all i need, darling, is a life in your shape

Posted originally on the Archive of Our Own at http://archiveofourown.org/works/19132273.

Rating: General Audiences

Archive Warning: No Archive Warnings Apply
Category: M/M
Fandoms: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett, Good Omens (TV)
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale & Crowley (Good
Omens)
Characters: Aziraphale (Good Omens), Crowley (Good Omens), Anathema Device,
everyone really, Adam Young (Good Omens)
Additional Tags: Angst, Repression, oh god the repression, Fluff, Domestic Fluff, look it's
very dull and it's just the mortifying ordeal of being known, you have to
listen to strawberry blond by mitski first, Mutual Pining, Slow Burn,
Sharing a Bed, Podfic Available
Language: English
Stats: Published: 2019-06-08 Words: 14,243 Chapters: 1/1
 all i need, darling, is a life in your shape
by deadgreeks

Summary

After everything, Aziraphale and Crowley, by unspoken agreement, begin sharing their lives.
---
Why? Aziraphale wanted to ask him, why millennia of the way things were, and now this?

But while Crowley seemed to have little issue upending every unspoken rule they’d ever
written for themselves, Aziraphale was not so flexible, and they had spent thousands of years
never quite addressing whatever it was this had stemmed from. Words, Aziraphale had
always felt, were for bickering about where to eat for lunch, or hashing out ontological
debates, or other trivial nonsense; there was no need to trifle with the imprecision of
language, with phrasing and the possibility of being misconstrued, when it came to important
matters if the other person simply understood, without needing it said. Six thousand years
ago, when Aziraphale had met Crowley on the wall of Eden, watching the first two humans
set out to begin the rest of history, something deep within him, more central even than his
Grace, had thought, oh, it’s you, and that had been enough for him--for both of them, he
assumed--for three millennia.

However much he wanted to ask, he didn’t know how. The words simply weren’t there.

Notes
See the end of the work for notes
I picture it soft, and I ache.

Aziraphale wasn’t entirely sure what he was expecting in the wake of the Armageddon-that-
wasn’t. For management upstairs to regroup and decide that, really, all things considered, it
wouldn’t do to have a rogue angel running around; for the Almighty to weigh his sins and
turn his wings to black, his Grace to rot in his chest; for Adam to have a pubescent tantrum
and decide to end the world, after all.

But really, things continued on much as they had before, as if the earth and all of humanity
hadn’t been moments away from destruction. The slow days creeped by, the heat of summer
having finally peaked and begun the descent into a crisp and pleasant autumn, his favorite ice
cream stand was taken over by one selling hot cider and cocoa, and no one appeared in a
blaze of light to rain down divine or hellish wrath.

The only true change, apart from Adam’s additions to his collection, was Crowley’s near
constant presence.

Although they had hardly been strangers before, they were immortal beings, and time meant
far less to them than it did to humans--even in recent years, days or weeks would often pass
unremarked before they spoke again. Before the Antichrist’s birth, there were whole years
and, especially early on, even decades and centuries that would go by without any sort of
contact. Yet ever since they stepped off the bus that brought them to London, seemingly by
silent agreement, they had begun living in each other’s pocket.

That first night, Aziraphale slept on a comfortable bed beneath an eiderdown duvet Crowley
had brought into existence, shrinking his own terribly modern bed to make space for it in his
room. He supposed Crowley could’ve created a separate room for him, given that the whole
flat was willed into existence where a janitor’s closet had once been, or cleared the furniture
from his sparse living room and had him sleep there, but he didn’t seem willing to part, and
Aziraphale felt much the same.

“It’s funny,” he said into the dark of the room. It smelled faintly of incense, but mostly of
Crowley, and though the fluffy white comforter had only just been brought into existence, it
smelled like him too. Aziraphale was more comforted by it than he would’ve ordinarily
admitted to himself, being too tired to will away the persistent feeling that something about
Crowley settled him, made him feel right . “I don’t think you’ve ever really let me in your
flat, and here I am, with my own bed.”

“You’ve been here,” Crowley said irritably. “You were here earlier this year, we had brandy.”

“Yes, but only for a moment,” he insisted. “I came to meet you so we could see Come From
Away in the West End, and you weren’t ready yet.”

“I was doing my hair!”

“You’re a demon ,” he reminded him, exasperated. “You can just will your hair to do what
you like, you don’t have to use product.”

“I like doing it, it’s never quite right if I manifest it,” Crowley muttered, and Aziraphale
rolled his eyes. “Just because it’s dark doesn’t mean I don’t know you’re rolling your eyes at
me.”

“You have hellish night vision,” Aziraphale huffed.

“Don’t need it to know you’re being an ass, angel,” Crowley said. “Go to sleep. I just did a
bloody lot of heroic acts for a demon, and I need to sleep off all this righteousness.”

After their brief stints in Heaven and Hell, returning to their own skins and dining together at
the Ritz, there was a moment of hesitation as they finally left the building, standing at the
curb beside the Bentley. Crowley looked at Aziraphale, brows raised above his glasses, and
Aziraphale looked at Crowley, nerves buzzing in his stomach.

“I suppose you can drop me at the bookstore,” he said, though the idea made his heart sink.

“You could come back to mine again,” Crowley said, after a moment. He swallowed, shifted
his weight. Aziraphale was reminded of a cold night in the sixties, Crowley’s voice gentle
and vulnerable.

“I--well, I wouldn’t want to intrude--overstay my welcome--”

“Just come back to mine, angel, please,” Crowley said, and he sounded exhausted, as if he
was begging Aziraphale to cut to the end of it, to save him the convincing and reassuring.
Aziraphale nodded, something sharp stuck in his throat, and that was that.

They established a routine. They spent most of their evenings at Aziraphale’s bookshop,
lounging in the back room as they often had before, drinking wine and bickering and reading
to each other, which Crowley seemed to enjoy quite a lot for someone who claimed to loathe
books, but once it reached midnight, Crowley would stand, and that was Aziraphale’s cue to
finish up his paragraph and collect their dishes. He would lead the way up the rickety
staircase to the small flat upstairs, and Crowley would collapse in the bed he’d manifested for
himself--having quite rudely shoved aside Aziraphale’s own to the far wall, which was
admittedly rarely used before--while Aziraphale washed their glasses and plates in the small
kitchen. Crowley would only take his sunglasses off once Aziraphale had turned out the
lights, and they would sleep til morning, when they would go to whatever cafe or bistro they
could agree on for breakfast, and while away the afternoon in St. James Park, or strolling
through a public garden, or taking a country drive. They would bicker almost the whole day
about where they would eat dinner, spend hours indulging in good food and fine wine, and
return to either Crowley’s flat or Aziraphale’s bookshop, and so their days went, as the leaves
turned and the days shortened, and Crowley’s phone dinged with a photo of Adam in his
Halloween costume--a witch, and Dog dressed as a black cat--and the windows began
frosting in the morning, though the house plants Crowley had begun accumulating on the sill
remained dutifully lush and healthy; Anathema wished them a happy Thanksgiving, with a
long message about the inherent artifice and immorality of the holiday. And still Crowley
stayed.

Why? Aziraphale wanted to ask him, why millennia of the way things were, and now this ?

But while Crowley seemed to have little issue upending every unspoken rule they’d ever
written for themselves, Aziraphale was not so flexible, and they had spent thousands of years
never quite addressing whatever it was this had stemmed from. Words, Aziraphale had
always felt, were for bickering about where to eat for lunch, or hashing out ontological
debates, or other trivial nonsense; there was no need to trifle with the imprecision of
language, with phrasing and the possibility of being misconstrued, when it came to important
matters if the other person simply understood, without needing it said. Six thousand years
ago, when Aziraphale had met Crowley on the wall of Eden, watching the first two humans
set out to begin the rest of history, something deep within him, more central even than his
Grace, had thought, oh, it’s you, and that had been enough for him--for both of them, he
assumed--for three millennia.

However much he wanted to ask, he didn’t know how. The words simply weren’t there.

He wasn’t entirely sure why he didn’t send Crowley away, or depart from dinner on his own
one night, restore things to the way they had been. Occasional lunches, drinks in the back
room, dinners at the Ritz; separate their lives once more. There was just--something deeply
unpleasant, and, yes, terrifying, about the prospect of parting. And that was enough for him to
put aside his six thousand years of reticence, and allow Crowley to fill all the empty spaces in
his life, build a place for himself in every moment.

And, he supposed, he did the same. There was now a pale tartan blanket thrown over
Crowley’s grey sofa and a number of fluffy throw pillows, a variety of appliances appearing
in his kitchen--Crowley didn’t even possess so much as an electric kettle for tea, the animal--
a lamp casting a warm light in his--their--bedroom, beside Aziraphale’s white bed so at odds
with Crowley’s black and grey scheme. Everywhere he looked in Crowley’s flat, there was
evidence of his presence there, and Crowley had infected every corner of Aziraphale’s in
kind. However intimate he had thought their lives together were before, this was nothing he
had experienced or imagined. Everywhere he looked, there was Crowley.

He ought to have been unsettled, that he had allowed a demon to enter his life so fully, but he
couldn’t summon anything that was stronger than the contentment he felt scooping up
Crowley’s black coat from where he’d thrown it on the dining table and hanging it in the coat
closet, or making two cups of tea instead of one without thought, and without needing to ask
how he took it.

“What is this oat milk everyone keeps going on about?” Aziraphale asked at the grocery
store, turning a bottle of it around in his hands. “It seems everyday, they’ve invented some
new kind of milk. Have you tried it?”

“Don’t start, angel,” Crowley groaned, his forehead pressed against the cool glass of the
refrigerated section, where it had been for several minutes. A woman with a toddler on her
hip frowned at him. “It’s hard enough to feed you without you turning vegan . Just get the
normal milk and let’s go .”

