Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“You can’t be serious,” Aziraphale protests when Gabriel pushes a riding crop and gloves into his hands without ceremony.

“Come on, Az,” Gabriel claps him on the shoulder, not noticing Aziraphale’s flinch. “I know it’s not really your ‘thing’, but it’ll be fun! I know a good hunt always gets my blood pumping, haha!” He gestures toward the far end of the manicured lawn where the stableboys are obediently leading horses out for Gabriel and his guests.

“I’m sure,” Aziraphale’s lip curls in distaste. He holds the riding implements in front of himself like they might burst into flames at any moment if he isn’t careful. “I simply don’t understand why you want me to go. You know I’ve always been rubbish at this sort of thing.”

Gabriel’s smile dims a little. His near-violet eyes grow imploring. “I know that, Az. It’s just… I’m getting married at the end of the week. Is it so bad that I want my littlest brother around to celebrate? Sandalphon is coming, too. It’s, y’know, family bonding! Live a little!”

While the prospect of being dragged around on horseback by a pack of slavering dogs sounds no more pleasant for the addition of Sandalphon, Aziraphale’s heart still wrenches miserably in his chest. He’s being awfully selfish, isn’t he? He sighs. “Very well. Have it your way.”

“Atta boy!” Gabriel’s grins with his perfect teeth, looking an awful lot like the cat who’d just caught the canary. “Fifteen minutes! Don’t be late!” Gabriel strides away then, confident and laughing as a group of guests immediately latch on to him, talking over each other in the hopes of earning just a scrap of his attention.

“Dear oh dear,” comes a painfully familiar drawl from behind himself. “It seems you’ve been duped, angel.”

“Crowley!” Aziraphale whirls, brightening in an instant when he sees the angular frame of Anthony Crowley, who cuts a striking figure in his fashionably tailored clothes and dark-lensed glasses. “What are you doing here?”

Crowley arches an amused brow. “What else? Bee’s getting married. To Gabriel Worthington, no less. Had to show up to see for myself it was really true.”

“Ah, yes,” Aziraphale nods sympathetically. “I forget you and Lady Beatrice are cousins.”

“So does she.” Spotting something over Aziraphale’s shoulder, Crowley snorts. “Oh look, speak of the Devil.”

Aziraphale turns and sees Bee marching proudly across the lawn in trousers, head held high, imperious despite her small stature. He hums curiously. “That’s rather progressive of Gabriel. He wouldn’t normally go in for that sort of thing, letting a woman ride with him on a hunt.”

Crowley laughs short and sharp. “Trust me, Gabriel isn’t letting Bee do anything. That’s why dear Uncle Lucien despaired of ever finding her a match, you know. Too headstrong, our Bee. Makes me wonder how long ickle Gabey will last.” There’s the faintest trace of amber glittering behind his glasses, like that of a lioness’ eyes as she lies in wait on the savanna.

As they watch, Bee swings herself up onto a horse and kicks into its side with the heel of her boot, spurring it towards Gabriel. She shouts something down to him and he grins, the chattering group of noblemen and trading partners surrounding him momentarily forgotten.

“Blech,” Crowley pulls a face. “Look at that. He’s disgustingly besotted.”

Aziraphale shushes him. “I think it’s rather sweet.”

“Of course you do,” replies Crowley, something suspiciously like fondness creeping into his voice. “You’re an angel.”

Aziraphale flushes at the other’s use of the blasphemous nickname. “You know very well I’m no such thing.”

Crowley opens his mouth, no doubt to argue that point, but he’s cut off by Gabriel’s call. “Az! Let’s go!”

Donning the pair of riding gloves, Aziraphale sighs. “I suppose I’ll be seeing you later, dear boy. But for now,” he slaps the crop illustratively against his hand, “I bid you adieu.”

“Oi, not so fast. What did you think I was wearing riding clothes for?” Crowley asks, keeping pace easily with him. Despite the unevenness of Aziraphale’s limping stride, there’s a regal quality to it, the remnants of the soldier he’d once been still apparent if one cared to look. “Some of Bee’s people are coming along, too,” Crowley continues. “Not that many, since there’ll be more arrivals as the week goes on, but she wanted me and her brother—you remember Hastur—to come along on the hunt. Dagon might show up, too. But uh, yep, there’s Hastur now.”

 “I see,” Aziraphale says diplomatically, though he can’t help but stare at the gaunt hollow-eyed fellow mechanically checking over his horse’s tack. He turns back to Crowley. “Are you looking forward to the hunt, then?”

“Not remotely,” Crowley replies. “You know how I feel about horses.”

“Hard on your buttocks, yes, I know,” says Aziraphale, a twinkle of amusement in his eye.

“Think my suffering is funny, do you?” asks Crowley, taking the reins of a tall black mare from the disgruntled stableboy. She champs at the bit a little, trying to jerk her head out of his reach. Crowley lowers his glasses just enough to glare at her with his yellow-amber eyes. “Give it a rest,” he snaps.

“Oh, don’t be such a big brute,” Aziraphale chides him. “Here, let me.” He snags hold of the mare’s bridle, making shushing noises and petting her nose. Then he reaches into a pocket of his camelhair coat and pulls out a fistful of oats, which the horse eagerly scarfs down. “There’s a love, Bentley.”

“You—what?” Crowley splutters. “You just walk around with horse food in your pocket? Why?”

“In case I need to feed any horses. Obviously.”

“Obviously.” Crowley repeats, voice high and mocking, though it lacks any venom.

Aziraphale only gives him a warm smile in response. “It is a little tricky when they’ve got a bit in, but they manage. Here, why don’t you give her some? The last thing you need is to take a little tumble because she decides to buck.”

Crowley clears his throat, the only hint at his nervousness. “Will she do that?”

“Not if you bribe her,” Aziraphale winks, pouring a bunch of oats into Crowley’s hand. “Go on, then.”

Still dubious, Crowley thrusts out his hand at the horse. “Eat up, uh, Bentley,” he encourages it. She snuffles warily at the oats, then scoops up the handful in her teeth, chewing messily. “Ugh,” Crowley wrinkles his nose as he wipes his palm off on his trousers, thankful to at least be wearing gloves. He grabs the saddle horn and, after making sure she won’t suddenly skirt to the side out from under him, swings himself up to his seat. Bentley nickers softly, almost like she’s laughing at him.

“You’ll want to give her a good amount of rein,” Aziraphale advises. “She doesn’t do well with riders who are overly controlling. That’s why Gabriel’s never much liked her.”

Crowley gapes down at him. “Then how the deuce am I meant to control her?”

“The same as you might normally, just use a lighter touch.”

“Mr. Fell? Your horse, sir,” the stableboy hands over the reins of Aziraphale’s horse, Helios, a golden palomino with a white blaze from his muzzle to his forehead.  

“Thank you kindly, Elijah,” Aziraphale says. He runs a steady hand over Helios’ neck, brushing over his white mane. “Easy does it,” he soothes. Then, he places his left foot in the stirrup, counts to three in his mind, and heaves himself clumsily upright, swinging his right leg over the horse’s back with a pained grunt.

“Alright?” Crowley asks him, clearly concerned.

“Tickety-boo, my dear,” Aziraphale reassures him, though he is a little out of breath. “Hardly felt a thing.”

Crowley looks doubtful about that but ultimately acquiesces. The pack of foxhounds have been released, watched closely by the huntmaster and the whippers-in, and then the leads of the pack stiffen, becoming particularly intent on an elm tree amidst the underbrush. “Looks like they’ve caught a line!” the huntmaster yells to the assembled.

Sharing a panicked look, Aziraphale and Crowley rush to join the rear of the gathered party.

Gabriel, who can be surprisingly attentive when he wants to be, notices this and approaches them on horseback. “Aziraphale! Mr. Crowley! Glad you could finally join us. We were about to leave without you! Mr. Crowley, you can be part of either flight as you prefer, and Az, you’ll be our hilltopper. Any objections?”

“None whatsoever,” Crowley says. Aziraphale nods vigorously beside him.

“Great!” With that, Gabriel trots away up toward the baying pack of hounds and the first flight of riders, taking his place next to Bee.

Crowley, rather than guiding Bentley to join with one of the flights as instructed, stays right beside Aziraphale.

“Aren’t you going to go?” Aziraphale asks. Being a hilltopper is awfully boring, meant for the elderly or children, or those with horses unused to hunts. It should be insulting, having been relegated to it, but Aziraphale supposes it was Gabriel’s way of being considerate. It allows Aziraphale to take part in the hunt but doesn’t force him to do anything too strenuous.

