Work Text:
My true love hath my heart and I have his,
By just exchange one for the other given:
I hold his dear, and mine he cannot miss;
There never was a bargain better driven
The hotel room was bland. Not as clinical as Heaven, it was true, but not in any way interesting, not rich and varied like the bookshop—but he mustn’t think of that now. Aziraphale looked around at the pastel painted walls, the inoffensive framed prints of flowers and sunny vistas filled with unthreatening hills, and gave a little sigh.
Crowley, for his part, was standing by the window, lifting the blind a little to scan the parking lot outside. The erstwhile demon had been tense since they left the airport, swearing to himself under his breath as he navigated the labyrinthine streets to get them out of the looming shape of the city and on to the busy freeway beyond it.
It was the first time they had been alone since Aziraphale’s return.
That return, touching down at John F. Kennedy International Airport in a blaze of publicity, had been a stressful event, the memory of which Aziraphale had no desire to revisit. Their plan had gone perfectly, pretty much, Crowley freezing time for long enough to allow Aziraphale and the complacently complicit Messiah to escape the angel entourage with their perfect suits and miraculous headsets. The three of them had made off in the faithful Bentley, which had been waiting for them, engine revving, in a distant side street. They had been forced to make a run for it, at first, Aziraphale, sweating in his too-tight suit, Crowley loping next to him, the Messiah, ordinary looking in Their nondescript white trousers and shirt, outstripping the pair of them with a pleased little laugh.
The newly returned Messiah had been happy to fall-in with Aziraphale from the start, once They had been made manifest again in the upper tier of Heaven. They were no longer the impetuous boy or fiery young man that They had been back in Judea. These days They were in an altogether rounder, more comfortable corporation, appearing as middle-aged and of indeterminate gender, with smooth dark skin, mellow eyes, and beautiful full hair that surrounded Their head in a soft corona.
There was such an air of calm about Them, that even Aziraphale, as he had stuttered through his plea for clemency for the Earth and humanity, had felt comforted and allowed himself to stop his restless fretting after just a few words from the gently smiling being with the sympathetic eyes that he had knelt before in supplication.
“Jo,” They had said, when he asked, “just call me Jo,” and then smiled again, reached out a hand to pull Aziraphale to his feet and nodded, telling the angel quietly that They agreed with him, and that it was a very good idea to try to get away as soon as that could be arranged.
Once in the back seat of the Bentley, the Child of God had simply sat back, plump and placid, a serene smile on Their face, and watched with keen interest as the scenery flashed by Them.
When They had encountered Crowley, They had disarmed the former demon completely, greeting him like an old friend, then engulfing him in a brief, but clearly heartfelt hug. There had been a little pang of what felt like jealousy that Aziraphale had dismissed immediately: there were more important things at stake than him and his silly feelings.
Once the three of them were settled safely inside the venerable car, Jo had made it plain, in a few simple words, that They wished to travel as far as it was possible in whatever time they had before the group of them were tracked down—which would be, They pronounced, inevitable—and to meet as many different kinds of people as they could.
In the front seats, Aziraphale had sat stiffly next to Crowley, unspeakably relieved to see his friend again, but unable, as was invariably the case, to adequately put that feeling into words.
Crowley, tense and radiating anxiety, was as beautiful and vital as ever, driving his beloved car with such confident assurance as he sped along the busy highway, taking every turn with skill. His jaw was set and he showed his teeth occasionally as he snarled invective at the other drivers whilst overtaking them effortlessly. Aziraphale, sweaty, clinging on beside him, felt the usual mixture of fear at the recklessness of his companion, and admiration at how daring he was, how very dashing. How utterly captivating, in fact.
Once they were well outside New York, Crowley had pulled the car over and suggested that they cloak the vehicle with a joint miracle, in the same way that they had protected Gabriel after he had arrived at the bookshop all those months ago.
Aziraphale had held his hand up, Crowley had taken it, and the angel had felt a frisson of electricity travel the full length of his arm. Their eyes had met, or at least Aziraphale had stared into those two rounds of darkened glass, and the vital light and dark of them had merged and mingled just as they had before, protecting the car and everyone in it from detection by any supernatural agency that might believe they had a cause to snoop.