“You’re disturbing the other patrons, Crowley, really,” Aziraphale said as Crowley breathed
on the glass and pulled back to write ‘help’ in the condensation. “You have no sense of
adventure. And there are different types of milk, different brands . I was reading the paper
this morning and I think we ought to switch to rBST-free milk, that artificial growth hormone
isn’t kind to the cows.”

“This isn’t kind to me ,” Crowley whined. “I don’t even eat at home, what are we shopping
for? Let's go. "

"You aren't as innocent as a cow, are you?" Aziraphale said archly, and took up a carton
claiming to be organic and grass-fed. "You take milk in your tea, Crowley, this concerns you
too. Do you think organic implies hormone free, or is that a separate category?"

"I think I'd rather be discorporated than keep talking about this," Crowley said. "Look, this
one says grass-fed, hormone free, the cow in the picture is smiling, let's go. "

"Fine, fine," Aziraphale muttered, putting the milk he'd suggested in the basket. "You have
remarkably little patience for an immortal being, you know."

"Trust me, angel, I have plenty of patience."

"Well, I've never seen it," Aziraphale muttered. “Come on, then, before you get bored and
start spoiling people’s groceries.”

“Oo, I hadn’t thought of that,” Crowley said. “Good idea, I’ll try that next time we’re here.”

“Lord, give me strength,” Aziraphale sighed, leading him to the front of the store.

Crowley imitated him mockingly, and pulled out his phone. “Look at this, I missed a call
from Adam. Surprised the boy is still alive, I’d have thought we’d been here longer than a
human lifespan.”

“ Really , Crowley, it was only a few minutes, and we needed food,” Aziraphale said. “Well. I
wanted food. Go on, call him back, it could be important.”

Crowley was already putting the phone to his ear, and Aziraphale piled their groceries on the
conveyor belt with a sheepish, ‘what can you do’ smile at the cashier. She returned it,
scanning their groceries as Crowley listened to Adam chat excitedly on the other line,
occasionally making noises to acknowledge that he was listening, or pitching in with
suggestions of mischief and villainy. He offered his card to the cashier before Aziraphale
could fish out his wallet, and though he knew money was no object to either of them, he felt
warmth blossom in his chest and, he was certain, his cheeks, and he smiled at Crowley.

“You two are cute,” the cashier said, leaning in conspiratorially. “You remind me of my
boyfriend’s parents. Twenty years and they still go on dates!”
“Oh,” Aziraphale said, his cheeks reddening further, and he hoped Crowley wasn’t listening.
It sounded like he was very focused on talking Adam through how to break into a locked car.
“How lovely. That’s...very lovely,” he muttered, and picked up his bags as quickly as he
could, frustrated for reasons he couldn’t quite identify when Crowley picked up the rest, still
holding his phone in one hand.

At the beginning of December, Aziraphale’s phone rang, which it rarely did at this hour when
Crowley was sitting right next to it, unless he’d scrawled it on a bathroom stall with promises
of bizarre work or sexual favors as a prank. He answered it apprehensively.

“Aziraphale! It’s Anathema,” she said, as if he wouldn’t recognize her voice. “Sorry it’s so
late, it’s been a busy day.”

“Anathema, dear girl!” he cried. “Don’t worry at all. How is the winter treating you?”

“It’s alright, I suppose, much colder than back home,” she said. “I thought I’d packed enough
heavy clothes, but I suppose not. Listen, I’m calling to invite you and Crowley over for a
winter solstice celebration.”

“Winter solstice celebration? Goodness me, it’s been a fair few years since I’ve attended one
of those!” he said, looking up to meet Crowley’s eyes--well, his glasses. He looked intrigued
as well. “What, pray, will this entail?”

“Nothing you’re imagining, I’m sure,” she laughed. “Adam and his friends will be coming,
so we’ll just do dinner and gifts. It’ll be my first winter solstice away from my mom. I have
room for the two of you to stay with me, but Mr. Shadwell and Madame Tracy are staying at
the inn in town if you’d rather.”

“Oh, there’s no need for that, we’ll stay with you. This sounds lovely! We’ll be there! The
day of the solstice, then?” Crowley raised one brow, and Aziraphale gave him a thumbs up.

“Might as well come the night before,” she said. “Adam’s looking forward to seeing you.”

“And we him!”

“The twentieth, then,” she said. They chatted for a few minutes, catching up on recent events-
-evidently, Newton had gotten a job at a local shop, and Adam was grounded for planting a
stink bomb in his teacher’s car--before her cat apparently attempted to swallow a piece of
plastic, and she excused herself from the phone with a shriek.

“Where, exactly, are we going on the winter solstice?” Crowley drawled from the chaise he’d
draped his long limbs over.

“Oh, dear me, I shouldn’t have given your response without speaking to you first, that was
terribly rude,” he said, turning a bit red. He’d sort of just...assumed. “Ah, Anathema has
invited us over to hers for a solstice celebration. Adam and his friends will be there as well,
and Mr. Shadwell and Madame Tracy.”
Crowley scowled. “Ugh, we’ve got to spend the holidays with Tracy and Shadwell ? Why
didn’t you just tell them we already have plans to, I don’t know, sing carols and honor
saints?”

“Because we don’t,” Aziraphale said irritably, his excitement fading. “Well. I suppose you
don’t have to go,” he told him, though the idea began to lose its shine when he pictured
boarding the train to Tadfield and leaving Crowley behind for the holidays.

Crowley frowned, as if he hadn’t considered the possibility either, and didn’t like it any more
than Aziraphale did. “No,” he said at last. “Can’t leave you alone with that ridiculous bastard,
can I? I’m sure he’ll find a way to send you back into Heaven’s jaws somehow. Besides, can’t
have you being a good influence on Adam without me there to balance it out. The twentieth,
then?”

Aziraphale beamed at him. “The twentieth! Oh, Crowley, we’ve got to start shopping, I can’t
believe we waited this long. What do you think Newton would like? History, perhaps? Oh, I
don’t know him terribly well, we could ruin everything if it’s wrong…”

The winter continued, and nothing changed; or rather, everything continued to change.
Aziraphale began to make two cocoas every evening when they returned home, Crowley’s
piled with marshmallows over the rim of the mug, and Crowley always had to remind
Aziraphale of his before it got cold, and he would collect them both when they were empty,
returning them to the cupboard miraculously clean.

Aziraphale continued his new, post-Armageddon hobby of knitting, tutting over dropped
stitches and muttering patterns so he wouldn’t forget. Crowley had recently downloaded
Growtopia on his phone, and was determined to completely ruin the game’s economy by the
holidays. They fought over how warm they would set the thermostat--Crowley, being cold-
blooded, demanded that it should be stifling, while Aziraphale, who enjoyed a chilly room so
he could wrap himself up in warm clothes and a mound of blankets, disagreed completely--
and the music they would play on Aziraphale’s old phonograph. They read the paper in the
mornings, trading comments about human politics, and they often went to see shows on
weekday evenings, when the crowds would be thinner, and everyday Aziraphale willed
himself to be discomforted by what his life had become, and everyday, he found himself
more and more incapable of living without the comfort of Crowley’s presence on the sofa
beside him, or just in the next room.

When the twentieth came, they loaded the Bentley with the boxes of presents and their
suitcases, the good car dutifully accommodating all their cargo, and set out for the village.
Crowley complained that Aziraphale had given so many books, insisting that nobody read
books anymore, and Aziraphale replied that he didn’t think an upstanding eleven year old
such as Adam had much use for a leather jacket, did he? and Queen blared just a touch too
loud for Aziraphale’s taste all the way, while Crowley drove just a touch too slowly for his
own taste.
They arrived at Jasmine Cottage in the afternoon, and the sunny day had clouded over and
begun to snow, just a light dusting that turned everything pale and shiny, like new--though, of
course, Crowley and Aziraphale had been there when the world was new, and there was no
snow at the time. Crowley parked by the gate, and when they opened the doors, the curtain
over the kitchen window swished, and a dog began barking inside. The door burst open and
Adam ran out, grinning, Dog at his heels.

“Adam!” Aziraphale crowed. They hadn’t seen him since Armageddon was averted, but they
had talked to him on the phone plenty, and he was constantly sending Crowley photos and
videos on his mobile phone. It had seemed easy to keep in contact with him, as if they had
been in his life all eleven years--as if they were meant to be his godfathers, and he their
godson.

“Hey, Aziraphale!” He leaned against the gate, eyeing Crowley as he lifted a box of presents
from the backseat. “Are all those for me?”

“No, no, of course not,” Aziraphale said, laughing. Adam pouted. “A few are, of course, but
there are others coming to Christmas, you know.”

“It’s not Christmas,” he said, lowering his voice. “Don’t call it Christmas, Anathema doesn’t
like it. It’s winter solstice, which is the longest day of the year, but it only gets better from
today, she says. Or tomorrow, I guess. Hey, can I have my presents tonight?”

“You’ll have to wait like everyone else,” Crowley called to him, but gave a wicked smile.
“Unless you sneak a peek, of course. Guess no one could stop you.”

“Oh, don’t start, you old serpent,” Aziraphale said, picking up his suitcase and one of the
boxes.

“Whaaaaat, just want to make sure he knows his options,” Crowley said, and Aziraphale
shook his head. Adam opened the gate for them, and tried to take the box of gifts from
Aziraphale, eyes far too wide and innocent, but he pulled away with a tsk.

Anathema appeared from the house, smiling at them on the porch. “I was worried about you
driving in when it started to snow,” she said.

“No need,” Crowley said. “The Bentley won’t crash. Nothing short of the apocalypse itself
can best that car.”