“No,” Crowley shrugs easily. “You’ve seen one foxhunt, you’ve seen them all. “Besides,” he pats Bentley’s shoulder, much to her displeasure, “even if she’s not green to hunting, I’m green to riding her. Wouldn’t want to get thrown, now, would I?”

Aziraphale wiggles delightedly in his saddle. “Well, when you put it like that, I don’t think anyone could possibly object.”

Thus decided, they set off after the rest of the hunting party, not at all concerned with keeping pace with the hounds so long as they keep the last flight of riders in sight. 

The grounds of Worthington Estate are best-kept close to the manor proper, but further out it becomes something wilder. A forest rings the property, and a few hills provide decently challenging slopes for horse and rider alike to traverse. In the northeast corner of the grounds, the curve of a river has carved gently into the earth, attractive to all sorts of game throughout the year. 

“Say, Aziraphale,” says Crowley after a little while, once the clamor of the hunt has receded some. “I managed to snag a few tickets to, er, one of those musical theatre performances at the Gaiety. It’s meant to be an English adaptation of Coquin de Printemps. Would you care to accompany me?”

Aziraphale looks at him, intrigued, but Crowley remains focused intently on the trampled underbrush before them. “That sounds like a wonderful idea, dear fellow. When are they for?”

“Once we get back to London, I thought. It’s next Friday at seven o’clock in the evening, if that’s alright?”

“Absolutely perfect. I haven’t got anything else planned for that day, I don’t think.”

“Will you open the shop?”

Aziraphale hums thoughtfully. “If I do, I’ll certainly close it early.”

“Such a shame,” Crowley teases, bringing Bentley a little closer to Aziraphale. “You’d really deprive your customers of the pleasure of being turned out on their ear for looking at a first edition Shelley the wrong way? How else are they meant to spend their Friday afternoon?”

“I am sure they’ll find a way to cope,” Aziraphale sniffs, although a smile pulls at his mouth. When Crowley makes fun of his poor business practices and misanthropic tendencies, he never means it the way the rest of his family often does. There’s never any disappointment in his words, nor even a whiff of criticism. All Crowley seems to be capable of expressing is a great fondness for him, one that Aziraphale tries very hard not to think about most days.

With the chill of November air biting at the apples of his cheeks and ruffling through the pale curls sticking out from beneath the brim of his hat, it encourages them closer together. Breath spills from their mouths in gusts of white as they laugh and natter on about nothing particularly important: Crowley’s most recent business ventures and Aziraphale’s plans for a summer trip to Germany to see a collector there about some new acquisitions.

“Hey, angel?” Crowley asks after a while of this, straightening up in his seat. “Do you hear that?”

Aziraphale turns back to the road and listens intently for any sound out of the ordinary. “No, I don’t hear anything.”

“Exactly,” Crowley frowns. “Have we lost them?”

“Oh dear. It would seem so,” says Aziraphale. He purses his lips. Gabriel wouldn’t be very happy about this, he’s sure. Hilltopping is such an easy job compared to what the rest of the hunters in the party would be doing, and yet he’d managed to bungle it anyway. The years-old injury in his leg twinges painfully, almost accusing.

Crowley catches on to his shifting mood, adopting a more serious expression. “Do you want to try and catch up? Or do you think we should call it quits, head back to the house?”

“They can’t be that far off, can they?” Aziraphale asks, more to himself than to Crowley. “Let’s try and find them.”

Crowley doesn’t argue, instead deferring to his judgment. “Right-o, angel. Lead on.”

Determined now, Aziraphale delivers a firm kick to Helios’ side. “On, boy.” Helios jolts into a canter, though he warms quickly to a full-fledged gallop. The sound of hooves digging into earth behind him assures him that Crowley is following closely. The rocking of the horse beneath him, all sinew and power barely contained, makes him shift in the saddle. He leans over Helios’ head, adjusts his grip with his knees, and gives him a little more rein. “Faster!” he cries.

They tear through the underbrush together and thunder down an uneven path, one of those trails forged by deer and other large game. The rushing of water becomes louder in his ears. The river must be nearby, which may cover up the sound of the hunters. If that was the case, they ought to get back up to high ground, see if they could track down the party in that manner instead.

All of Aziraphale’s musing is swept from his mind when he sees a flash of red in the bushes. “Woah there!” he reins Helios in, not harshly enough to hurt him, mind, but they come to a swift halt regardless.

Crowley pulls Bentley to a somewhat clumsier stop, much to her annoyance and his chagrin. “Aziraphale? What’s—”

“Shh,” Aziraphale holds up a hand, intent upon the bush just ahead and to his right at the base of a towering pine. Muffling his grunt of pain, he dismounts and lands heavily on the ground, having to lean briefly against Helios’ side for support. “I thought I… saw something,” he murmurs. He hopes it wasn’t his imagination, or he shall feel quite silly about these dramatics later.

Then, like a creature straight out of one of the fairy stories he’s still so fond of, a bright red fox leaps out from the foliage. It stares at him a moment with intelligent eyes, dark and fathomless, before sitting back on its haunches and beginning to daintily lick at one of its paws.

“My word,” Aziraphale breathes. “Aren’t you a lovely thing?”

“Hey, you did it! Nice job, angel.”

“Did what?”

“You won the hunt! In spirit, anyway. Thing must’ve looped back around on ‘em.”

“Don’t be ridiculous, dear fellow. This couldn’t possibly be the same fox they’re hunting.” He looks at Crowley fearfully. “Could it?”

Crowley shrugs, a little uneasy. “Maybe. Maybe not. Uh,” he can hear them now, the baying of the hounds having caught the line, the far-off shouts of men coming closer. “Leaning more towards yeah, that’s definitely the same fox.”

“Oh. Oh dear,” says Aziraphale. “Shoo! Shoo, I say!” he approaches the fox, making frantic sweeping motions to scare it off, to buy it a little more time, but it just cants its head quizzically. “Go on!” He stomps closer to it, and the thing takes a few meandering steps back, idly swishing its tail, but then it goes no further. “Please, won’t you go?” Aziraphale implores it, as if it might understand his spoken words.

The fox prances a little way away, between a few bushes and beyond them, but it doesn’t flee like it needs to if it wants to outrun the pack of intent tracking hounds.

Crowley rolls his eyes. Aziraphale would never get it to move just carrying on like that, and despite his own indifference to the creature itself, he doesn’t think he’d be able to withstand seeing the other man go all weepy eyed as the dogs shredded it to bits. With a resigned sigh, he slides from the saddle and hefts a sizeable rock, tossing it up in the air and catching it a few times to get a feel for its weight. Then he hurls it at full speed, satisfied by the heavy thunk as it lands in the dirt just to the left of the fox.

This does have the intended effect, of course. The fox bolts, leaping gracefully away and scurrying out of sight in just a few moments.

What Crowley had not accounted for, however, was the noise startling Aziraphale as much as it does, for him to jerk up and stumble away, clutching at his leg after putting weight on it unexpectedly. He does not expect Aziraphale to fall, an aborted “Crowl—!” spilling from his lips, nor the splash of a body as it plunges into the icy river below.

The river.

“Buggering fuck!” Crowley bites out, already sprinting over to where Aziraphale had fallen from. It’s very well hidden, the drop. You’d only see it if you were already on top of it. “Aziraphale!” Crowley shouts. Ripples flow outward from the still-frothing point of contact, a burst of bubbles rising from its center. The river isn’t fast flowing, but Crowley knows full well how much Aziraphale’s old war wound still bothers him, no matter how hard the fool tries to hide it.

He’s preparing to dive in after Aziraphale just as he finally surfaces, coughing and spluttering and… standing, his chest and head sticking easily out of the water with no need to tread. His hat has vanished, carried off somewhere by the current, and his usually fluffy curls are matted flat to his scalp.

“Aziraphale?” Crowley asks weakly. “Are you alright?”

Aziraphale spits out some river water before laughing, high-pitched. “I think so. Although, if you could help me to my horse, I’d be ever so grateful.”

“Yes! Of course.” Scrambling over the craggy root-knotted earth down to the river’s bank, Crowley reaches out to haul Aziraphale the rest of the way to shore.

“Ah!” Aziraphale yelps, wrenching his hand out of Crowley’s grip to clutch his hand against his chest protectively.