The angel had felt his spirits lift at the sheer force of that fellow feeling, and had, for an optimistic moment, hoped that this venture might end in something other than disaster. This feeling had persisted until Crowley pulled his hand back, frowned, and turned his head away, his mouth a narrow line. Then his friend had peered over the shoulder furthest from Aziraphale as he jiggled the gearstick, muttering something to himself about people who drove on the wrong side of the road, as he scanned the freeway behind them seemingly impervious to any effect lingering from their moment of almost intimate connection.
When Crowley started the car again and pulled back into the stream of traffic, Aziraphale was dismayed to find that the awkward, charged and brittle silence settled back between them almost immediately.
They had driven for days. Aziraphale was no longer sure exactly where they were. The scenery was beautiful, but he hadn’t really been paying attention to the road signs, such was the level of his overthinking, and knowledge of the geography of this vast country had never been his strong point to begin with. Then, one evening, as the sun was setting in a blaze of searing colour, Jo had announced from the back seat that They were tired, and would anyone mind if the three of them stopped somewhere and rested for a night.
Crowley had acknowledged this request with a curt ‘Okay, then’, pulled over, consulted his phone, and announced that there was a hotel they could get to at some beauty spot or other only a few miles down the road.
Once they arrived, the Messiah was as fantastic with the hotel staff as They had been with every other human They had met on their travels so far. It didn’t matter who the person was, what gender, creed or colour, Jo got along with every one of them.
Each person that They spoke to stopped, then smiled, then lingered there, drawn-in, whatever it was that they had been about to do, to stay and chat. There was such an affability about Them, such a genuine air of interest in each individual as They asked Their questions, that it did not take long at all before everyone who was spoken to lit up and proceeded to talk happily about their lives, loves and enthusiasms. Some carried pain, or sadness, and Jo listened to that too, turning a sympathetic face, taking hands and giving hugs. It was wonderful to see, and made Aziraphale ashamed at his own perennial failure to make small talk unless it was about literature or music, and that was really Big Talk, when you thought about it.
Animals, too, appeared susceptible to the natural magnetism of this newly returned Child of God. Dogs and cats trotted up to be petted, pushing eager snouts into Their hands or winding round Their legs. Birds, too, were captivated, landing on Their shoulders, and taking food directly from Their hand.
After a while, Aziraphale began to form a suspicion that They were able to appear in whatever guise the person They were speaking with found most comfortable for them. Whatever lay at the root of Their charisma, it was clear that Jo was gathering a huge amount of information about humanity, whether They were speaking to a child, a businesswoman or a member of the wait staff at one of the little roadside cafés they had stopped at—Diners Crowley had said they were called. Aziraphale, after eating nothing for months, had really appreciated his apple pie à la mode, and Crowley his endless refills of strong black coffee.
Jo had smiled at the hotel receptionist, then back at the pair of beings behind Them as They explained that there were only two rooms available. They could have looked less happy about it, Aziraphale thought, as They advised himself and Crowley that there was a Convention on in the hotel Conference Centre, and all the other rooms were taken. Jo would take the single, They explained, a distinct twinkle in their eye, and the two of them could share. They had smiled extra widely as They concluded that this was, by far, the best arrangement and that as they were such good friends, they wouldn’t mind doing that for one night, would they?
It wasn’t really a question, just like all of Jo’s suggestions.
Aziraphale found himself smiling in return and saying, no of course not in the pleasantest voice that he could muster. Crowley merely grunted.
So here they were. Jo had retired to Their room saying They wanted to have a lie down. Aziraphale could have sworn that They winked at him as they parted company, but then thought that this was merely the product of his overheated imagination. Flustered, he had followed Crowley to the lift, then stood in silence next to his friend as they ascended to the sixth floor.
Of course they were in room 66. Crowley had almost smiled when he had seen it. Aziraphale had rolled his eyes and wished, for a moment, that he had never been created.
The problem was that he desperately wanted to make everything better, to mend the rift that had grown up between them after that last awful meeting in the bookshop.
Over the months they had been parted, Aziraphale had been doing a great deal of thinking and reevaluation, even as he wrestled with his new colleagues and the conundrum of keeping apocalyptic plans contained while he formulated his strategy to defeat them. The angel had gone over everything in his mind that had happened on that fateful morning repeatedly, and come to the conclusion that they were a pair of idiots.