“Right,” Anathema said, following them through the door with a laugh. “You can put the gifts
under the Yule tree.”

“Looks like a Christmas tree to me,” Crowley said, just to be contrary, and Aziraphale
swatted his arm.

“It’s a Yule tree,” Anathema said, pursing her lips. “Come on, your room is up this way.”

“Room?” Aziraphale said, but followed her up a narrow staircase to the landing above, and
she opened one of the doors.
“Sorry it’s a bit small,” she said, in that frank way she had that said, sorry only in the sense
that I can’t change it, but since I can’t, I don’t particularly care and I expect that you
shouldn’t either. “It’s the spare room.”

It was, in fact, a single spare room. The ceiling was slanted, the two sides coming together
above the four-poster bed, curtained with gauzy fabric that shifted in the airflow from the
vents on the floor. A wardrobe was in one corner, and a chair in the other, and there was
hardly room to walk on either side of the bed. The one, singular bed in the room. Aziraphale
didn’t look at Crowley behind him.

“The sheets are clean. Be careful that you don’t leave the lamp on too long, or it’ll catch
fire,” she told them. “Old wiring. I’ll go put the kettle on.”

“Actually, cocoa if you have it, if you don’t mind,” Crowley murmured, sounding distracted.
“Lots of marshmallows in one, just two in the other.”

“I’ve got plenty of those,” she said. “Adam piles his cup full of them, turns the whole thing
into soup.” The floor creaked as she left, and Aziraphale and Crowley stood completely still
in the room until they could hear clanging in the kitchen and Adam’s voice chattering
excitedly.

Aziraphale cleared his throat and ventured into the small room, putting his old and worn
leather suitcase on the bed. It wasn’t anything, really; it was just a few nights, and it was
hardly different from sleeping in separate beds in the same room. After a moment, he heard
Crowley follow him, his suitcase’s wheels rolling loudly on the wood floors. Aziraphale
began putting his clothes away in the wardrobe, and finally met Crowley’s eyes.

“Are you going to put your clothes away?” he asked. “It would save us room, if we could
keep the suitcases under the bed.” This is nothing, he was saying without saying. Not even to
be remarked upon.

Crowley just looked at him, quirked one brow, and then nodded, swinging his own absurdly
large black case onto the bed. If you say so.

Aziraphale began chattering about how lucky it was that it had snowed just in time for their
celebration, and how wonderful it was going to be to see everyone again, and Crowley argued
that he could go the rest of his infinite days without seeing Shadwell and be happier for it,
and Aziraphale reminded him that it wasn’t entirely Shadwell’s fault that he’d sent him
through the gateway, he really didn’t know, and they continued bickering until Adam came
thundering up the stairs to demand what was taking so long.

They sat at Anathema’s table catching up until the sun began to set behind the white clouds,
and walked with Adam to his parent’s house to have dinner. Aziraphale had reminded
Crowley that to normal humans with no knowledge of the supernatural or divine, it was
terribly strange for two men to suddenly show up acting like their child’s godfathers, and
even with Adam’s unintentional reality-bending persuasion to accept them, it would do them
well to keep in their good graces. Crowley had reluctantly agreed, and so the three of them
walked in the snow, Aziraphale carrying a wonderfully decorated cake he had manifested
when he realized they’d forgotten to make something, and Crowley carrying two boxes of
Christmas gifts under his arm.

“My parents are alright, really,” Adam assured them.

“Wasn’t worried about it,” Crowley said, though both of them knew that he was, just a little.

“They seem nice on the phone!” Aziraphale said. “I do hope they enjoy their gifts. I’d hate it
if they got a bad impression of us, and forbade us from speaking to you.”

“I don’t think they’re going to get a restraining order if Mrs. Young doesn’t like her blouse,”
Crowley pointed out. “It’ll be fine. Worst case, I’ll make them like us.”

“But you can’t!” Aziraphale cried, eyes flickering to Adam between them. “Adam is right
here, Crowley, and you’re talking about influencing his parents. Really .”

“I’m fine with it,” Adam said as they arrived at his house. “Just don’t make them weird or
anything.” Crowley stuck his tongue out at Aziraphale in victory, and Aziraphale rolled his
eyes, wishing that he wasn’t carrying the cake so he could make sure his bow tie was straight.
What an impression that would be, a crooked tie .

Crowley leaned over and fixed the lapel of Aziraphale’s coat. “Can’t have you ruining our
reputations,” he said with a grin.

Adam opened the door, calling out, “Mum, dad, Crowley and Aziraphale are here!”

“Goodness me, you’re a bit early, aren’t you,” Mrs. Young said, appearing from the kitchen.
“Dinner isn’t quite ready yet, but--my Lord, is that a cake?”

“We thought the occasion called for it,” Aziraphale said, passing it to her with a humble
smile. She led them to the dining room, placing it in the center of the table with wide eyes.
“Now, where should we put the gifts?”

“Gifts?” Mr. Young called from the kitchen. “Good lord, Deirdre, were we supposed to get
them gifts?”

“No, no, that’s not at all necessary,” Aziraphale said. “We just thought we’d pick something
up! Oh, I’m Aziraphale, and this is--”

“Crowley,” he said, flashing a big smile at Mrs. Young. “What’s for dinner? Smells
delicious.”

“Lasagna,” Mrs. Young said. “It’s my husband’s favorite thing to make. Is that alright?”

“Sounds fantastic,” he said, and managed to make it sound genuine. Crowley had never had
much appreciation for food, Aziraphale knew. Good alcohol, certainly, but he almost never
ate unless it was with Aziraphale. Aziraphale was much more apprehensive about the quality
of Mr. Young’s lasagna; he was all too familiar with what passed as English cooking.
A timer beeped, and Mr. Young made a sound of satisfaction, clanging around as he,
presumably, pulled the pan out of the oven. “Perfect, perfect,” he said. “Deirdre, put down a
trivet, will you?”

“Already done, dear!” she called. “Oh, I suppose I’ll take the presents, Crowley, if you like.”

Mrs. Young laid them gently on a table in the hallway, and Mr. Young appeared with a
steaming pan of lasagna, a proud grin on his face. “You’re in for a treat, lads,” he said.
“Secret family recipe!”

“I can’t wait!” Aziraphale said, and tried to sound like he meant it. The whole room stank of
hamburger now.

Adam helped his mother set the table, and Mr. Young brought out a salad and a basket of
rolls. The five of them sat, Crowley and Aziraphale facing the Young parents, Adam at the
head.

"Help yourselves!" Mrs. Young said, and Aziraphale set to serving himself and Crowley both,
as he knew Crowley wasn't particularly adept at judging portions. Usually they were brought
to him at a restaurant, and he ate a few bites before passing the rest to Aziraphale.

"So Adam tells us you're that young woman Anathema's godfathers, then?" Mr. Young said,
after a few minutes of quiet eating and congratulations to the chef. It was just as bland as
Aziraphale had feared, but he soldiered bravely on. Gabriel would've been proud, he
suspected, if he'd put half the devotion he gave to those performative noises of appreciation
towards his heavenly duties.

"Ah," he said, glancing at Crowley out of the corner of his eye.

"Yes, good woman, Anathema, her grandma Agnes did a lot for us," Crowley said easily.

"How did you come to be an American's godfathers?" Mrs. Young asked, with a touch more
suspicion than Aziraphale cared for.

"I told you, mum, her mum's from London too," Adam said. "Dad, this is really good. Your
best lasagna yet!"

"I think you're right, Adam, I think you're right," Mr. Young said. "Save room for that cake,
though, son, it looks professional. Did you get it from a shop?"

"Yes, back in London," Aziraphale said, because he couldn't very well say he'd replicated it
from a television program Anathema had on in the background. "Tell me, how did you two
meet?"

They told a very long story about a college class and a bar they both attended and a concert in
the north canceled due to rain, which Aziraphale thoroughly enjoyed, because he always
enjoyed a good love story, though Crowley kept rudely and unnecessarily freezing time to
make faces at Aziraphale and Adam.
"How did the two of you meet, then?" Mrs. Young said finally, sharing a dreamy expression
with her husband.

"Well," Aziraphale said slowly. "We were in a garden, both of us taking strolls, and we just
sort of…bumped into each other, I suppose, introduced ourselves, starting chatting, and the
rest is history."

"How positively romantic," Mrs. Young said, and Aziraphale started.

"I'm sorry?" He said delicately.

"Well, Arthur and I just met in school like anyone else, a garden sounds like something out of
a story," she said.

"It's the story, Deirdre," Crowley drawled, passing a sharp grin to Aziraphale. "The very
first."

They left the Young residence at Adam's bedtime, walking close together through the
powdery snow. Aziraphale's chest felt warm, pleased at how well the dinner had gone, and
his hand kept brushing Crowley's as he swung his arm between them.

"Well, that went well," Crowley said, echoing Aziraphale's own thoughts. His voice was soft,
the blanket of snow quieting every sound.

"Yes, quite well," he said, and hummed. "Seem like good people, the Youngs." His hand
brushed Crowley's again, and something in his chest jolted--surprise at the sudden contact, he
supposed.

"Must be, to raise the Antichrist to tell Satan himself to shove it." Another brush of contact,
another jolt in his chest. Aziraphale smiled.

"Yes, must be," he agreed. Another brush of hands. He supposed he should move away, but it
was nothing, and Jasmine Cottage was just down the street, and his mood was too high to
care too much.

Another brush of hands, and Crowley cleared his throat, a wet and rough sound. His next step
was just a little away from Aziraphale, and their hands didn't brush again.

He let them into Anathema's home quietly, mindful that she had told them she would be out
performing a ritual and Newt had to wake up early for his shift. The stairs, quite
miraculously, did not creak as they ascended them.