“Sssorry,” Crowley hisses, now caught between wanting to help and not knowing if he’d just make things worse by doing so. “You’re hurt.”

Aziraphale exhales shakily. “I’m sure I’ll be fine.” Tugging the leather riding glove off, he carefully examines his right hand, twisting it this way and that. There’s no outward sign of injury, but the more he focuses on it, the more it burns. It doesn’t stop burning. In fact, it looks like it’s already beginning to swell. “Oh dear,” he laughs nervously. “Must be a sprain.”

“Are you sure?” Crowley asks. He holds out an expectant palm, and after a moment Aziraphale places his hand gingerly into Crowley’s. Gently, Crowley strokes a gloved thumb over the burning skin, expression darkening when Aziraphale tries and fails to stifle a whimper. He releases Aziraphale at once. “When we get back to the manor, I’ll send for a doctor. In the meantime, try not to move it overly much. I’m worried it might be, er, worse than a sprain.”

Aziraphale nods. “Whatever you think is best, dear.” The pain seems to be worsening with every passing moment. He feels lightheaded, woozy.

Just then, the hunting party crashes through the trees, chasing after the pack of a few dozen barking dogs. Gabriel spots them down below by the river’s edge and draws back from the rest of the group, letting them go on and promising Bee he’ll catch up soon. She rolls her eyes. “If we catch it and you miss out because you’d rather play babysitter, I’m never letting you live it down.” And then she rides on.

Gabriel waves at the two men in greeting, calling down to them, “Aziraphale, you’re soaking wet! What on Earth were you two doing?”

Crowley looks at Aziraphale for guidance, but the other man flushes and shakes his head imperceptibly. No telling about the fox, then. “Azir—uh. Mr. Fell’s been hurt. I’m taking him back to the manor to get him seen to. I think he’ll need a doctor.”

Gabriel sighs, harsh and disappointed. The sound makes Aziraphale flinch, though he knows Gabriel must not mean it to hurt. “Fine. Best be quick about it. Just ask Ms. Potts to get him cleaned up and fetch someone for him. She’ll know what to do.” With that, Gabriel kicks his horse into a canter, off to catch up with the rest of the hunt.

It’s then that Crowley notices the trembling in Aziraphale’s injured leg. He’s always on him about getting a cane, anything to ease his going, but Aziraphale had always staunchly refused. Crowley isn’t sure what to do now without a park bench or bookshop couch to surreptitiously direct him towards under the guise of wanting to rest his own legs. He supposes the best bet would be one of the horses, but mounting one would surely present a whole new host of challenges.

Panicking now but trying not to alarm Aziraphale, Crowley carefully leads him back up the path back to where they’d left the horses. Helios had wandered a bit, but Bentley had stayed put, surprisingly. She tosses her head and scrapes a hoof against the ground with an impatient snort.

“Helios,” Crowley calls Aziraphale’s horse. The palomino swings its head up to stare at him, unimpressed. “Come on,” groans Crowley. “Work with me here. Can’t you see your master’s hurt?”

“It isn’t as bad as all that. Honestly,” Aziraphale protests, though his voice is high and thick with the effort of holding back tears.

Crowley shrugs. “We’ll see,” is all he says.

Bentley nickers at Helios then, and the palomino comes trotting over somewhat reluctantly. Aziraphale approaches him, gets his left foot into the stirrup, then grasps the saddle horn with his uninjured hand. One, two, three, he says in his mind, then pushes up with his bad leg.

It’s even more clumsy flailing than usual, and in an effort to keep himself from toppling headlong over the side of the horse, he instinctively grabs on to the saddle with his other hand, the newly hurt one. He isn’t quick enough to stop a pained shout from escaping him, though he immediately stifles it behind clenched teeth.

“Are you going to be alright to make the trip?” asks Crowley, concern etched into the lines of his face. “I can get some people out here, get a splint for you at least.” He grips Aziraphale’s knee tightly, a grounding force for him even if he doesn’t realize it.

Aziraphale takes a deep breath and lets it out. “Thank you kindly for your concern, but I assure you, I’m fine,” he says levelly, though he looks anything but. He’s soaked to the skin, shivering with pain and from the cold, unnaturally pale except for two splotches of color forming high up on his cheeks. “It will be good to practice riding one-handed, don’t you think?”

“…Sure,” says Crowley. With one last scrutinizing look, he mounts Bentley and the two of them make their way carefully back to the manor. Arguing with him about it would be a lost cause, Crowley muses to himself. No, there’s only one thing for it. He’ll have to take care of the bastard himself, whether he likes it or not.

“Just as I thought. It’s broken,” pronounces Dr. White, a gaunt man with a sallow face and a frown that conveys ceaseless disappointment in the world around him.

“Broken?” Aziraphale repeats, aghast. The head maid, Ms. Potts, had taken one look at him and carted him off to his room with a set of freshly laundered pajamas in hand, so he now sits tucked in an armchair in his nightgown while the summoned doctor pokes and prods at his wrist.

Crowley had been shooed from the room by Ms. Potts, told to go make himself useful elsewhere until after the doctor had finished his business, but Aziraphale can’t help but wish he had him there. Crowley had always been a strong sort of person, and Aziraphale found it easier to be strong himself when he was in his presence.

“The head of the radius is one of the most common locations for wrist fractures to occur. I can set it. Not to worry,” the doctor assures him after seeing the look of pure panic on his face. “You fell from a height, you said? And your arm was outstretched to catch your fall?”

Nodding, Aziraphale mumbles, “I did.”

“That’ll do it. I’ve brought the supplies with me to set it in a plaster cast, although it will take a day or two for it to dry completely, so once it’s set, you are to be very careful. I’d stay in this room for at least the next two days if I were you. It’ll come off in about a month and a half, but it’ll be several months more before you should do anything too strenuous with that hand. No horse riding, no sword fighting, no writing, etcetera.”

“No writing?” Aziraphale repeats. It must be the pain, he thinks, that’s rendered him so slow on the uptake. “What about reading? I ought to be able to hold a book, oughtn’t I?” he chuckles nervously.

Shaking his head, Dr. White pushes up the sleeve of Aziraphale’s nightgown and begins to wrap a plaster bandage around his palm, his wrist, then up his forearm. “Nothing more than a pamphlet or dinner menu with that hand until that cast comes off, I’m afraid. But you’re a wealthy man, Mr. Fell, living in a place like this. I’m sure it wouldn’t be too much of a hardship to find someone to read to you.”

 “Of course,” Aziraphale agrees weakly. Never mind the fact that he hasn’t lived in the manor since the tumultuous four or five years after his father’s passing. He hardly keeps servants around the bookshop, and the thought of doing so now is laughable.

No, he’ll just have to learn how to cope with not reading for the next couple of weeks. It won’t be the end of the world, no matter what his traitorous wobbly lip seems to think.

Dr. White brushes water over the plaster of the cast. It begins to warm immediately against his skin as chemicals within it react together. Aziraphale squirms uncomfortably in place, but a warning look from the doctor stills him.

“Apologies,” says Dr. White, not sounding apologetic in the least. With gloved hands, he smears the damp plaster in place, then goes in with a second plaster bandage and more water. Aziraphale finds himself grateful for the doctor’s foresight in laying a towel down over the arm of his chair, as the whole process is inescapably messy.

“Very good, sir,” Dr. White says when all is done. “I’ll ask the maid to have a meal sent up to you, and I will return in two days time to ensure the plaster has set correctly. Do try your best not to touch it in the interim. Keep it elevated, that is, up above your heart, and I'll instruct your maid on how to ice it to reduce swelling. Do not allow it to get wet. If there’s any trouble, send for me at once.”

“Yes, I’ll be sure to,” murmurs Aziraphale absently. The throb of a headache is taking root in the space behind his eyes, and there’s an unpleasant soreness in his throat that makes him swallow compulsively against it. He’s about to ask if Dr. White has any lozenges in his possession, but the door to his chambers shuts with a quiet snick as he exits, and Aziraphale is left alone for the first time since this morning.

While being alone was lovely most of the time, Aziraphale had never much cared for being lonely. As a boy in this house, he'd scarcely felt anything else.

His wallowing never gets the chance to evolve into full-blown despair, as less than ten minutes later, Ms. Potts bustles into his room bearing a tray loaded down with diced chicken, red potatoes, and asparagus served in a creamy sauce, warm cheesy rolls slathered in garlic herb butter, cinnamon poached pears, and an already uncorked bottle of wine. There are, puzzlingly, two glasses accompanying the bottle.