It was plain to him in retrospect that they had both wanted the same thing—for the other to be safe. It was just that the solution that each of them had come up with was utterly unacceptable to the other. Crowley would not ever want to return to Heaven—why should he, after the way he had been treated? And Aziraphale was unable to countenance putting his own happiness before the welfare of others. If there was any chance of changing Heaven for the better, he could not, in good conscience, just turn away.
Still, Aziraphale wanted to make amends, to apologise to Crowley: for lumping him in with the bad guys, for asking him to change, for not kissing him back as enthusiastically as he might have done, for he had wanted to—oh he had wanted to—for so long.
He also still felt a little wounded at Crowley’s anger, and frightened that their old, easy friendship might have been damaged beyond repair. Most of all, he longed, as he had during the ill-fated Ball, to tell Crowley that he loved him, and that he wanted him exactly as he was.
Crowley turned away from the window and sauntered to the bed, taking off his sunglasses and tossing them on to one of the two nightstands that stood on either side of it. He glared across at Aziraphale, who lifted his chin, and glared back.
They stared at one another, the air charged between them.
Aziraphale could feel the prickling sensation that presaged tears beginning at the back of his eyes, and blinked furiously.
This was terrible. Aziraphale hated it, and he could tell that, in his own way, Crowley hated it too.
How to begin, though, that was the problem. How to break the impasse the two of them had become stuck in through both pride and obstinacy.
The angel reached into the depths of his misery, and found the most sincere emotion that he owned. Or perhaps it was the second most sincere, for love was at the very heart of what he was, after all.
Aziraphale had been so very lonely for so long, it seemed. Isolated in his pristine office surrounded by people who despised him and did not care enough about his good opinion to disguise the fact. He had longed, constantly, for his best friend, for the person he knew and loved the most.
“Crowley,” he managed, at last, his voice trembling a little, “I, I missed you.”
Crowley’s face softened instantly, all semblance of that carapace of careless arrogance that he assumed to protect himself melting away in a moment.
“I was so worried,” he said, his voice rough and clotted with emotion.
They almost ran together, hastening over the few necessary steps to reach each other.
Aziraphale opened his arms and Crowley almost jumped into his embrace with a small, inarticulate cry, wrapping his arms about the angel’s waist while Aziraphale held his back and shoulders and buried his hot face into the space beneath Crowley’s jaw.
Their voices mingled, as their essences had when they performed the miracle together, overlapping each other in an outpouring of feeling
“I’m sorry,” the angel mumbled against the skin of Crowley’s neck, “so sorry, about, about everything, I…”
“No,” said Crowley, holding him more tightly, “No, I’m sorry. Got so angry, shouldn’t have… have taken it out on you. Was so glad to get your note…”
“…I was immensely relieved when you replied…I didn’t mean to hurt you. It wasn’t us that won’t last for ever. It was the shop, I meant the shop, not you and me…”
“…Sorry about the nightingale thing, that was low. And… and I shouldn’t have called you an idiot. You’re not an idiot—well you are, ‘course you are—but only in the way that you’re idiotically brave wanting to change things…”
“I’m not brave, not really,” said Aziraphale, pulling away slightly so that he could look into Crowley’s face. Those golden eyes he loved so much glowed, pupils blown, they scanned his face intently as Aziraphale continued speaking.
”But I would like to try to be—brave, I mean—with you.”
“Yeah…Yeah, me too,” said Crowley, his voice low and sincere. “Don’t want to run away, not any more. Want to see it through with you. I fucked up, angel. I wanted to tell you that I, uh, well…”
He pulled Aziraphale very close, speaking against the angel’s ear. Aziraphale could feel the heat of Crowley’s skin against his cheek as he spoke, feel the slight rasp of stubble and smell the deeply compelling scent of the man he loved. It was so wonderful, being held, he thought he might faint from the joy of it.
“Go on,” he whispered, “what was it you wanted to tell me?”
“That, that I love you,” said Crowley, all in a rush. He sighed, gently, and shifted, rubbing the rough satin of his skin against Aziraphale’s jaw, then went on again more slowly. “I lost my nerve, though, said all that stuff about bloody Gabriel and Beelzebub when I wanted to tell you that you…You are what I want.”