The spare room looked even cozier and more intimate in the dim light of the single lamp, and
the warmth in Aziraphale's chest seemed to solidify and ooze into his stomach, nerves
bubbling like cocoa in the pan before the milk is added. He exchanged his clothes for
pajamas with a snap of his fingers.
Crowley seemed frozen, looking sightlessly somewhere just above the bed--perhaps out the
window--and Aziraphale shifted his weight. It's nothing, he reminded himself. No different
from sharing two beds in one room. He climbed under the covers and looked up at Crowley
expectantly.

"If you're not ready for bed, we'll have to go downstairs," he said, feeling terribly awkward.
Crowley turned his unseeing gaze to Aziraphale. "The lamp, remember."

He made a noise of agreement, and switched his own clothes for pajamas as well, settling
himself carefully beside Aziraphale beneath the quilt. Aziraphale turned out the lamp, and
heard Crowley take his glasses off, setting them on the windowsill behind the bed.

It was funny, all this awkwardness over sleeping arrangements, given that Aziraphale had
never really slept terribly often before he and Crowley had begun sharing their time like this.
He knew Crowley slept every night at least, sometimes for days or weeks--a whole century,
even, from time to time--but unless he'd had a particularly taxing time of it, Aziraphale
almost never slept. He didn't see the point, when he could spend the night reading or
exploring or meeting interesting people in interesting late-night food establishments.

But he did see something to it now, he supposed. The routine of going to bed each night when
Crowley did, rising together and starting the day with rituals of coffee and breakfast and the
morning paper.

"You know," Crowley drawled in the dark. "We didn't meet the first time on the wall."

"What?" Aziraphale frowned, searching his long memory. "Of course we did."

"Well, we spoke the first time, I suppose, but I already knew who you were. Didn't need an
introduction," he said.

Aziraphale was quiet. "When did we meet, then?"

"I saw you guarding the tree," Crowley said, his voice sounding soft. "Trying to entertain Eve
throwing your sword around. Chatting about her baby." He paused. "You looked at me in the
brush and said, 'oh, hello, Snake,' and I didn't know what to think. And then I," he stopped
again.

"Yes?" Aziraphale prompted, and he felt like his heart had stopped beating, waiting with the
rest of his body and his soul for Crowley to continue speaking.

"Dunno," he said at last. "Waited for you to get on and then I corrupted Eve, I suppose. She
told me your name. Said you were a terribly nice fellow."

"Oh," Aziraphale said, disappointed for reasons he couldn't explain. "That was kind of her."

Crowley said nothing to that, and they lay still for what felt like hours, Aziraphale's mind
racing with confused and formless thoughts.

Just as he finally drifted to sleep, he heard Crowley murmur into the dark, his voice thick and
so quiet, Aziraphale almost couldn't hear it over the hum of the heater. "I noticed your eyes,
angel. Big and open and blue like the sky.”

Aziraphale woke in the morning with hair in his face and someone's breath on his neck. His
eyes blinked open slowly, and when he tried to move, he realized his limbs were entwined
with Crowley’s, his face pressed into the crook of Aziraphale’s neck. Though he was taller,
he had bent so he could press as much of his body into the warmth of Aziraphale’s, like a
snake sunning. Aziraphale smiled into the crown of his head, and closed his eyes. When he
opened them again, some hours later, Crowley was gone and the bed was cold.

Shadwell and Madame Tracy arrived that evening in a flurry, having to chase down their taxi
twice to retrieve forgotten items. Madame Tracy wrapped Aziraphale in an uncomfortably
tight hug, and Shadwell clapped a hand on Newton Pulsifer’s shoulder, loudly reminding
him, definitely not for the first time, that he was supposed to find and eliminate witches, not
play house with them.

“Well,” Newt said nervously, “aren’t you supposed to find and eliminate them, and not attend
their winter solstice celebrations?”

Shadwell narrowed his eyes at Newt, then burst out laughing, throwing an arm around him.
“It’s Christmas, laddie, we don’t celebrate witch’s holidays. Now come on, bring me inside, I
want to know what’s for dinner!” Anathema rolled her eyes and led them in.

Crowley and Aziraphale were responsible for much of the meal, as neither Newt or
Anathema were particularly adept cooks, and though Adam’s friend Wensley insisted his
mother was teaching him how to make lots of good and healthy meals, none of them were
quite comfortable trusting an eleven year old with an entire holiday banquet.

It felt odd, having everyone together again for the first time since what was nearly
Armageddon. Pepper and Crowley were engaged in a lively discussion about the morality of
assassination, which prompted Aziraphale to kick Crowley under the table multiple times.
Wensley kept trying to convince Shadwell that witches, should they exist--Anathema, the
most obvious example of a supposed witch, being an occultist--really probably weren’t that
bad anyway, and probably should be left alone, which entertained Anathema greatly.

Adam kept trying to guess at what presents Crowley and Aziraphale had gotten him, growing
more and more outlandish as he went. He’d gone from a new bicycle to a baby dragon for
Dog to play with.

“You’re lucky,” Newt told him. “My godparents always got me just one gift together, they
said married people only had to buy one gift. Never made any sense to me, you’d think with
two incomes but just one household, they ought to buy more gifts. Not, er, that it’s all about
the gifts, of course,” he said, with a sidelong glance at Aziraphale.

“Well, we aren’t married,” Aziraphale said nervously, beginning to wonder why, exactly,
even their friends seemed to think they were together, and wondering even more why he
cared, “but I suppose even if we were, we would still get him a few gifts. He’s our godson,
after all, he gets a bit of special treatment.”

“You aren’t married?” Anathema said, brows knitting together. “But I thought…”

“Angels and demons don’t get married,” Crowley interrupted, his voice tight. “Doesn’t
happen.”

“But, it’s legal now,” Madame Tracy said. “I read it in the paper, all those lovely parades
persuaded them.”

“Parades?” Aziraphale asked, confused as to how, exactly, he managed to miss parades of

angels and demons in the streets.

“Yes, with all the rainbows and glitter,” Tracy said. “You can’t have missed them, loud as
they are!”

“Oh, yes, the pride parades,” Aziraphale said, chuckling. “I’m not quite sure it was the
parades that did it, but, well that isn’t precisely the issue.”

“Is it Heaven and Hell?” Pepper interrupted. “I bet Adam could make them let you. Couldn’t
you, Adam?”

“It isssn’t like that ,” Crowley hissed, losing his patience, and Aziraphale patted his hand
reassuringly where it lay on the table, but Crowley yanked it back, scowling at him. “Why
doess it matter? Don’t you people have anything elssse to talk about?” Aziraphale felt as
though he’d lost all footing in the conversation.

“Right,” Madame Tracy said slowly, pity clear in her voice. She exchanged a look with
Shadwell--well, she tried to, but the man looked almost as confused as Aziraphale was. “So
sorry dear, of course.”

“Sorry,” Anathema said, giving them a peculiar look. “Sorry, it’s just that Agnes said...well, I
should’ve asked before I gave you a room together, I just assumed--”

“They don’t want to talk about it,” Adam interrupted, with that finality in his voice which
was well beyond his years. “Let’s talk about something else.”

“My dad wrecked our car,” Brian said helpfully. “It didn’t explode like I thought it would, but
my mum was still really mad.”

“How about presentss?” Crowley said, the hiss in his voice less pronounced. “Everyone
finished? Yess, good, presents, then.” He waved his hands and the remaining food on the
table disappeared, the dishes flying back into Anathema’s cupboards miraculously clean.

The four kids sprang up, dashing into the living room to rifle under the Yule tree for the
boxes with their names. The adults got up more slowly, the awkwardness palpable in the air,
and Aziraphale tried to catch Crowley’s eye, to communicate his amused--that’s what that
fluttery, pleasant-yet painful feeling in his stomach was, certainly--exasperation in their silent
way, but Crowley wouldn’t look at him, and Aziraphale followed him into the living room,
feeling wrong-footed and hollow.

The gifts were distributed quickly, if chaotically thanks to the children, and when Aziraphale
handed his gift to Crowley, the demon frowned at him. “What’s this?”

“Your gift, of course,” Aziraphale said, giving him a bright smile.

“Oh,” he said. He handled it gingerly, like it was fragile--or maybe explosive--and

Aziraphale’s smile dimmed.

“Is something wrong?” he asked hesitantly. He knew their conversation in the other room had
been awkward, but he wasn’t going to rescind the gift he’d worked so hard on. He wasn’t
even sure why it had been so awkward, they’d been mistaken for a couple by humans who
didn’t understand what it was to know someone as truly and as long as they had known one
another a thousand times before. It really shouldn’t be any different.

“No,” Crowley said, his expression, for the first time in probably five thousand years,
unreadable. “I suppose I rather thought we’d have Christmas just the two of us.”

“Oh,” Aziraphale said. “I’m sorry, my dear, I thought we’d do it with the--” the family , he
supposed would be how a human would put it, but they weren’t human, and they didn’t have
a family, really. Just each other. “With the others.”

“Right,” Crowley said. “Right. Sorry, angel.”

“Not at all, dear, not at all,” Aziraphale said. “I can keep it until we return to London, if you
like--”

“I didn’t say that,” Crowley said, snatching the box back. “I’m opening it now.”

“I don’t see how that’s fair,” Aziraphale argued, “given that I don’t get my gift now.”

“It’s not about the gifts, angel, it’s about the reason for the season, and the thought, and all
that,” Crowley said, and began tearing at the paper.