At first, Aziraphale thinks Ms. Potts might ask to share a drink with him, but then a familiar man slouches into the room. He shifts his weight from foot to foot, darting a glance first at Aziraphale, then the door, as though unsure he’d be welcomed.

“He wouldn’t stop pestering me all while the doctor was in here. Worried sick, that Mr. Crowley was,” she confides, loud enough to be overheard, judging by the way Crowley ducks his head and how his ears pinken. “I thought it’d be best to put him out of his misery, and you could do with company, if you don’t mind my saying so. But if you’d rather not—”

“Thank you, Marjorie. That will be fine,” Aziraphale cuts her off, a gentle dismissal.

Ms. Potts’ eyes twinkle in that way they sometimes do, like she knows more than she’s telling. “Not at all, love. You just rest that arm of yours,” she gives him an affectionate pat on the cheek. “I’ll make your excuses to Gabriel.” She leaves the two men alone, shutting the door behind her.

Aziraphale turns his attention to the room’s other occupant. “You can sit down if you’d like, Crowley.” He waves a hand toward the (somewhat less comfortable) armchair across from his own, feeling a little silly.

Crowley, looking grateful for the permission, pours himself into the chair, smooth as ink from a pen’s nib. “Thanks, angel. How’re you holding up?” He grimaces. “Sorry. Stupid question.” Snorting, Aziraphale grabs the bottle of wine and pours a generous portion into each of their glasses. Crowley plucks his from Aziraphale’s grasp, his frown only deepening. “I could’ve done that.”

Aziraphale blinks at him.  “I suppose you could have, but I’ve still got the one working arm,” he wiggles the fingers of his left hand demonstratively. “I’m not an invalid.”

Crowley can’t help the pointed look at Aziraphale’s leg. “There’s nothing wrong with being an invalid,” he mutters against the rim of his glass before taking a sip. “Hm,” he smacks his lips together, appearing pleasantly surprised. “That’s top-notch stuff, that is. Ms. Potts has good taste.”

“I should certainly hope so,” says Aziraphale, gracefully accepting the change of subject and choosing not comment on Crowley’s transparency. “She’s been a part of this household since I was a young boy. She’d always sneak treats to me when I’d hide up here, away from my other siblings. Well,” he amends, “cousins, technically. I only ever visited infrequently until Father passed and I came to live with them. But then…”

“The Sudan,” Crowley murmurs, the end of the word tilting up so it’s almost a question.

Aziraphale makes an affirmative noise. “The Sudan,” he agrees. “Yes.” The Sudan, where they’d fought in a pointless war for the Crown, and for the Egyptians controlled by the Crown, mucking clumsily around in the Near East as if they knew how to run the place better than the people who lived there. “You can take your glasses off if you’d like, dear. The lamps are dim enough you shouldn’t have any migraines.”

Crowley hesitates, so Aziraphale turns to his meal to give him a modicum of privacy. Ms. Potts, bless her, must have ensured all his food was cut up before it’d left the kitchen. He chases a bit of potato and some asparagus onto his fork, then spears a piece of chicken. It won’t be difficult to eat like this, he realizes with no small amount of relief. After all, when eating with a knife and fork, he’s always handled the fork with his left hand, anyway.

The flavors on his tongue make him feel more at home than anything else he’s encountered in the manor, comforting, served to him by someone who loves him at least a little. The mouth-coating creaminess of the sauce paired with the crisp crunch of asparagus, and the faint spice of black peppercorns woven throughout transport him back to a simpler time. A time when there’d been other hands to ruffle his hair and wipe his tears away, other voices to read bedtime stories to him while the candles burned down. Aziraphale sighs, pleased. This is just what he’d needed.

“Good?” Crowley asks. Aziraphale looks up at him and can’t help a small smile when he notices the other man’s face is bare, his glasses folded and tucked into the red silk band of his ascot where it wraps tight around his collared throat. In the low light, Aziraphale can just make out Crowley’s eyes from where he’s sitting.

“Very good. Thank you,” Aziraphale says softly.

One of Crowley’s eyes is a startlingly clear amber, like a bottle of whiskey set out in the sun. The other is half-shut, as though Crowley means to spare him the sight of it, the jagged group of scars that cut from his brow into the hollow of his eye socket and over the delicate swell of the eye itself, leaving streaks of red through the iris.

Something warm and familiar twinges in Aziraphale’s chest. He disregards it.

Crowley shuffles his feet on top of the rug, taking another draught of the wine. “’M sorry about earlier, ‘ziraphale. About throwing that stupid rock. You wouldn’t be wearing that thing otherwise,” he nods at the drying plaster encasing Aziraphale’s arm.

Aziraphale tuts at him. “Now, dear fellow. I don’t want you to be doing something so foolish as blaming yourself for this. It was an accident. I ought to have been paying more attention to my surroundings.”

“Bullocks to that,” Crowley gripes, then settles back in his chair at the knowing smile on Aziraphale’s face. “So what? You just wanted to give that stupid fox a helping hand. Dunno why you’d care to do that on a bloody foxhunt, but I… er. I wanted to help.”

Aziraphale shoots him a surprised look, ripping a roll apart one-handed to dip in the sauce. “Of course you wanted to help, Crowley. I wouldn’t have expected anything else.”

Crowley grunts, but doesn’t speak. Aziraphale can tell he’s still torn up about the whole thing, and that won’t do. He purses his lips in thought. “The doctor says I’ll be ship-shape in less than two months. Hardly any time at all, where we old fossils are concerned.”

“Two months?” Crowley’s mouth twists into an even more unhappy shape. “How’re you going to get around the shop, then? Won’t be able to climb any ladders like that, or lift any crates. And hadn’t you planned to go to some auction in Cardiff in a few weeks?”

“Ah,” says Aziraphale. He hadn’t thought that far ahead, and there’s the wobbly lip back again. Damn it all.

Crowley, sensing his misstep, stretches his foot out to knock into Aziraphale’s. “Hey. Don’t worry, yeah? Worse comes to worst, I’m always around. Wouldn’t leave you hanging out to dry.”

How lucky Aziraphale is, to have had this man beside him for as long as he has.

“Thank you,” Aziraphale says warmly. “You’re too kind.”

Crowley’s expression shutters, the open and hopeful thing that had been blooming on his face retreating behind well-worn walls. “Not kind,” he says flatly. 

“Of course. Thoughtless of me,” Aziraphale hurries to amend, cursing himself for forgetting. “More wine?” He holds up the bottle.

Crowley, instead of offering his cup to Aziraphale, stands to top up his own glass. “You tried it yet?” he points at Aziraphale’s still-full glass.

“No,” he replies, and sets about to remedying that. The wine slides warm and smooth in his throat, soothing the scratchy-soreness there enough that he ends up downing the lot.

“Thirsty, eh?” Crowley arches an amused brow.

Refilling his glass, Aziraphale responds, “Apparently.”

They drink for the next few hours, meandering through conversation as they have so many times before. They talk of dolphins and gorillas, bicker about composers long-dead, and discuss the merits of pairing certain cheeses with certain wines over others.

Eventually, Ms. Potts comes in to clear away the tray. Crowley scrambles to put his glasses back on, although she pays him no mind, far more intent on Aziraphale.

He’d been prepared to continue where he and Crowley had left off, but she gives the both of them a stern look. “Absolutely not,” she says. “You look dead on your feet, if you don’t mind my saying so, dearie. Mr. Crowley, some of the other men are in the billiards room if you’d care to socialize. I believe what Mr. Fell needs now is rest.”

Aziraphale feels a reprimand on his tongue, but Crowley sighs and gets to his feet, stretching his arms so high his spine pops. “She’s probably right, ‘ziraphale. I’ll leave you to your beauty sleep, yeah?”

“But…” Aziraphale wants to protest, but Crowley and Ms. Potts present a united front, something that strikes him as terribly unfair. “I can try,” he mumbles, subsiding.

Crowley stuffs his hands inside his trouser pockets. “I’ll, er, I’ll be back tomorrow, though. Unless you’d rather have some peace and quiet?”

“Of course you can come back,” Aziraphale says immediately. “I’m sure I’d be dreadfully bored otherwise, cooped up in here all day.”

“Right,” Crowley nods, still lingering. He opens his mouth as if he wants to say something, then seems to think better of it. “Right,” he says again, and steps out into the hall. His light footsteps recede quickly into the house as though fleeing from something.

“Marjorie?” he asks Ms. Potts before she can follow suit.