“Oh Crowley,” said Aziraphale, moving his head back to gaze at his dearest friend, his love, then lifted a shaking hand to cup the warmth of Crowley’s cheek. “I had planned to say that very thing to you after our dance that night, but I didn’t get the chance. I do love you. I’ve loved you since the wall.”
“What wall?’
“The Garden wall, silly.”
Crowley looked confused.
“Which gar—Oh… Oh! You mean that Garden, the first one.”
“Yes. That one, Eden. You were kind…”
“That was sarcasm, angel…”
“You were still kind, and I trusted you. That was when it happened. I never did feel quite the same, afterwards. And when I got to know you properly, I’m afraid the affliction just got worse.”
“Affliction, eh?” said Crowley, smiling down at him, tenderly, “yeah, I was afflicted too. When you told me you’d given that sword away… Well, I was a goner. Couldn’t believe it.”
“Me neither, darling—I can call you darling now, can’t I?’
“Suppose I’ll get used to it.”
Aziraphale moved his thumb gently over the soft skin of Crowley’s cheek.
“I hope you do. I hope we have time for that.” He looked anxiously up into that dear face he knew so well, noted the soft expression in his beloved’s eyes, then carried on, more confidently now.
“I need you to know that I don’t want you to change, I love you as you are. I was so worried that you would think that, when it was purely that I had to ask. He had offered it, and I had to put it to you. It wasn’t my place to say no on your behalf.”
“You’re sure I’m what you want? Me, a former demon?”
“Of course I’m sure. And you’re my Crowley, not one of the bad guys, not at all. I misspoke when I said that, and I was sorry as soon as the stupid words came out of my mouth.”
“I guessed that, angel. You’d had a pretty bad day, all in all.”
“Thank you dear. But don’t you see? I wouldn’t have put up with you for all those years if I didn’t like you. Dear heart, of course I like you! That’s almost more important than loving you. Almost. And I can do both, you know, I am an angel!”
“So you are. And I… I like you that way. You wouldn’t be you if you didn’t want to try to help, and I was wrong expecting you to give up the chance of that, I see that now.”
“Oh my dearest. It broke my heart to leave you, but we’re here now.”
“Yeah, we’re here. One thing, though, I really do regret,” said Crowley, giving Aziraphale a squeeze. “That kiss…”
“Oh,” said Aziraphale, disappointed, suddenly, despite the burgeoning joy he was feeling at Crowley’s unexpected declaration and the chance that it had given him to make one of his own and share the burden of his heart.
“Did you not…?” he was beginning, when Crowley interrupted him.
“No, no, it’s not that. I’ve wanted to for ages. But it was a, a mistake—to do it like that—and I’m sorry. I wanted it to be more like… This.”
He drew Aziraphale closer to him gently, and bent his head. “This alright?” he whispered.
Aziraphale, aware that his eyes had widened and were now fixed on the temptation that was Crowley’s beautiful, trembling, red-lipped mouth, nodded rapidly.
“Okay,” breathed Crowley, and brought their mouths together.
It was gentle, so gentle, this time. Crowley’s lips were warm and supple. The two of them clung together, lips to lips, hardly moving for a space, then they were kissing furiously, hot mouths open, devouring each other with a hunger that spoke of thousands of years of pent-up longing suddenly released.
“Oh golly!” said Aziraphale, when they finally pulled apart. “That was… Ooh, that was… Do it again, Crowley… please—if, if you want, that is,” he said, breathlessly.
“Oh, I want, angel,” Crowley said, “I definitely want,” before he pulled Aziraphale to him once again.
“You ever tried sleeping, angel?”
It was much later, darkness had fallen properly now, only the hum of distant traffic and the higher note of chirping crickets nearby disturbed the silence of their shared room.
The two of them lay together where they had toppled over in an ungainly tangle of arms and legs on the comfortable expanse of the divan bed whilst continuing to kiss, enthusiastically.
Aziraphale lay with his head on Crowley’s chest, listening to the steady beat of his heart, while his love let foraging fingers stray restlessly through his curls. The angel, unused to being touched, had been reduced by this caress to an almost meditative state, body lax in blissful pleasure. He roused himself sufficiently to raise his head a little to catch the yellow glint of Crowley’s eyes in the low light of their room.