Aziraphale rolled his eyes indulgently, passing out the rest of the gifts and sneaking little
glances at Crowley as he struggled with the box. He’d worked so hard on it, searched all the
best yarn shops in London for the perfect skeins. He even had to sit on hold for hours with
the manufacturer of the yarn he chose because he needed another skein from the same dye-
lot, knowing that Crowley would want only the best, and he’d notice even a minor
inconsistency in the coloring.

“Angel,” Crowley said, and Aziraphale turned to face him fully. He’d taken the sweater out
of the box, and laid it on his lap, smoothing his hands over the front.

“Do you like it?” Aziraphale asked anxiously. The others--except Adam’s friends--had
paused in their unwrapping to watch. Crowley snapped his fingers, and the shirt he had been
wearing was replaced with the sweater. “It’s mohair, the best I could find.” The yarn was
pitch black, the halo of fuzz seeming to blur Crowley’s outline, make him look immaterial
and soft around the edges. Ethereal, almost.

“Is this what you’ve been hiding?” Crowley asked, lips quirking up in a smile. “Sneaking out
of the room to do when you think I’m not paying attention?”

“Well--yes,” Aziraphale said, turning a bit red. “I thought I was being quite discrete, actually.
Does it fit?”

“Like a glove,” Crowley said, and flashed him a smile. “Thanks, angel.”

“Of course, dear boy,” Aziraphale murmured. “Right. Adam, you haven’t opened my gift to
you yet, have you?”

The rest of them picked up where they had left off. Aziraphale had given Adam a thick blue
sweater--not, tragically, made by hand, as he hadn’t had enough time to knit everything--a
white scarf that he had knitted himself, and the full set of Percy Jackson books. Although
Aziraphale himself wasn’t a terribly big fan of most modern fiction--or, of course, paganism--
he knew from their many conversations about books that Adam would probably like the story
of an ordinary boy born from extraordinary stock, thrust into a role he wasn’t prepared to
occupy and yet, inexplicably, was the perfect person for.

Crowley had given Adam an outrageously expensive and, he had assured Aziraphale, equally
outrageously cool leather jacket, which Aziraphale had thought was quite ridiculous on its
own, but then Crowley said, “check the pocket,” with a lazy and wicked smile, and Adam
pulled out a small key with a Triumph keychain.

“Crowley, my dear,” Aziraphale said slowly, “what is that?”

“The key to Adam’s motorbike, of course,” Crowley said, turning that grin on him, and
Aziraphale gasped, but the sound was drowned out by the sound of the children shrieking
with joy, Adam’s friends crowding around him.

“Where is it?” Adam cried.

Crowley waved his hand, then pointed out the window to the street. “Outside,” he said. “By
the Bentley.”

The children raced outside, and Aziraphale bustled after them, swatting Crowley on the arm
when he caught up. “You wicked old serpent!” he cried. “A motorbike? He’s eleven .”

“It’s plenty small for him,” Crowley assured him. “And it’ll get bigger as he needs it to.”

“He’ll kill himself!” Aziraphale gaped at the offending vehicle, a sleek black thing that
absolutely radiated mischief and tomfoolery, except for the little sidecar that looked to be
about the perfect size for a small dog, which was just plain cute.

“Relax, angel, do you really think I’d just give him a motorbike without taking precautions?”
he sighed. “It’ll never wreck, not ever, and even if it does, he’ll escape miraculously
unharmed.”
Aziraphale shook his head, snapping his fingers to manifest a white helmet that dangled from
one of the handlebars. “I’ll see to that,” he muttered. The helmet had strict instructions to
keep the boy safe no matter what, or there would be a terrible divine retribution the likes of
which Earth hadn’t seen in thousands of years. “Honestly, Crowley.”

“Honestly what, angel?” Crowley said, rolling his head to look over at Aziraphale. “Look at
him, he’s happy, and he’ll always be safe on it, everyone wins.”

“You’re lucky I’m not human,” he huffed. “If I wasn’t, I’d have been dead ages ago from the
stress you put me under.”

“If you were human, you’d have been dead about five thousand, nine hundred, and thirty
years ago,” Crowley said, and Aziraphale pressed his lips together.

They watched the children fawn over the motorbike for a while, the other adults smiling
indulgently at them, and Aziraphale couldn’t help but peek at Crowley’s face. He wore the
smallest and most content smile Aziraphale had ever seen on him, as if all he had ever
wanted these six thousand years was to see Adam grinning wildly like an eleven year old
should, as if he had no concerns but how he was going to hide his new and certainly
forbidden gift from his parents. Then he looked down at Aziraphale, and the smile grew even
softer, and Aziraphale couldn’t help but return it, his disapproval melting away like snow
under the springtime sun.

This is what it was all for, he thought hazily. This moment. That smile.

He only wished he could see Crowley’s eyes.

There was more food after all the presents had been opened, and the conversations were
easier, mostly revolving around the children’s gifts--and Shadwell’s, a collection of letters
from various Witchfinders Aziraphale had laying around that he’d bound into a book for the
strange old man--and as devoid of awkward moments as any family dinner could be.

Aziraphale was relaxed when he and Crowley finally retired, the awful tension of dinner
completely forgotten after the festivities, and he hummed as he readied himself for bed.

Once he was dressed in his pajamas, he eyed Crowley, who was still dressed, sitting on the
edge of the bed in his absurdly, distractingly tight jeans and his new sweater. “Are you ready
for bed, my dear?” he asked. “I can make a light of our own if you’re not.”

“No, no, I’m ready,” Crowley murmured, snapping his fingers to change into his silky black
pajamas. “Did you really knit that sweater by hand? The whole thing?”

“Well, yes,” Aziraphale said, frowning. “There isn’t much I could think of to get you that you
couldn’t create from nothing yourself, so I thought I’d make you something the long way.
Thinking about it now, I suppose it doesn’t make much of a difference, you’ve got another
black sweater either way--”
“It does make a difference,” Crowley said, and he smiled almost as he had outside in the
snow, that soft and small thing Aziraphale would do anything to see again. “Thanks, angel.”

“Of course, Crowley,” he said, and patted his hand as he got under the covers. Crowley
waved a hand to turn off the lamp, and Aziraphale heard him take off his sunglasses.

“Crowley?” he said softly, after a long moment.

“Yeah, angel?”

“You don’t have to wear your sunglasses all the time, you know,” he said. “Not--not when it’s
just you and me.”

“I don’t wear them all the time,” Crowley said. He sounded strained, and Aziraphale could
picture the way his jaw was clenched, his brow furrowed, even if he couldn’t see it in the
dark.

“You take them off when we’ve been drinking,” he allowed. “But any other time, you wait til
it’s dark.”

Crowley was quiet. “Maybe I just don’t want you seeing them.”

“Why not?” Aziraphale frowned. “I know what they look like. I know you’re a demon, it
doesn’t shock me to see them.”

“Yess it doesss,” Crowley hissed. “I’ve ssseen your face when I take them off, like you’re--
like you’re--”

“Like I’m what, Crowley?” Aziraphale snapped. “Let there be light,” he said, and a ball of
pale white light appeared above them. He propped himself up on one arm, looking into
Crowley’s yellow eyes, unwavering. “Like I’m what? How am I looking at you?” He wasn’t
sure why he was so...so angry , he was hardly ever angry, angels weren’t supposed to feel
angry unless it was on behalf of Heaven and the Almighty, but it filled him up, in a way it
hadn’t in a long time, and he didn’t even know what it was directed at. Not Crowley, exactly,
but certainly something Crowley-adjacent. “Tell me what I’m thinking, Crowley, because
apparently I’m entirely unaware, and I would surely like to know.”

Crowley blinked at him, as if he wasn’t expecting this reaction. He turned his head so he was
looking up at the ceiling instead of at Aziraphale. “You think they’re--disgusting,” he said,
and his voice sounded so defeated . “Evil.” A small and humorless smile pulled at his lips.
“Wicked.”

Aziraphale frowned, and all the anger drained out of him. “I don’t,” he said softly.
“Crowley…” he trailed off, the words stopping in his throat, as they always did. After a long
moment of warring with himself, wondering what he should do, what he should say--if he
should do or say anything at all--he finally lifted his hand and, pretending that it wasn’t
shaking slightly, cupped Crowley’s cheek, turning his head to face him. His grip was gentle
but firm, forcing Crowley to hold his eyes. “I don’t think they’re wicked. I don’t…” he
trailed off again, completely lost. How could Crowley think this? He’d always thought that
Crowley just knew him, could see right through him, how could he have missed the mark this
badly?

Crowley stared at him, unblinking as he often was on the rare occasion he removed his
glasses, mouth slightly agape. Aziraphale wasn’t sure how long they were there, silently
looking at each other, before Crowley finally said, “I don’t blame you, angel,” and removed
his hand so he could look away again. “I don’t like them much either.”

“Crowley,” Aziraphale said desperately, his hand useless on the bed between them. “I don’t--I
do like them, how can you--”

“They used to be golden, you know,” Crowley said, and it would’ve sounded casual if it
wasn’t for how thick his voice was. “Before...before I fell. All shiny and gold like--well, like
gold. All the other angels, they had that metal all over their face, in their hair, their--” he
wrinkled his nose, “their teeth. Never cared much for that, but the others...I thought it looked
nice. Beelzebub, before, her hair was all shiny and golden, and Lucifer, he looked like he was
made from it. You know Michael, she’s got it all over her face. I just had my eyes, and I
suppose I liked them. Not many of the others had the eyes, you know. I know angels aren’t
supposed to care much about what they look like, but they all do, you know that, even
Gabriel’s got his bloody tailors.”

Aziraphale nodded, fighting off the familiar impulse to disagree with something that was
blasphemous to say but was, technically, true.