“Yes, dearie?”

“Do we have any throat lozenges in the house? It’s a tad sore and it’s been bothering me.”

Ms. Potts gives him a concerned once-over. “Why’d you not say anything before, love? I’d have caught the good doctor on his way out. You know I would’ve.”

Aziraphale looks down, face heating with shame. He ought to be better at taking care of himself, he knows. “I’m sorry,” he says miserably. His throat really is quite sore now, like sandpaper scraping every time he swallows, and the food hadn’t allayed his headache one whit.

Ms. Potts sighs. “You don’t need to apologize to me, dearie. I just don’t want you wasting away if I’ve got anything to say about it.” She shifts her weight to her other hip, some of the bone china clinking together as plates and saucers move around on the tray. “If I can’t get ahold of the doctor tonight, your Mr. Crowley knows a thing or two about botany, doesn’t he? I’ll have to ask him for advice.”

“He does, yes,” Aziraphale chokes out, hung up on ‘your Mr. Crowley’. Ms. Potts just shoots him a saucy wink before leaving him alone again with his whirling thoughts and his pounding head.

He hadn’t thought it was so obvious. He needed to be more careful. They couldn’t… they couldn’t be anything, least of all each other’s. He still remembers Wilde’s trial so vividly, and the raid that had cleared out the St. James molly-house, the Warren, five years ago.

The Warren had been something of a haven for he and Crowley. Crowley, who so desperately craved a place to don women’s garments freely without judgment or consequence, and Aziraphale, who only desired the companionship of those like himself.

Even there, he’d felt like something of an outsider, always gently turning down the advances of other men, skillfully evading wandering hands and brandy-soaked promises. He never felt the same heating of the blood the other men seemed to, never felt the need to retreat to dark corners to touch and be touched.

Aziraphale wonders sometimes if there’s something broken in him, although he’s sure broken is the wrong word. He isn’t damaged, (at least, not because of this.) There is no crack in him, no hollow space where something else ought to have gone. He simply is, and what he is is… different.

Aziraphale is completely content with himself and the way he was made, and has long since stopped wishing himself to have been born otherwise (which was difficult, as those that were born otherwise seemed to have a far simpler go of things). But still, on occasion, he would look at the other men in the clubs and wonder what it would be like to feel what they feel, to lose himself as they do.

As they had gotten older and the risks had only seemed to grow, Aziraphale and Crowley ventured out more and more infrequently. After all, Aziraphale knew for a fact that Crowley was queer also, though different in his queerness, and anyway, he was the only person at the clubs who would ever laugh at his jokes about Marlowe or Shakespeare.

In truth, Aziraphale can imagine no better companion than Crowley, and always looks forward to his visits to the bookshop.

He keeps a trunk of dresses and gloves and jewelry tucked away in the back room there. They belong to a sister, a cousin, a deceased aunt, if anyone ever cared to ask, though no one ever had. In reality, of course, they belong to Crowley.

‘Your Mr. Crowley.’

Aziraphale shifts in his chair restlessly. After the excitement of the day, the shock of his fall into the river, the broken wrist, and the general slinking cold of November, now he just feels overwhelmingly tired. The medication the doctor had given him to dull the pain in his hand must be doing its work on him, for his thoughts are overly sluggish, like black treacle.

He feels a strong desire to sleep, which is unusual for it being so early in the evening, and doubly so given his general difficulty sleeping through nights. Sagging into the upholstery, he decides he’ll close his eyes for just a moment to rest them.

He’s vaguely aware when Ms. Potts enters his room some length of time later. There’s the swipe of a cool cloth over his brow, worried cooing: “…fever…don’t know…sudden… a chill…” The words are strung together in some nonsensical pattern, impossible for Aziraphale to focus on or derive meaning from.

Moments stretch into hours; they drag through the blink of an eye and pass in an eternity. His teeth chatter together almost violently. Through the haze clouding his mind, he thinks to himself, how odd. The autumn has never affected me so…

A flare of warm crackling light elsewhere in the room makes him sigh, makes his toes curl. This is nice, he thinks. He could get used to this.

There’s murmuring from many places in the room, above him and behind him and by the door. He wonders if he’s imagining it, but he supposes there are people with him, and it isn’t so unreasonable for people to speak.

It might be easier if he could work up the strength to open his eyes again, but Hypnos is cajoling him back to the land of dreams with his silver tongue. Aziraphale goes with him, a willing captive.

Before he’s fully insensate, or maybe after, and the dream has already begun, he feels the tender slide of a knuckle down his cheek.

Chapter Text

The sun beats down on the sand, on the sandstone walls, blurring everything into a whitish haze that makes Aziraphale ’s eyes water, even after the three years he’s spent here. He squints against the glare, envious of the men around him who seem unaffected, and puts a protective hand over his eyes.

The relief troops have arrived, if they could even be called relief. It’s only two dozen men: half of them British, half Egyptian. "The Crown really must think us a lost cause,” Aziraphale murmurs to himself. Two dozen men was nothing in the face of the thousands of Ansar troops they were being asked to contend with, more and more flocking to their banner every day.

“What was that, sir?” asks Ibrahim, his second in command. He’s older than Aziraphale, with close-cropped black hair and the shadow of stubble lining his jaw.

“Nothing, nothing,” Aziraphale shakes his head. He offers the other man a wry smile. “Lets go meet Sennar Garrison’s newest additions, shall we?”

Ibrahim chuckles, following after him without protest.

One of the arrivals, a lanky fellow with red hair and rather stunning eyes, whispers something to the man next to him, nudging at him with his elbow and laughing. Aziraphale can’t help but think the man is laughing at him.

That won ’t do.

“You, what’s your name?” snaps Aziraphale.

The man crosses his arms, looking Aziraphale dead in the eye rather than straight ahead like he ought. “Crowley. Anthony J.,” he drawls.

“Charmed, I’m sure,” says Aziraphale. After a moment’s consideration, he puts out his hand out to shake.

The man, Crowley, looks wrong-footed, like he hadn ’t expected such a civil response. “Uh, yeah,” he says, tentatively taking Aziraphale’s hand. “Likewise.”

Aziraphale smiles at him, a painfully polite smile that comes nowhere near touching his eyes, and releases him. “I am Lieutenant Fell. You may address me as such, or as sir, for as long as you’re here. Am I understood?” He arches an expectant brow at Crowley.

The man straightens. His nod is barely perceptible. “Yes, sir.”

Satisfied, Aziraphale turns away from him. “I’m sorry,” he says coolly. “I didn’t hear the rest of you. I said, am I understood?”

“Yes, sir!” the assembled men chorus.

“Excellent. Ibrahim,” he waves the man over from where he’d been watching on the fringes. “Show them around, would you? Let them know where they’ll be staying, and what will be expected of them.”

“Sir, yessir,” Ibrahim grins at him. “Right this way, men!”

"Fell, huh? What a prick," one of the other men says.

Bleary-eyed, Aziraphale comes to wakefulness long enough to note he’s in his bed now, no longer in the chair by the hearth, and his arm has been propped up on a pair of pillows. Sleep drags him back under before he can figure out how, exactly, that happened.

Aziraphale snatches the whiskey bottle from Crowley ’s hands before he can pour himself another shot. “Where did you get this?” He demands to know, irritation only barely kept in check. A vein throbs in his forehead.

The group of soldiers sprawled around in a circle in the courtyard grow still and silent, all the better to watch the conflict unfold. Crowley, flushed and languid and too full of himself, snickers, his head lolling back so he can peer up at Aziraphale. “Oh, you know,” he says with a shit-eating grin. “My lass back home snuck it in my bag. Didn’ even know it was there till tonight. Honest.” 

A few of the men laugh, but Aziraphale isn’t one of them. His expression grows frigid. “I have one rule when it comes to alcohol, Crowley. No drinking on the job. Where are you supposed to be on Tuesday nights at,” Aziraphale checks his pocket-watch, mostly for theatrical effect, “nineteen-hundred hours?”

Crowley mutters something under breath. It reeks of cheap whiskey.

“What was that?”

Glowering, Crowley repeats himself louder. “I said. Patrollin’ the p’rim’ter. But wotsit even matter, anyway? If they wanted to kill us, they’d kill us. There’s twen’y of them for every one o’ us. Don’ matter if I’m on the wall or in ‘ere gettin’ sloshed, does it?”

“You’ll be on that wall for the rest of the night if you know what’s good for you, and thank you ever so kindly for volunteering to take the post of third watch.”