“I did, a very long time ago,” he said, in answer to Crowley’s question, “but I was given to understand that it was a dereliction of my duty—quite forcibly at the time, I seem to remember…”
“Gabriel?” queried Crowley.
“The very same,” confirmed Aziraphale, with a grimace. “I never dared risk it again, just in case, you see.”
Crowley stroked his hair again, and held him closer.
“I did have the odd lie down from time to time, when the nights were cold in the bookshop. I would put on a lovely old nightshirt I bought in Paris in the seventeen-hundreds, wrap myself in an eiderdown, and read, mostly. And um…” Aziraphale could not help his voice from becoming smaller, less certain. “… I used to think about you—sometimes, when the novel I was reading was particularly romantic—I dreamed of this, in fact. Holding you—or being held. Either, really, seemed like a marvellous thing to get to do. I am, I must confess, a very foolish old angel.”
“Course you are,” said Crowley, fondly.” He paused, and his voice, too became a little uncertain. “Might have had similar thoughts myself, from time to time…”
Aziraphale raised his head. “You thought about me?”
“Might have…”
Aziraphale raised an enquiring eyebrow.
“Okay, okay. Sometimes, yeah. When I hadn’t seen you for a while. Used to miss you, if I’m honest.”
“Ah yes,” said Aziraphale, resting his head against Crowley’s warm and bony chest again, to hear the reassuring rhythm of the precious heart within. He dared a little nuzzle to that lovely neck, feeling again the rasp of stubble there, and tightened his arm about Crowley’s waist. “I was very much the same. It was always so very good to see you when we did meet up again.”
They lay there, holding each other, as the implication of what they had both confessed to sank in. Aziraphale tuned out every sound other than the gentle beat of Crowley’s breaths alongside his own, and under his ear, still, the reassuring double throb of the biggest, kindest heart in the universe, as far as he was concerned. His perfectly imperfect love was in his arms at last.
Aziraphale was simply happy, the angel could hardly believe his good fortune.
“What was it you were getting at dear, with your original question,” he said, finally.
“Uh, yeah, sleeping,” said Crowley, “It’s just that—look, this is great, really terrific—but I’m shattered after all the driving and everything. I know that technically neither of us needs to sleep, but this old Fallen Angel has got used to a good—well—ten hours a night, usually, if I’m honest. Could do with a kip, now we’ve got the use of a bed. And who knows when that one…”
He indicated the room across the hall with a sharp jerk of his head, where presumably, the Messiah was doing whatever inscrutable thing constituted rest for Them.
“…will want to stop again. Was wondering if you might consider joining me. But if you’re not in the habit of it…” he tailed off.
“Oh,” said Aziraphale, propping himself up on an elbow. “I would love that, if you would like to. Even if I don’t sleep, it would be wonderful to get a little rest. And to hold you, if I might. As I said, it is something I have thought of, often.”
“Right,” said Crowley, sounding flustered, “Yeah, that would be… Yeah, me too, er, nice—I mean—yeah, great. Think I’ll just…”
Aziraphale sat up, amused, while Crowley hurriedly disentangled his legs and did likewise, his face colouring rapidly. Crowley pointed at the door of their tiny ensuite bathroom, then swung his long legs off the bed and proceeded to walk unsteadily towards it.
“… going to get changed. Like my pyjamas when I’m sleeping.”
“Oh yes,” said Aziraphale, flustered himself now, at the idea of undressing, “Um, very proper. I would do the same, but I fear I did not prepare for such an occasion. Ah well,” he sighed, “I suppose I will just have to miracle myself a pair, not the same as human made, of course. I can always feel my own magic in a sense…”
Crowley was turning as Aziraphale was speaking. He snapped his fingers, and a set of brushed cotton pyjamas in Aziraphale’s personal tartan flopped on to the bed.
“There you go, angel.”
“Oh!” said Aziraphale, blushing with sudden pleasure. “Thank you, darling. So kind. Don’t make that awful face at me. You are, my dearest, as I have always said.”
Crowley made a dismissive noise, then turned back, reaching to open the bathroom door.
“If you say so, angel. I’ll be back in a minute.”