“My eyes were my favorite part about me, I guess, physically or--or whatever. And then I
Fell, and the first thing I saw when I got a look at myself were these big yellow signs
reminding me and everyone else that I’m a demon.” His face contorted. “Not only that, but
the Serpent of Eden , the originator of all sin, as if Eve didn’t choose to eat the apple. As if I
wasn’t just reminding her that she had choices, whatever God told her otherwise.”

This was a familiar and well-trod argument between them, but Aziraphale, valiantly, didn’t
fall into the familiar groove of it. “That’s--well.” Aziraphale stopped, and took a deep breath
to steady himself, though of course he didn’t need it, and tried to work past the painful weight
in his chest, like Crowley had reached through his ribs and pressed his heart too hard between
his hands. “Well, if you weren’t the Serpent of Eden, we wouldn’t have met.”

Crowley snorted, startled. “No, angel, I suppose not.”

“But--well, that’s not the important part, what I mean is--oh, Crowley ,” he broke off with a
sigh, shaking his head. He didn’t know what he meant, or what exactly he was trying to say,
even though he started this. “I don’t think your eyes look evil, I think--well, I’ve always
thought they were rather beautiful.”

Crowley blinked, and frowned, and blinked again. He turned his head so he was looking at
Aziraphale. “What?”

Aziraphale’s face was so hot he was wondering if the Almighty had heard him, and set his
head on fire as punishment. “I mean...well, I always thought they were such a pretty and
warm color, like daffodils in the spring, and you know how I love daffodils--well, that’s not
relevant--but they always just looked like...you.”

“Like me?” Crowley said. He sounded dazed, as if he’d missed a step taking the stairs, and
was trying to regain his footing.

“I don’t know how else to say it,” Aziraphale said, blushing, impossibly, even more. “They
just always looked like you , and that’s...well, that’s a good thing.”

“Are you,” Crowley said, and stopped. He licked his lips and tried again, summoning an
imitation of his usual wicked smile. “Are you saying you think I’m good looking?”

“I’m saying , I think your eyes are--” he stopped, sighing. “Oh, Crowley, could you just listen
for a moment.”

“I’m listening, angel,” he said, his voice gentle again.

“I just want to see your eyes,” he said finally. “I like seeing them. I miss when you didn’t
wear those blasted things all the time and I could see your whole face and what you were
feeling and--could you just leave them off, Crowley, please,” he said, and would not admit to
anyone, not even God herself, that he was pleading. “When it’s just us, or us and the others.
Could you just try?”

Crowley looked at him for a long and agonizing moment, and finally nodded. “Sure,
Aziraphale,” he said softly. He looked away, and Aziraphale could feel a finality to it. “I’ll
try.”

“Thank you, my dear,” he murmured, and waved his hand to extinguish the light he’d so
dramatically summoned. He heard Crowley turn over--turn towards him--in the dark, and
Aziraphale laid himself down carefully, facing the demon. He could just faintly see
Crowley’s yellow eyes in what little light came through the window, pupils blown wide, and
he held them, neither of them even pretending to sleep.

Finally, what felt like an eternity later but probably wasn’t, Aziraphale finally felt the
exhaustion of their conversation creep up on him, and his eyes fell closed. He could’ve sworn
he felt Crowley’s cool hand take his, the one that lay between them, the one that had cupped
his cheek that night, the one that he’d grasped facing the end of the world just a few months
ago, but he supposed he could’ve been dreaming.

He woke to find every inch of himself pressed against Crowley again, his arm tingling where
Crowley lay on it, his own face shoved into Crowley’s neck--he noted with mild and sleepy
horror that he had drooled on him a bit--and his other arm draped over Crowley’s waist. It
was an awkward and loose-limbed hug, and though he ought to have been embarrassed to
find himself in this position once again, he simply couldn’t bring himself to care. He
tightened his grip on Crowley, burrowing his face into the collar of his worn Queen pajama
shirt, and fell back to sleep in moments.
When he woke properly, it was to Crowley--wearing his new sweater, Aziraphale noted with
a warm feeling in his chest--fixing his hair in the mirror on the inside door of the wardrobe,
and he turned to look at Aziraphale, uncertainty in his yellow eyes, unobscured by the
sunglasses that still lay on the windowsill, and Aziraphale beamed at him.

“You look wonderful, my dear,” he said softly, and Crowley smiled, just a little. “Your hair, I
mean.”

Crowley’s smile widened. “Of course, angel,” he said, turning back to the mirror to continue
fussing with it, as it presently resembled a cockatoo. “Of course.”

That afternoon, before Crowley and Aziraphale returned to London, Crowley went to visit
with Mr. and Mrs. Young to ‘persuade’ them to allow Adam to keep the motorbike.
Aziraphale disapproved enough that he didn’t want any part of it, but not enough that he was
going to stop it.

Instead, he spent the afternoon drinking tea and chatting about the validity of various
unexplained phenomenon with Anathema. He found her company to be quite pleasant, and
though he’d tried to refrain from getting too attached to individual humans in his many long
years, it seemed he’d made an inadvisable but inevitable exception for this small crop of
them.

“Listen,” she said, when they’d reached a comfortable lull in the conversation, “I’m sorry
about the whole...room thing. Assuming you and Crowley were together, like that.”

“It’s alright,” he said, shifting awkwardly. He supposed it was their short lifespans that gave
humans the inexplicable desire to talk things out all the time. “You’re not the first.”

“It’s just,” she began, then stopped. “Sorry.”

“It’s just what?” He took an uncomfortable sip of his tea.

“Well, it’s just, Agnes said you were,” she said at last. “And Agnes has never been wrong,
but I guess...well, I guess I must’ve been wrong. Her prophecy just seemed so clear.”

“What,” Aziraphale tried, but the word came out strangled and wrong. He cleared his throat
and tried again. “What, exactly, did her prophecy say?” He’d read the whole book cover to
cover, and he hadn’t seen anything about him and Crowley being together .

“‘Hear me, Anathema, and open ye minde, for the Angel and Devil who has’t cometh
together in purest union, shall be thy dearest friends and allies,’” she said. “I was sure, after it
all, that’s what it meant.”

Aziraphale remembered the prophecy vaguely, but he’d had no idea what it meant, and it
hadn’t seemed important at the time. “Well,” he said, and for some reason, he felt something
akin to disappointment. “I suppose the union refers to our Arrangement. Sometimes
we...helped each other out, with our work.”
“Right,” Anathema said, though she didn’t sound convinced. “Sure.”

They returned to London at a comparatively leisurely speed of 80 mph, the quiet of the ride
broken up by Queen and occasional conversation about what they ought to do when they got
home, both of them insisting that the other’s residence needed renovation.

“You run a bookshop, angel, and no one can find any of your books because there hasn’t been
any kind of organization since 1810,” Crowley said, exasperated.

“Well,” Aziraphale sniffed, “I suppose the atmosphere discourages the kind of buyers I’m not
particularly interested in.”

“All of them, you mean.” Crowley grinned. It was nice to be able to see the way his eyes
crinkled when he smiled.

“No, the...the uncommitted ,” Aziraphale said.

“No one is as committed to your books as you are,” Crowley said, shaking his head fondly.
“You just don’t want anyone to buy them.”

“If they aren’t going to take care of them and love them as well and as much as I have, then I
don’t want them buying the books,” Aziraphale insisted. “Besides, you’re one to talk. You
know your flat is supposed to be a home, and not some kind of bizarre modern art show.”

“My flat is stylish ,” Crowley said. “Minimalism is in , angel, not that you’d know anything
about that.”

“Not everything that’s stylish is good, Crowley, really,” Aziraphale said. “Couldn’t we just
lighten it up a bit? Maybe add some bookshelves?”

Crowley considered this. “One bookshelf,” he said at last. “You can have one.”

“Oh! Crowley, thank you,” he cried. “And perhaps some knickknacks to place around, just
give it a bit more character--”

“Give him an inch and he takes a mile,” Crowley muttered. “ No knickknacks! ”

They had dinner at Aziraphale’s favorite sushi restaurant when they arrived back in London,
and by the time they had reached it, Crowley had agreed to three bookshelves, one of which
was allowed to have a single shelf of knickknacks and photos, so long as the photos were of
people Crowley didn’t loathe, and Aziraphale had agreed to let Crowley devise some method
of coherent organization for the bookshop. Aziraphale was certain this was going to come to
no good--Crowley had told him he currently had a one star rating on Yelp, and he wasn’t
particularly inclined to see it rise. He felt that those truly dedicated to obtaining rare books
and first editions wouldn’t be dissuaded from his shop by the online commentary of tourists.
Though their holiday had been quite enjoyable, returning to the bookshop felt like slipping
into a comfortable and well-worn pair of pajamas. “Ah, it’s like a breath of fresh air, coming
back, isn’t it, Crowley?” he sighed.

“A breath of musty air and probably some mold spores, more like,” Crowley said mildly, but
it seemed he was at least a little glad to be back. “Come on, I think a perfect Riesling just
appeared in your wine cabinet.”

They savored the wine Crowley had manifested for them, chatting about Adam’s motorbike
and a rare new plant Crowley was hoping to pick up from his most trusted seller--though he
would rarely admit it, he had strong feelings about plant poaching, and he had brought
terrible fates to several individuals who had tried to sell him plants obtained in such a way--
and what Aziraphale’s newest knitting project was going to be.

“I’ve got my eye on this wonderful deep red Angora yarn I saw in a shop the other day,” he
said, “what would you say to another sweater? I think you look rather dashing in this one,”
and Crowley’s expression did something strange.

It was late when they retired to the small flat upstairs, and it wasn’t until they reached it that
Aziraphale realized, with an absurd sinking feeling, that they were going to be sleeping in
separate beds once more.

