraphale smiled nervously. "I know you imagine this to be old hat for me, but I assure you I've never done this with anyone that I…feel is important to me. In the way that you are important. It was all fine of course but compared to you, well, there really isn't comparing."
Crowley took Aziraphale’s hand in his and relished the warmth. "I’m…pleased to hear it. Now would you take me to bed and show me what all the fuss is about."
Aziraphale worried his lower lip between his teeth. "I'm afraid I don't have a bed. It just never seemed necessary."
"Well, we're blessed well not doing this on the kitchen counter," Crowley was going to pull away in order to cross his arms but Aziraphale held onto his hand.
Aziraphale looked thoughtfully at the counter "We could…"
"We're not. It's going to be in a bed or not at all. C'mon, I'm sure I can whip something up." Crowley squeezed Aziraphale’s hand and forced himself to let go and see what the situation was upstairs. There was a moment of terror that he might somehow never touch Aziraphale again, that Aziraphale would vanish when he wasn’t looking, but in 6,000 years he hadn’t shaken Aziraphale once so he tried to lean on that, a fact which had never before brought him comfort.
By the time Aziraphale reached the top step, the bedroom, formerly home to a broken in squashy chair, several stacks of books and a threadbare blanket was dominated by a large bed covered in a fluffy muted grey and green duvet and pillows.
"Oh goodness, that looks expensive,” Aziraphale said, stroking the duvet.
Crowley nodded, because it was expensive and he preferred it that way. "It’s worth it.”
"Yes, of course, it's just, is it missing from somewhere?"
"From my flat."
Aziraphale cocked his head at Crowley. "This is where you sleep?"
Crowley flopped down onto it, flicking off his shoes. "You knew I had a bed."
"I suppose I did, I just didn't imagine I would ever see it," Aziraphale sat gingerly on the edge. "It's all rather intimate."
Crowley blinked. "We're going to have sex, I'd think that's to be expected."
"You know what I mean.” Aziraphale didn’t expand beyond that.
There was a moment of awkward silence and Crowley waded in with a brittle smile. "So, is this the part where we undress?"
Aziraphale looked slightly wrongfooted. "It's meant to be spontaneous."
"Look, I'm assuming this won't be the one and only time we do this, so we can try for perfection later on. Let's just focus on the basics, shall we?"
"This is an act of spiritual union, not putting together a piece of flatpack furniture,” Aziraphale grumbled.
Crowley pinched the bridge of his nose. “Excellent job keeping the expectations reasonable."
Aziraphale laid a soothing hand on Crowley’s leg "I apologize. I just want it to be everything you'd hope."
Crowley felt uncomfortably raw in the face of Aziraphale’s earnestness. "I don't have any hopes other than that neither of us ends up discorporated. If it’s not the worst thing that we’ve ever done together, then that’ll be enough,” he joked.
Aziraphale looked hurt. "Really dear, we needn't do this if you don't want to."
“I want to, that’s why I’m here. You notice how I’m in the room with you and not running down the street screaming?”
“You don’t seem very enthusiastic.”
Crowley rolled his eyes and then launched himself at Aziraphale, very messily catching him on the mouth. They bumped teeth, and noses, and Crowley accidentally licked Aziraphale’s eyelid a bit but mostly it was wonderful. Aziraphale groaned and hauled Crowley to the bed, knocking over a side table in the process. Aziraphale screeched as air hit him, finding himself naked beneath an equally naked Crowley who said defensively “I’m showing enthusiasm.”
“You’ve enthused my clothes out of existence.”
“I’ll buy you new ones,” Crowley promised, diving in to kiss Aziraphale’s neck with entirely too much wetness. Aziraphale rolled Crowley under him and moved to straddle him. Crowley felt a strange pressure and looked down. Normally making an effort required, well, effort. Aziraphale just took him in hand and shifted against him, rocking slightly, “Ah, that’s even better than I thought it would be.”
Crowley shuddered, “Just how much did you think about it?”
“I very much lost count.” he moved down Crowley’s body, bringing himself eye to eye with Crowley’s cock, eyes hooded “And I couldn’t possibly say how many times I’ve wanted to do this to you. For days. Until you couldn’t even speak. I rather think we’ll have to work up to that though.” Aziraphale punctuated it with kisses to Crowley’s thighs.
Crowley whined high in his throat and then choked as Aziraphale took him into his mouth. It was slippery and hot and felt like every delicious thing at once. Crowley was so overwhelmed with the flood of heat in him that he didn’t move, just stared and felt the twisting pleasure in him ratcheting up at a speed that made his chest hurt.
Aziraphale grabbed Crowley’s hand, which was clenched in the duvet and put it on his head. Then pulled off of Crowley’s cock and said crisply “It’s quite alright if you’d like to fuck my mouth, you know.” Then calmly went back to laving Crowley and circling the head of his cock with a tongue that Crowley couldn’t quite believe was moving like that. Then he watched Aziraphale’s hand move down between his own legs. Aziraphale’s eyes went slightly crossed and he groaned.
Crowley’s mind caught up with what Aziraphale was doing and then there was darkness. There was also light, and electricity, and burning, and the sensation of feeling every single thing at once and not being able to make sense of any of it except to make noise and thrash. There was also some screaming that was probably him but he couldn’t be sure.
Crowley’s vision cleared just in time to feel Aziraphale collapse, his face nuzzling Crowley’s hip as he shuddered through his orgasm. Aziraphale turned on his side, still shaking a little, and struggled to get up towards Crowley, wrapping around him.
“It normally takes longer than that, I’m assuming,” Crowley panted.
“Practice, dear,” Aziraphale said, miracling them clean again. Crowley privately thought a shower was still in order but couldn’t bear to get up and do anything about it.
Crowley was nodding off, between the warmth of Aziraphale at his back, the comfort of his own bed, and the melty bliss that had spread through him. There was a quiet cough from Aziraphale.
“Yes, angel?”
“I just wondered how you liked it.”
Crowley rolled over to look at Aziraphale “If you’re fishing for compliments on your sexual prowess, I think your side has something to say about Pride being a sin.” He shoved his arm under Aziraphale and draped the rest of himself on top of Aziraphale who sighed and let Crowley arrange him to his satisfaction.
“Well, I thought it was lovely,” Aziraphale announced.
Crowley sighed in lazy contentment “I can see the appeal.”
“Oh! Well that’s alright then.”
“Mm.” Crowley tucked his nose into Aziraphale’s hair and fell asleep. Aziraphale politely remained still, holding Crowley while he slept and occasionally kicked, and quietly composed a list in his head of every single act he intended to introduce Crowley to.