Aziraphale merely tutted in response, and picked up the pyjamas.
“Very well, dear. See you soon.”
Crowley rolled his eyes at this and stepped into the ensuite.
Smiling at his partner’s unexpected modesty, and his own—they had seen each other naked before, in Rome, for example, at the baths, perhaps it was the novelty of the situation that had rendered both of them so shy—Aziraphale undressed carefully and put on his miracled pyjamas.
The material was soft, the fit perfect. The angel spent a happy moment, eyes brimming, considering the thoughtfulness of his Crowley: that he knew his size and his preferences, that he could perform this simple task to such perfection. He sighed, contentedly, and climbed into the right side of the bed, divining, accurately, that Crowley would opt instinctively for the sinister side of their place of rest, as he usually did whenever they stood or sat together.
It wasn’t long before Crowley, fragrant and handsome in a pair of black silk pyjamas, emerged from the bathroom. His face was flushed, still, his smile almost shy.
“Hope you don’t hog all the covers,” he said, his voice deliberately careless, “you look the type.”
“Get in, you terrible fellow,” said Aziraphale, drawing back the comforter and patting the expanse of mattress at the side of him.
Crowley did as he was bidden, blushing properly now, his eyes fully golden from one side to the other. Aziraphale opened his arms and Crowley fell against him. He wriggled, snakelike, until he had found a comfortable position, tousled head resting against Aziraphale’s left shoulder, sinewy legs tangled with the angel’s stouter, softer ones. Aziraphale cradled his love, placing a kiss into his hair, and felt Crowley relax, becoming boneless in his arms. He marvelled for a moment at where he now found himself, then settled back comfortably into the mound of pillows he had propped against the headboard.
“Sleep, my darling,” he said, fondly, to his armful of former demon, “I will watch over you. Then tomorrow, we can face whatever the day brings, together.”
“Together,” mumbled Crowley, indistinctly, “Like the sound of that.”
He yawned, hugely, and nuzzled in to the softness of Aziraphale’s chest.
“Night, angel.”
“Goodnight, dear. And dream of whatever you like best.”
“That’ll be you then.”
“You old charmer.”
“That’s me.”
Aziraphale reached over to the nightstand and turned off the lamp.
Crowley, soft and lovely in his arms, drifted into sleep.
When Crowley woke, as he swam up from the depths of sleep, he believed for just a few seconds that he was still dreaming.
He was warm. He revelled in it, stretching out his legs and groaning gently as the spine of his corporation creaked and popped. His head was resting on something that was at once both soft and solid. Crowley opened his eyes a crack to find a pair of blue-green eyes regarding him with an expression that was distinctly affectionate, and amused. His head was resting on one of the angel’s luscious thighs, his arms wrapped around both of those thighs in something of a death grip. He relaxed his arms and continued squinting up at the face of his angel, half thinking he was still asleep.
“Good morning, darling!” chirped Aziraphale.
Crowley groaned again, more loudly this time. Of course Aziraphale would be a morning person….
Aziraphale.
Crowley opened his eyes wider, and lifted his head.
He was in bed with Aziraphale.
The events of the previous evening came back to him in fits and starts. Memories returned of being held as if he was precious, of kisses and being told that he was loved. Something warm and fuzzy started up in his chest as he recollected their night in its entirety, making him smile widely almost despite himself.
“You still respect me in the morning, then?” he rasped out, aiming for flippancy and managing only to sound hopeful. He swallowed. This was pitiful.
“Of course I do.”
Aziraphale was no better than him, his voice open and sincere. Crowley felt himself relax a little.
“I love you, you silly. Even more than I did yesterday, if anything. Holding you was everything I hoped it would be,” the angel went on, dreamily.
Crowley snuggled in.
“Might have known you’d be disgustingly sentimental,” he said to Aziraphale’s thigh, and squeezed it gently to take the sting out of his words.
“What were you expecting? You have met me, haven’t you?”
The teasing was reassuring, a drop of normality in this shifting sea of novelty. Not that much had changed, even if everything was different. Crowley realised all at once that he could have this now, the fun of teasing, bickering, the intellectual engagement of debate with an equal, but also loving kisses, being held, being wanted for himself.