His eyes flickered from his bed to Crowley’s to the man himself, startled to find Crowley
watching him, looking oddly vulnerable without his glasses. Aziraphale said very cleverly, “I
suppose...well, I suppose.”

Crowley quirked one brow.

“Should I--” Aziraphale cast around for something to say. “Should I turn up the heater, then?
I...I don’t want you to get cold, tonight. It seemed like I was helping you keep warm, at
Anathema’s, I suppose.”

Crowley looked back at the beds, then at Aziraphale, and raised his hand very slowly. With a
flick of his wrist, the beds came together to form one, made of a dark wood with a deep red
eiderdown comforter, and what looked to be absurdly soft white sheets. Crowley leaned
against one of the bedposts, hands going into his pockets, his eyes never leaving
Aziraphale’s.

“Oh,” Aziraphale said, warmth bursting in his chest. He couldn’t quite repress the bright
smile that sprang to his lips. “Oh, what a beautiful bed. Thank you, my dear.” He busied
himself washing their wine glasses from the evening and readying himself for bed, and when
he climbed in, Crowley was already there, eyes closed and his breathing deep and even.

Aziraphale smiled at him, snapping to turn the lights out, and hummed contentedly.

“Is this...alright?” Crowley whispered into the dark of the room, and Aziraphale started,
having thought he was asleep.
“Yes,” he said, but his voice came out too high, and he felt Crowley shift, as if he was going
to do something--get up, maybe, or separate their beds once more--and without giving
himself a moment to think about it or doubt himself, Aziraphale tucked himself against
Crowley’s side, his head resting on the demon’s shoulder. Crowley froze, even his breath
stilling, and Aziraphale cautiously raised an arm to wrap it around him. “Is this alright?”

“Yeah,” he said, his voice coming out in a rush of breath. “Yeah. Of course, angel.” He
relaxed in small increments, and finally, he put his hand on Aziraphale’s arm where it lay
across his stomach. Aziraphale smiled and closed his eyes, falling asleep the way he ought to
have been doing it for six thousand years.

Christmas Eve was spent seeing a matinee of some awful American action movie full of
explosions and guns at Crowley’s insistence, and then, even worse, rearranging Aziraphale’s
books.

“You said I could, angel,” Crowley reminded him.

“Yes, but I was hoping you’d forget ,” Aziraphale grumbled.

“I never forget when I’ve won,” Crowley said. “Now hand me that autographed Keats, I think
we should keep the signed ones together in their own section.”

By the end of the evening, even Aziraphale had to admit that the place seemed a bit more
peaceful and inviting, and he decided he’d just have to switch up the hours a bit more to
compensate for it. Crowley’s next target was the flat upstairs, which he insisted looked
exactly like the rooms occupied by an impoverished spinster he knew in the late eighteenth
century. Aziraphale agreed to new floors--it was possible they were slightly worn down and
creaky, and possibly would have caved in a century ago if it weren’t for the divine miracle
that had brought them into existence--and a granite countertop in the kitchen, which he
allowed despite Crowley’s promise that it was the first step towards modernizing the kitchen,
which he would do if it was his last act on Earth.

They went to bed together, as they had been doing for months, and wrapped in each others
arms, as they been doing for a few days, and Aziraphale’s heart felt so full that he said,
without thinking, “what if you moved in here?”

Crowley stilled, and Aziraphale, perhaps even more shocked than Crowley, did too. “Moved
in?”

“Well,” Aziraphale said slowly, and as he thought about it, he began to warm up to the idea.
“We’ve been staying together for a while now, and I thought it would just make a certain
sense.”

“Moved in,” Crowley muttered.

“Yes, moved in,” Aziraphale said defensively. “Is it really so strange of an idea? We’ve
practically been living together since Armageddon.”
Crowley was quiet. “Do you know why I asked you to stay with me?”

For the same reason we’re sleeping together and you saved me in the church during the Blitz
and I’m letting you change my bookshop, which I love more than anything except--

That was a dangerous train of thought.

Because of this , he wanted to say. Because of whatever this is. But that was a dangerous
thought too.

“Because,” he said, and Crowley sighed.

“I was afraid, Aziraphale,” he said, sounding resigned. “I was so, so afraid that you’d go
home and I wouldn’t hear from you, and I’d come to find you and your bookshop would be
gone and replaced by some, some bible store full of shirts with little fish on them and I’d
never see you again.”

“I think those shops are one of yours, actually,” Aziraphale said faintly. “Not ours.”

“Aziraphale,” Crowley said. “That’s not the point.”

“I know,” he said quietly. “I know.”

The silence between them felt heavy, and lingered for several long minutes.

“I was afraid too, you know,” Aziraphale said. “That--that Hell would come for you. Or
maybe Heaven.” Crowley didn’t say anything. Aziraphale wasn’t even sure he was still
awake, and that emboldened him. “I was on Earth, you know, when the second round of
angels were thrown out. The...the ones who--were too close with the humans on Earth. The
ones who created the Nephilim. I saw what Heaven did to the ones the angels loved. They
destroyed them, and they said--it was just rumor, you know, it’s not what the Almighty said--
but some of the others thought She sent the flood to show humanity what would happen to
those who--well. Broke those sort of rules. About who they could…” he searched for a word.
“Fraternize with. And I didn’t--still don’t, I suppose--believe it’s outside the realm of
possibility that Heaven would seek to make an example of you too.”

Crowley said nothing, and Aziraphale was both relieved and, absurdly, disappointed that he
must not have heard. But he felt Crowley’s arms tighten around him, perhaps in sleep, or
perhaps not.

Aziraphale woke on Christmas day alone, and felt something sink in his chest until he heard
Crowley’s telltale footsteps on the staircase up to the flat.

“Angel,” he called, and Aziraphale sat up, rubbing the sleep from his eyes.

“In here, Crowley.” He could hear the sound of mugs clinking in the kitchen, and moments
later, Crowley rounded the corner with a steaming cup of tea in one hand and several boxed
pastries in the other.
“I was thinking,” Crowley said, his glasses still on. Aziraphale tapped the side of his own
face to remind him, and Crowley scowled at him. He passed Aziraphale the mug and set the
pastries down on the bed before removing the glasses, tucking them into an inner pocket of
his coat. “I was thinking ,” he continued, “we could stay in today.”

“Stay in?” Aziraphale asked, taking a sip of his tea. Things that were miracled never quite
tasted exactly right, but Crowley did create the best approximation of his favorite. “It’s
Christmas.”

“What, are you wanting to go to church?” Crowley asked, and Aziraphale shrugged.

“Perhaps,” he said. “I was thinking I might perform a few miracles, really get people in the
spirit and remind them what it’s all about.”

Crowley sighed, and finally nodded, clearly thinking it over. “Fine. Yes, that’s good, I think,
actually. What about the morning? And the evening. Can you do your miracles in the
afternoon?”

“I suppose,” Aziraphale said suspiciously. Crowley was full of nervous energy, and it was
making Aziraphale nervous as well. “What’s going on, dear boy?”

Crowley hummed, not quite looking at him. “Nothing, really,” he said. “I got you pastries
from that bakery you like.”

Aziraphale beamed at him, his suspicion lifting for a moment. “I thought they were closed for
Christmas,” he said, reaching for a box containing a strawberry cream cheese danish.

“It was the strangest thing,” Crowley said casually. “The owner just met me at the door, said
she had no idea why she was opening, it being the Lord’s birthday and all.”

“Crowley!” Aziraphale cried, swatting at him. “Mrs. Lark is a friend of mine, you know.”

“Everyone is a friend of yours, angel, it’s part of the job description” Crowley said, and
rolled his eyes. “Eat up.”

He manifested his own cup of tea, and they lay in bed all morning, Aziraphale against the
headboard with his knees drawn up to his chest, and Crowley sprawled across the end of the
bed, gesturing widely with the single pastry he was working on and getting crumbs
everywhere, which Aziraphale waved away with an indulgent sigh every so often.

When the grandfather clock downstairs chimed to let them know it was noon, Aziraphale
pursed his lips. He didn’t want to go, really, the bed was comfortable and Crowley’s company
even more so, but he supposed he’d have to eventually. The pastries were gone anyway, and
if he didn’t get going soon, he’d while the whole holiday away.

“Suppose I’d best get ready,” Aziraphale said reluctantly.

“Suppose you’d best,” Crowley said, far too casually. “Miracles to perform and all that.”

He narrowed his eyes. “What are you planning, Crowley?”

“Oh, nothing, just some Christmas wiles, nothing major,” he assured him. “I’d better get
along, priests to tempt and all that.”

“Crowley--” Aziraphale started, but he was already sauntering out of the flat, and after a few
moments, he heard the bell chime and the shop door swing closed.

It was dark when Aziraphale returned to the bookshop, feeling more tired than an angel
should. He hoped Crowley meant it when he said he wanted to stay in tonight, he didn’t feel
up to doing much more than curling up on the sofa in the backroom and debating the merits
of Shakespeare compared to Marlowe.

He picked up the phone to try and call his mobile phone, but it went straight to voicemail,
and Aziraphale frowned. He didn’t think that had ever happened. Crowley even left it on at
the movie theater, making sure to turn the volume all the way up in case he got a call.

“Very strange,” he murmured into the dim room, and the ceiling above him creaked as if in
response. He frowned, unease settling in his stomach.

He climbed the stairs to the flat hesitantly. The door was closed, but a light shown under it, as
if someone was inside, and a thump from within confirmed his suspicions. No one except
Crowley had ever been allowed in his flat, and if Crowley was gone…

A sick feeling building within him, he creaked the door open with a nervous, “hello?”

“Uh,” Crowley’s voice called. “In here.”

Aziraphale breathed a sigh of relief, and pushed the door open, but it wasn’t his flat that
greeted him.