Crowley squints at him, looking sour. He scratches at his chin. “How long? Rest of the month, I’ll bet.” 

“The next fortnight will suffice for now,” Aziraphale corrects him. A glint comes into his eye. “But if I ever catch you shirking your duties like this again, I’m afraid I’ll have no choice but to make that a more permanent arrangement. That goes for all of you. Consider this your first and only warning.”

He waits a moment, looking at the group expectantly. When they only stare blankly back at him in silence, he flicks his gaze down to Crowley, arching a delicate brow as if to say: ‘Well?’

Crowley, if anything, flushes even more brightly a red. “Yes, sir,” he mumbles. The rest of the men follow suit.

“Thank you,” says Aziraphale to Crowley, who turns away from him with a halfhearted wave. Aziraphale can’t find it in himself to be genuinely angry with the man, as he understands very well where Crowley is coming from. Aziraphale, too, has studied the increasing futility of their position from all angles, but he’s found the best way to fight against the lure of cynicism is the rigid maintenance of order. Without order, things would fall apart, and then where would any of them be? “Sober up before you head out, will you?” 

“I’ll try,” Crowley shrugs nonchalantly.

“See that you do. Good evening,” Aziraphale says, and heads back to his quarters. As soon as the men think he’s out of earshot, they start up again in loudly hissed whispers.

“So, your lass gave it to you, eh? You’re so full of shite, Crowley. Weren’t you just going on about how great it is being a bachelor?” Aziraphale hears young Jamie McDouglass say.

“Well, yeah,” Crowley responds defensively. “But I wasn’t gonna say I smuggled it here myself now, was I? I’m not stupid.”

“Riiight,” McDouglass snorts. There’s the sound of a fist colliding with flesh, then a muffled ‘oomph’, but the sound of laughter following immediately behind tells Aziraphale it’s nothing to be overly worried about.

Entering his quarters, he finally examines the bottle in his hand. It’s plain Bushmills, which Aziraphale inwardly scoffs at. If one was going to smuggle whiskey into another country, one could at least go to the trouble of ensuring it was quality whiskey. With a sigh, he unlocks the trunk he keeps for confiscated items and deposits the bottle inside.

“Come on, ‘ziraphale. You should drink something."

Aziraphale can’t quite summon the strength to open his eyes, but he tries to make an affirmative noise. It must work, because a moment later, his head is propped up and the rim of a glass is being held carefully against his lips—unpleasantly chapped, now that his attention has been brought to them—and then water is being tipped into his mouth. He swallows compulsively. It’s cold and good. He hadn’t realized how thirsty he was. “Easy there. Don’t want you to choke,” the voice says, a note of amusement in the words, but also genuine worry underneath it all

“Here, let me just—” A warm cloth sweeps over his skin unexpectedly, across his lips and down the soft angle of his jaw. “Right. I’ll be back in a mo’. Try and get some more rest. You need it."

Aziraphale relaxes into the softness of his pillows, feeling quite safe. He sleeps.

Aziraphale enters his quarters and nearly trips over his own feet in surprise. Crowley, conspicuously lacking his jacket and showing quite a lot of his forearms, is on his knees in front of the trunk in the corner of the room, fiddling with the lock on it. “Ssshit,” he hisses suddenly, shaking out his hand. Half the makeshift pick he’d been using had snapped off in the lock. Crowley groans, “You have got to be kidding,” and lets his head thud against the wood of the chest in defeat.

Aziraphale crosses his arms together, dearly hoping he looks at least a little intimidating. “What exactly do you think you’re doing, Mr. Crowley?”

To the man ’s credit, he doesn’t even flinch. “Just Crowley, thanks ever so. Mr. Crowley was my father.” His tone is wry, like there’s a joke there somewhere Aziraphale hasn’t yet been made privy to. “Anyway, sorry. Didn’t plan on taking this long. Meant to be in and out.”

“That doesn’t answer my question,” Aziraphale points out.

Pushing himself upright, Crowley tosses a grin over his shoulder. “Sharp one, you are. Well, if you really must know…”

“Oh, I must. I must,” says Aziraphale. Something about the other man’s demeanor is putting him at ease, even though by all rights he should throw Crowley into their makeshift gaol at once, maybe even have him discharged from service. Breaking into a commanding officer’s belongings, especially in so brazen a manner, isn’t usually something to be taken lightly.

“I was looking for my whiskey,” Crowley says, eyes narrowed semi-accusingly. “You took it from me and I wanted it back. I don’t have patrol tonight. I’ve been good, kept my head down an’ my nose clean an’ all that.” This earns him a snort from Aziraphale, who had caught Crowley passing around his hat to take collections for an illegal betting pool just yesterday. Crowley must remember this at about the same time, as he winces. “Mostly clean. Point is. I would very much like to get drunk.” He tacks on a hurried: “Sir,” as if that might give him extra leeway.

Aziraphale hums, considering him. “You could have just asked, you know. Much less foolhardy, not as likely to end with you washing dishes for the next two months straight.”

Crowley pales. “You’re putting me in the kitchens? For two months?” All of the new additions to the garrison had had their turn with Cook by now, and not one of them were in any hurry to get back.

Aziraphale pauses a moment, allowing the other man to sweat, before relenting. “I ought to do more than that, but that sounds like more trouble than it’s worth.” He gives Crowley a stern look. “To be clear, if anything like this ever happens again, you’ll be shipped back to Britain faster than you can say ‘court martial’.”

“’Course. It won’t happen again, sir,” Crowley says. “I owe you one.” His smile turns genuine for a moment, softened by relief. Aziraphale finds himself thinking he wants to put that smile on Crowley’s face more often.

“Now, on to the matter of the chest,” Aziraphale waves a hand, and Crowley scoots to the side so they’re sitting together on the floor. “Your tension wrench?” Aziraphale holds out an expectant palm.

Crowley gapes down at it, trying to process the soft calloused hand in front of him, and the words themselves, and the fact that they’ve come from Lieutenant Aziraphale Fell, who looks like he’s never even glanced at the wrong side of the law. “Well?” the lieutenant asks again. Crowley gives him the tension wrench.

Propping himself up on one arm, Crowley studies the other man intently. “Where'd you learn how to pick locks, then?”

“Here and there,” Aziraphale says airily, somehow still managing to be prim and proper on his knees fiddling with pins and tumblers. Suddenly, there’s a telling click, and Aziraphale eases the lid of the trunk open with a triumphant wiggle. Inside is nothing much of note, just knickknacks confiscated from a few of the men around the garrison. Standing upright in the back of the trunk is the bottle of Bushmills whiskey, completely untouched. Aziraphale seizes it and, after a moment’s hesitation, holds it out to Crowley.

Crowley looks down at the bottle in his hand, thinking hard. Originally, he’d intended to steal the bottle back and sneak out of Fell’s quarters with him being none the wiser, but now he’s here with him, helpless in the face of the lieutenant’s hopeful little smile, his shining blue eyes. This, Crowley muses, is the face of a lonely man. It’s out of his mouth before he can stop it. “Do you, uh, have any plans? Tonight, I mean. It’s only…” Crowley hefts the bottle illustratively, “this is an awful lot for one person, and I really do owe you one.”

A complicated procession of emotions plays out on Aziraphale ’s face. “No,” he begins hesitantly, as though he expects Crowley to rescind the offer immediately. “No, I’ve quite finished all my work for the evening. Translations, mostly.” He gestures vaguely to his desk piled high with maps and thick tomes and various codices. “Would you, ah,” he glances around the room wildly. “Would you care for a game of chess while we drink? It’s been such a long time since I’ve been able to play with a partner. Ibrahim doesn’t care much for the game.”

“Sure,” agrees Crowley amiably. “I like chess, and whiskey. I call the black pieces, though.”

“Wonderful!” Aziraphale claps his hands in delight. “I was just about to suggest the same thing.”

Aziraphale squints against the daylight filtering into his bedroom. He glares at it, delivers a pointed sigh or two, but the light remains despite his explicitly implied wishes. Despite the sunniness of the day, he still feels horribly cold, and he wriggles more comfortably into his nest of blankets.

Ms. Potts rolls a trolley in laid out with a full tea service. She pours a cup and prepares it with five sugars and no cream, which is odd, because Aziraphale has taken his tea the same way ever since he was a child, with a generous serving of cream and no sugar whatsoever. He makes a questioning noise, and Ms. Potts squeaks, nearly dropping the teacup altogether as she seeks out the source of the noise.