Crowley had always hoped Aziraphale might one day desire him as much as he himself craved the angel. Now he had what he had been searching for: the certainty of being loved.
The two of them were, undoubtedly, in a very tricky situation. But knowing he was cared for, necessary to the very person that he loved was like a shot in the arm to the perennially optimistic Crowley.
Together they might do anything—or have a go, at least. And if they were to fail, they would always have had this, and it had been worth it—all the waiting and the sacrifices they had both made—Crowley was very sure of that.
He hoped they didn’t fail. For if they were to, somehow, save the world again, then it was possible that they might be able to have this, this great love, for ever. And that was most definitely a prize worth fighting for.
He buried his face in the softness of Aziraphale’s belly, and felt the angel stroking his hair with gentle fingers.
“Love you, angel,” he muttered into the abundance of tender flesh. Aziraphale kept on stroking, running his nails over Crowley’s scalp and making him shiver slightly with the pleasure of it.
“And I love you too, my own heart’s darling,” came the reply, in the warm, lower register of the angel’s voice, intimate and truly loving.
“Now,” Aziraphale went on, shifting down the bed a little, “I think we should have a morning cuddle…”
Crowley tried groaning again, but he was smiling widely, and his heart wasn’t really in it.
“… then I would be very pleased if we could find ourselves some breakfast. I am most definitely in the mood for some of those waffle things. With some lovely maple syrup, and, ah, blueberries, I think, would do quite nicely.”
Crowley continued grinning against the soft fabric of the angel’s pyjama jacket at this example of Aziraphale at his most Aziraphalean. The former demon found that he couldn’t have been happier if he tried.
“I think we can manage that, angel,” he said, raising his head. “But first, what was it that you were saying about cuddling?”
After breakfast in another diner, just a few miles along the road from the hotel (Jo had wanted waffles too. And bacon), it was a happy trio that resumed their seats inside the faithful Bentley.
Crowley could not help noticing that his back seat passenger was looking particularly smug that morning. They kept glancing at the pair of them and smiling to Themself as if They had pulled off some extraordinary feat that made Them unusually proud. He had asked Them how They were and They had responded in that strange accentless accent of Theirs that They had Never been better, thank you for asking.
Crowley had his suspicions, about the whole ‘stopping at a hotel’ for the night suggestion the Messiah had made. And the ‘only one room’ situation that had succeeded it. It was quite likely that They had become tired of sitting in the strained atmosphere within the car and decided to intervene. He couldn’t blame Them, not really, even if it did rankle a little, Divine Intervention not being his favourite subject, for obvious reasons. It wasn’t as if he was unhappy with the result. He had got what he wanted, they both had. And it was very likely that, without that little push, the pair of them would still be stewing there, side by side, in misery as the beauty of America opened up before them.
Later on, when Jo was looking around a car showroom, of all things—I should like to drive a sports car, very much. Perhaps I will buy one at some point—Crowley had drawn Aziraphale aside. The angel had been quick to take Crowley’s hand into the keeping of his own and had beamed at Crowley with obvious love and gratitude at having a little time alone together. He even went up on tiptoe to kiss Crowley’s cheek, blushing afterwards quite fetchingly, and lowering his lashes. Crowley found himself vowing to find a bloody good hotel, if they both survived whatever was going to happen next, book a room, and keep his angel in bed for a good few weeks. He sensed Aziraphale would be easy to tempt with that suggestion. There had been heat in both his eyes and his kisses the previous night. Once they were both less on edge, anything would probably be on the table (and the bed, and any number of other pieces of furniture, if Crowley had his way).
He could hardly wait.
In the meantime, he leaned in to speak to his very significant other.
“You know,” he said, indicating the Messiah with a wave of his free hand, where They were marvelling at an enormous sky-blue coupé with white walled tyres, “I’ve been thinking. What if They planned it this way, all along?”
“You and me, you mean?” said Aziraphale, his eyes twinkling as he returned Crowley’s gaze.
Crowley nodded.
“Hmmm,” said Aziraphale, frowning slightly as he thought about this, “I wouldn’t put it past Them.” he said, finally, after some consideration. “It’s just the sort of thing They might do. Do you mind?”
Crowley squeezed his angel’s hand, then leaned in to kiss his cheek.
“Not at all, my angel…”
“…Not at all.”