Crowley had described it once as ‘a sad antique studio, in the least hip way possible,’ because
it was mostly just one room with a kitchen, a dining table, a fireplace, and in a nook hidden
from the door, the bed--and, of course, at one point, the bed s .

Now, however, he was greeted with a quaint and cozy living room. A candle that smelled
something like pine and cinnamon was burning on the mantle, which was now wooden and
white rather than raw brick, and above which hung a flat screen television. There were
several throw blankets folded neatly on the end of an inviting tartan sofa, and one of those
soft, furry pillows Aziraphale had considered purchasing on a cream-colored chaise. On the
coffee table, which had not existed before he left, was a beautiful orchid; and in fact, now
that he noticed, there were a number of houseplants around this new living room, and they
looked familiar.

“Crowley?” Aziraphale said, disbelieving.

“In here,” Crowley said again, from the direction of a new door that was open just a crack.

Aziraphale approached it, taking in the sight of a gleaming kitchen around the corner he
hadn’t seen from the door, and pushed it open.
The room was just small enough to be cozy without feeling at all crowded, and Aziraphale
noticed another fireplace, this one lit, but the most important thing, of course, was Crowley,
standing at the foot of the bed he’d created several days ago, chewing his lip nervously.

“What...is this, my dear?” Aziraphale asked. He felt as though the air had been snatched from
his lungs.

Crowley opened his mouth, closed it, then opened it again. “I was going to give you a bad
quarto of Hamlet I found back in the seventeenth century,” he said. “For Christmas, I mean.”

“Oh,” Aziraphale said, as if that was a relevant response to his question. “How kind of you.”

“I didn’t think that was quite right, though,” Crowley said. “After...after everything. You can
still have it.”

“Thank you,” Aziraphale said faintly. Crowley had his glasses on, he noticed, and...and a
bouquet of flowers in his hands. “Your glasses, dear.”

Crowley made a strange sound, halfway between a laugh and a sigh, and took them off. “You
said I should move in.”

“I did,” Aziraphale said, feeling both more satisfied and more apprehensive now that they
were getting back to what he felt was the most pressing matter at hand, which was that he had
left one flat and returned to an entirely different one.

“I can change it back, if you don’t like it,” he said.

“No,” Aziraphale said. “No, I do.” And he did. It wasn’t cluttered, but it felt cozy and
inhabited; it wasn’t stuck in the past, but it wasn’t horribly modern either. Well, except for
that shiny kitchen, but they could discuss that later.

“I tried to do it so we’d both like it,” Crowley said.

“I do,” Aziraphale told him. He felt very far away from the conversation, and yet painfully
close, like he was standing very near a very large fire. Perhaps it was the fireplace. Yes, that
must have been it. “I do like it.”

“Your flat took a lot of convincing,” Crowley said. “To do what I wanted it to.”

“Our flat,” Aziraphale corrected. “Is that...I presume that’s why you changed it?”

“Yeah,” he said, and met his eyes properly for the first time since he’d walked in. His pupils
were wide, and his eyes were desperate. “Is that alright?”

“Of course,” Aziraphale said, melting a little. “Of course it is, my dear boy.” Now that some
of the shock was wearing off, he felt something like joy soaring in his chest. “How could it
not be?”

Crowley gave him an uncertain smile, and both their eyes fell to the bouquet in his hands.
“Uh,” he said. “I was going to give you this a while ago.”

A beat.

“About a century and a half ago, actually,” Crowley said. “But then we...well, we had that
thing in the Park in 1861.”

“Oh, dear,” Aziraphale said faintly. He knew the flowers well; broom, myrtle, and a bright
red tulip in the middle.

“You liked that flower language nonsense the humans were doing,” Crowley said. Broom,
myrtle, a tulip. “You kept sending me coded bouquets and I had to keep that book you gave
me in my pocket so I’d know what the Heaven you were saying.”

Broom, myrtle, a tulip; a single, bright red tulip.

“Do you remember when we saw As You Like It?” Crowley asked, and Aziraphale nodded
mutely. Surely, Crowley had lost the book; surely, he’d had to pick up another. They weren’t
always consistent, these dictionaries of flower languages. “That part you liked, the one that
was in the book too.”

“‘Good shepherd, tell this youth what ’tis to love, It is to be all made of sighs and tears; It is
to be all made of faith and service; It is to be all made of fantasy, All made of passion and all
made of wishes, All adoration, duty, and observance, All humbleness, all patience and
impatience, All purity, all trial, all observance,’” Aziraphale murmured. “More or less.”

Crowley smiled. “Do you,” he stopped, shifted his weight. “Do you remember it? All that
stuff from the book?”

“Yes,” Aziraphale said. “Of course I do.”

“Do you know what these are?”

“Broom, and myrtle,” he said, and swallowed hard. “A tulip.”

“You know what it means,” Crowley said.

"Humility, and love, and," he stopped, eyes flickering up at Crowley and back to the bouquet.
"And a declaration of love."

"Yup," Crowley said, drawing the word out. Aziraphale felt frozen in place. He wanted to
move, or say something, but he didn't know what, didn't know how. "Not to rush you, or
anything, but," he said, after several long beats of silence, "you're kind of leaving me hanging
here, angel."

"Oh, Crowley," he murmured, and a dam in him broke. His eyes filled with tears, though for
what, he wasn't sure. "Oh, my dear, dear boy, are you sure?"

"Am I. Am I sure? " Crowley said incredulously. "Aziraphale, I've been sure for six thousand
bloody years, I don't think it's my feelings that need to be said, here."
"What do you mean?" Aziraphale asked, his eyes meeting Crowley's. He frowned.

"Don't play stupid, angel," he said. "I've been in love with you since I met you on the wall of
that bloody garden."

"You've what? " Aziraphale's voice came out oddly pitched, and Crowley squinted at him.

"Are you trying to tell me," he said, "that all this time, you didn't know?"

"No, I didn't know , why would I know , don't you think I would have said something? ”
Aziraphale demanded, gaping at Crowley.

“No,” Crowley said, and Aziraphale had to admit that was a fair assumption. “I thought you
were, I don’t know, being considerate of my feelings.”

“Crowley,” Aziraphale said, and took a shaky and uncertain step towards him.

Crowley watched him carefully, holding the bouquet so tightly that his knuckles were white,
and it was probably through the sheer force of his will that the stems weren’t breaking.

Aziraphale reached out, and took the bouquet in his shaking hands. “Crowley,” he said again,
and put one hand on the demon’s cheek.

“Aziraphale, please ,” Crowley begged, his voice rough, “I know I go too fast for you, but it’s
been six thousand years, angel, please --”

Aziraphale kissed him.

For a moment, Crowley did nothing, shock freezing him in place, which was slightly
inconvenient because Aziraphale had never actually done this before, and slightly awkward,
too, because something deep in the pit of his stomach was telling him that he was somehow
misinterpreting all this and Crowley was going to push him away and ask him what the
Heaven all of that was.

But after a moment, Crowley made a desperate noise low in his throat and wrapped his arms
around Aziraphale and pulled him so close, the bouquet was crushed between them, and
Aziraphale let it go without thought, sliding his hand into Crowley’s hair and fisting the other
in his sweater.

“Angel,” Crowley whispered against him. “Angel, angel, angel.”

Aziraphale nipped his lower lip to quiet him, but of course, Crowley only made more noise, a
low keen that made Aziraphale feel like he was going to come apart, and Aziraphale pulled
back, breathing like he’d just run a marathon and, like poor Pheidippides, was going to
collapse dead at any moment. “Crowley,” he said, “are you sure?”

“If you ask me if I’m sure one more time, I’m taking my interior decor and I’m leaving ,”
Crowley growled. “Please, angel, would you just believe me? Would I lie to you--about this
,” he clarified, before Aziraphale could make the usual point that he was, of course, a demon.
“No,” he said, “No, I suppose you wouldn’t,” and he kissed him again.

“You know,” Aziraphale said, some years later. He sat at their dining table, the morning paper
open in front of him as he ate his pastry. Crowley was leaning dangerously far back in his
chair, tapping insistently at his mobile. “I’ve been thinking.”

“Aren’t you always?” Crowley asked.

“Yes, dear, I rather think that’s the point of consciousness,” Aziraphale said, rolling his eyes.
“No, I’ve been thinking about something important .”

“Is this about all those cottages you keep looking up on my phone?” Crowley asked, quirking
one brow. Aziraphale gaped at him, and Crowley laughed. “You know the web page doesn’t
close when you leave the app, right?”

“No,” Aziraphale said, blushing. “No, I didn’t.”

“So is this about that?” Crowley asked, and put all four of the chair’s legs on the floor, much
to Aziraphale’s relief. He leaned forward.

“I...yes, it is,” he admitted. “It’s just that--well, the city is getting a bit loud,” he said, “and
busy, and crowded, and Anathema told me lovely things about the cottages in the South
Downs.”

“I liked the one with the big space for a flower garden,” Crowley said, beginning to smile.
“And room for Dog to play, when Adam comes to visit.”

“Yes,” Aziraphale said, returning it. He reached out and took Crowley’s hand in his, turning it
over to link their fingers together. “I quite liked that one too.”
End Notes

An Update From the Future! Check out my partner saaliyah's blog and art insta for beautiful
art!

The title is from Strawberry Blond by Mitski, which is a transcendental and physically
painful experience.

The flower language book I based that scene off was one of the first published in England,
Floral Emblems by Henry Phillips .

A podfic by the wonderful originblue is available here!

I'm currently having a good omens-fueled meltdown on tumblr at mortuarybees, come join
me

Works inspired by this one

all i need, darling, is a life in your shape [Podfic] by originblue

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