“Mr. Fell!” she gasps. “You’re awake! Would you like a cuppa? It’ll do you good.” Instead of bringing him the cup she’d just prepared, she places it on the little table beside the guest chair in front of the hearth. Fast asleep in the chair, much to Aziraphale's surprise, is Crowley. His limbs are spread out at odd angles, an undignified sprawl. Aziraphale wonders how long he's been there.

Ms. Potts, seeming to sense his question, sighs. “Poor Mr. Crowley. He’s been up near the whole of the past two days. I finally convinced him to take a kip about an hour ago. He’ll be so sorry to have missed you.” She frowns.

“Missed me?” Aziraphale’s brow furrows. “But I’m right here.”

Ms. Potts smiles indulgently. “You are now, dearie, but I think you’ve still got a touch of fever. Here, drink some of this.” She bustles over to him with a teacup, its saucer placed atop it. “This is a tea blend Mr. Crowley got special for you. It has something called slippery elm in it, which he says should help your throat feel better. Now, you let that steep covered for a few minutes. Then you can drink it. In the meantime,” she gives him a small plate piled high with cucumber sandwiches, as well as a handful of chocolate biscuits. Aziraphale nibbles at a sandwich idly, and then it’s as if his body takes over. He devours one after another, hardly even stopping to breathe between bites.

Ms. Potts doesn’t comment on his astounding lack of decorum, just reminds him to drink his tea and slides him another sandwich before she pushes the trolley out into the hall. If Aziraphale strains his ears, he can hear a few snatches of conversation between her and one of the recently arrived guests, though he rapidly loses interest in doing so.

At last, the tea is steeped enough to drink, and Aziraphale lifts it up to his nose, sniffing it curiously. It smells almost sweet, although he hadn’t seen Ms. Potts add any sugar. Still, if it had come to fill his cup at Crowley’s recommendation, he’d try it. After all, there’s no one else on the planet he trusts better.

Aziraphale takes a cautious sip, then a longer one. The tea is strange but good, not as medicinal as he might’ve expected. The sensation it leaves behind is odd, but not unpleasant, like his throat has been coated with something. That would be the slippery elm, Aziraphale assumes. Whatever it is, it works. Already, he can swallow with little pain.

He polishes off the rest of the tea and sets the empty cup and plate on his bedside table. Then, full and warm and soothed, he settles his arm in its cast on carefully placed pillows, and drifts away once more.

Crowley sometimes thinks he ought to write a book. ‘The Art of Pretending to Care Less Than You Do’, he’d call it. He’d gone through several ideas for titles before striking on that one. ‘I’m Not In Love With My Best Friend, Haha Why Do You Ask?’ had been another option, but had been readily dismissed for being too wordy. Another had been rejected because it had consisted entirely of a long, long string of profanity. Whatever it was called, he’s sure the book would be a smash hit, sell all the first print copies in a matter of weeks.

After all, Crowley has been in love for a very long time, and he’s gotten very very good at quashing it down out of sight and out of mind.

Ms. Potts had looked so grateful for his help with Aziraphale, had brought him all manner of food and drink and a pack of playing cards to amuse himself with. She’d apologized profusely for asking for his help, but she’d been spread so thin caring for all the new guests and preparing for the wedding in a few days’ time. He doesn’t know how to tell her he’d do this of his own volition, a thousand times over.

After Ms. Potts had so kindly informed him of Aziraphale’s waking while he himself had been passed out by the fireplace, Crowley had thanked her for the information, gone to his room to change into more presentable clothing, and then descended to the ground floor parlor. He needs to show his face more, can’t be seen to be playing nurse at another man’s bedside when there are perfectly functioning maids around to perform that duty.

He’d return to Aziraphale soon enough. Crowley knows that already, and he suspects Ms. Potts does as well. He doesn’t think he’ll be able to get any sleep in any room but Aziraphale’s, secure in the knowledge that if anything went south he’d be there to do… something. He doesn’t actually know, but it makes him feel better to be there anyway.

The few guests in the house that even knew of Aziraphale’s existence don’t know he’s sick, so he doesn’t have to face much scrutiny from strangers on that front. However, Bee with her too-keen eyes corners him before long. “How’s Gabe’s brother?” she asks, sipping at a glass of Madeira and wrinkling her nose a little at the taste. She’s always preferred port, he recalls. “Your old soldier friend. The bookseller with the weird name,” she clarifies, as if there were a chance he didn’t know who she was referring to.

“Oh, you mean Mr. Fell!” Crowley plays along anyway. “Still with fever, I’m afraid. He’s not been lucid enough to ask after his arm. That’s what the head maid told me, at least.”

“Hmm,” she scrutinizes him, making him absurdly grateful for his dark lenses. Bee had always had a knack for making one feel seen in the worst possible way, pinned down like an exotic butterfly to a collector’s board. “Think he’ll be well enough to attend?”

Crowley shrugs. “Knowing him, as long as he’s mostly conscious he’ll want to be there. He’s always been stubborn.”

Hearing Bee laugh makes Crowley jump; it’s such an unfamiliar sound. “And you wouldn’t know anything about being stubborn, is that right?”

“Stubborn? Moi?” Placing a hand on his chest, Crowley affects a hurt expression. “Perish the very thought.”

Bee rolls her eyes. “Just see that you’re there, cousin. I’m going to look amazing in my wedding dress and I need someone who’ll be able to properly appreciate it.”

Crowley’s heart stutters in his ribcage. She couldn’t possibly mean… but the dulled edge to her usual smirk makes him wonder. “’Course. Wouldn’t miss it for the world,” he manages. She pats him on the arm too hard and drifts away, off to make small talk with some minor nobleman from a distant offshoot of the Morningstar line.

He notices Gabriel edging around the room towards him and panics. According to Aziraphale, Gabriel, for all his posturing and too-loud obviously faked laughter, could be surprisingly sentimental in the right circumstances, which Crowley doesn’t feel particularly equipped to handle at the moment. “Anthony Crowley!” he booms. Crowley flinches. No running now. Gabriel offers him a glass of port. “It’s good to see you, old sport.”

“Yeah. Likewise.”

Gabriel natters on for awhile about hunting and horses and the state of the banks these days, and Crowley dares to think he might be able to escape this encounter unscathed. More fool him. Gabriel claps a meaty hand on his shoulder, moving in close so he can smell the cloying raisin-y port on the man’s mouth, and he says: “I don’t think I’ve ever thanked you.”

“For what?” Crowley blinks. Thanks wasn’t what he’d expected.

“For saving his life,” says Gabriel simply, strange blue-violet eyes serious and boring into him. “He and I weren’t very close growing up, but now that we’re older, I think we understand each other a little better. He’s a good man, and I was just thinking earlier that if you hadn’t done what you did, I might never have known that. He wouldn’t be here for my wedding.”

“Oh,” Crowley says. There’s little else to say except: “I’m glad he’s here, too.”

Apparently through, Gabriel claps him on the shoulder too hard, probably hard enough to leave a mark. “Great. Good talk. Good talk. See you around.”

He and Bee really might be a good fit for each other, after all. Who knew?

Anyways. He’s officially shown his face. It should probably be fine to make his escape. He visits the kitchens and puts together a platter of cheese, bread, and a bit of fruit. The staff give him wary looks, but no one disturbs him. Ms. Potts had likely informed them he might come down here. The thought makes him flush pink.

Tray in hand, he makes his way back to Aziraphale’s room. The man is just as he’d left him, tangled up in the sheets and drooling into his pillow. The bedding reeks of sweat, the inevitable outcome of spending several days with a high fever. Crowley places the tray down on the table close to his own armchair and plucks up a book at random from Aziraphale’s shelf: a collection of Keats’ poetry. The collection here doesn’t hold a candle to the shop, but Crowley still harbors an unlikely fantasy that if he reads the right combination of words, Aziraphale will sit upright and begin chattering happily away as though nothing had happened.

It may as well be a poem that does the trick. After all, hadn’t Aziraphale been holding a book full of them—cracked and beaten by the sun and many turning hands—when Crowley had first realized the depth of his feelings? Of course, compared to now, they had been but a shallow pond, but that day… that had been the beginning of everything.

“I see you’ve drawn the short straw today, Crowley,” says Aziraphale, more than a little amused when the other man starts to stammer out an excuse, or deny it altogether. He holds up a hand to calm him. “There’s no need to panic, dear fellow. I know all about your drawing lots for my little trips. I’m aware I’m not exactly well-liked. Too stern, too aloof, too soft and strange. And… other things, I’m sure,” he trails off thoughtfully, a frown marring his face.

“That’s not true,” Crowley protests as he scrambles to keep up with the lieutenant’s hurried pace.  At Aziraphale’s incredulous look, he amends, “I mean, sure, maybe some of the men think you’re strange, but I don’t. Well, I do, but it’s not bad.”

“Really?” His pale brows lift in surprise. “You’d be the first to say so.” Aziraphale hikes up the woven reed basket so it’s propped against his hip. “If I had it my way,” he confides in Crowley, “I’d be holed up in my quarters every day with my books and a nice glass of wine and I’d never come out. But it’s important, I think, to get out of the garrison from time to time. I like to chat with the locals, keep a finger on the pulse of the city. The number of sympathizers to the Mahdi’s cause is growing by the day, though it’s entirely understandable. More than anything, Crowley, the people of the Sudan are tired. I expect we’ll be seeing orders to pull out of the region within the next six months at the rate things are going.”

“You really think so?” asks Crowley, drawing closer to the lieutenant, his ever-present curiosity getting the better of him.

“I hope so, anyway. Civil unrest is never a pretty thing to be caught in the middle of.”

 It ’s market day in Sennar. Stalls line the streets, and crowds flock around them to the point where Crowley feels claustrophobic. His senses are overloaded. There are spices perfuming the air, hundreds of people shouting over each other, peals of laughter, barking dogs and crying babes. His gaze roves over the rooftops, the shop on the corner with their wool and their vats of red and yellow dye. A jeweler calls out to him, brandishing a bronze ring pounded and twisted into the shape of a serpent. Want tugs at his gut. He’s always held a fondness for the creatures, but he presses on. He has a job to do.

After all, it’s his duty to keep the lieutenant safe. There’s limitless opportunity for one of the Ansar to recognize them, to slip out of the crowd and plunge a knife into Aziraphale’s back. Even now they might be being followed. If Crowley were to let his guard down and—and… well, he refuses to let his guard down.

A hand on his arm makes him flinch, has him reaching for the pistol at his hip. “Relax, Crowley,” says Aziraphale, now patting him on the shoulder. Suddenly, he brightens, a new idea occurring to him. “I know what will help. We should get lunch! I’m positively ravenous.”

That startles a laugh out of Crowley, brings him back into himself. “Lunch?” he asks. “Where?”

“Come, come. Let’s go find Sa’id.” Aziraphale leads him to a food vendor’s stall a few streets over. The man there greets Aziraphale by name, gesturing excitedly at the soft bread and simmering something he has cooking over a low fire. “This is fesseikh stew. Sa’id serves it with groasah, which is that corn bread there.” Aziraphale explains for Crowley’s benefit.

“Fessiekh stew. That’s the fishy one, isn’t it?” asks Crowley.

Aziraphale beams at him. “Yes! Precisely.” He turns to Sa’id and says something in Arabic, presumably ordering for the two of them. He hands him a string of beads, red and green glass. “For his wife,” he tells Crowley with a wink. "Some things are more useful than coin." Sa’id dishes out two bowls for them, along with generous portions of groasah.

“Shukran,” Crowley thanks him when he takes his bowl.

Sa’id looks at him with surprise before his sun-wrinkled face shifts into a wide smile. “Afwan,” he responds, waving goodbye.

“Oh, Crowley!” Aziraphale gasps. “That’s excellent!”

Crowley wishes he could sink into the earth. “It’s not, really.”

Aziraphale waves his modesty aside, far too eager. “How much more do you know?”

Crowley scratches at the back of his neck. “Just the basics. Thanks, you’re welcome, hello, goodbye, where’s the alcohol—although I know that’s haram. Not gonna get much other than what the other boys, er, ‘brought’. That’s about it, though. You don’t have to pretend like it’s impressive.” 

Aziraphale frowns at him, more serious than Crowley had expected. “Don’t belittle yourself. You’d be surprised at how many of the men that ship over here don’t even bother to learn that much.” Crowley grunts noncommittally and they keep walking. “You know I—oh, it’s silly. Never mind.”

Crowley, scooping up another mouthful of stew with the groasah, gives him a curious look. “What?”

“It’s only… If you’d like, I could teach you a little more Arabic? I was first hired on as a translator, you see. I was never supposed to command a garrison. To tell you the truth, I don’t think I’m quite cut out for it.”

“Bollocks to that,” Crowley declares. “Who is cut out for it, honestly? But, er. I’d like to learn, if you think you could put up with me long enough to teach me.” He leans in closer, “Full disclosure, I’m a horrible student. Bad memory, never pay attention, can’t conjugate a verb to save my life. My French tutor hated my guts. Which is fair,” he concedes, “because I hated his guts, too.”

“Oh, I’m certain I can work with that. You already know what verb conjugation is. That’s an excellent start!"

They continue walking. Aziraphale barters for a beat up book with a cracked spine. He says it ’s a collection of poetry, but the way he blushes crimson makes Crowley wonder if that’s the whole truth. Crowley ends up going back for that bronze serpent-shaped ring after all. He slips it onto his middle finger and preens openly beneath Aziraphale’s approval.

“Where’d your fesseikh go?” Crowley asks once he notices its absence. Aziraphale had only been half finished last he’d checked. He’d since learned the lieutenant preferred to savor his food, and, admittedly, the fesseikh was delicious. Salted fish in tomato sauce with browned onions and something nutty, roasted in flavorful spices.

“Oh,” says Aziraphale, pointing out a pair of adolescents crouched beneath the shade of an awning and digging into a bowl of stew with groasah and bare hands. “I gave it away.”

“You what?” Crowley thinks for one moment, below the midday sun, that Aziraphale’s hair shines bright as a polished coin, or an angel’s halo. At a loss for how to articulate all the very many things trying to make their homes in Crowley’s chest simultaneously, he settles for shoving his own bowl at Aziraphale and wiping his tomato-covered hands off on his trousers. “I’m done with mine anyway,” he says before Aziraphale can protest. “I’m meant to be looking out for you while we’re out here, right?”

“Thank you,” Aziraphale blinks down at the bowl in his hands. Their fingers had brushed momentarily before Crowley had snatched his hand away. “That’s very kind of you.”

“Shaddup.” Crowley punches him lightly on the arm, as if that might disguise how pleased he is.

The next week, when it ’s time for Aziraphale’s market-day outing again, there’s no need to draw lots. Crowley volunteers then, and every time after.

A stirring draws Crowley from his thoughts. Aziraphale is kicking at his blankets, his head whipping back and forth atop the pillows. His brow is deeply furrowed, his eyes dart rapidly beneath closed lids. He whimpers pitifully, low and keening. He’s having a nightmare

“Aziraphale?” Crowley asks. He puts the Keats down, intent upon his friend. “Aziraphale? Hey, are you alright?"

His uninjured hand flails, but not without aim. He’s searching for something. “Cr..ly… Crow…” he pants. Tears have squeezed themselves from his eyes and pour freely down his round cheeks, into his hair and down the line of his nose.

Oh. Crowley tries to quash down the emotion inside of him, but it pushes back, threatens to overtake him entirely. How often does Aziraphale dream of him? How often do those dreams end in tears? Crowley rushes forward and scoops up Aziraphale’s hand in both of his, trying to soothe him. “Aziraphale, I’m here. I’m right here. You’re fine. It’s just a nightmare.”

“Crow… Crowley. Crowley!” Aziraphale throws himself upright with a cry, wild-eyed and sobbing. Crowley spares a moment to be grateful for the pillows positioned beneath Aziraphale’s cast before he’s being hauled into a one-armed hug. Crowley falls gracelessly into it, tries to keep himself from crushing Aziraphale, but the other man is having none of it, just clutches at him more tightly.

“Oh, my dear, they were—they were shooting at us. It was an ambush from up on the mountain, and my leg was—and your eye,” Pulling back just enough to look Crowley in the eye, or, well, the glasses, Aziraphale blinks, clearly confused, then he looks down at himself, sees Crowley’s pointy knees digging into the edge of the bed as he does everything in his power to avoid touching Aziraphale more than he has to. “Oh Lord, I’m—I don’t know what’s come over me,” Aziraphale squeaks. “I’m so sorry.”

Crowley pulls away, stands up, and dusts himself off. The rejection stings, as it always does, but he’s well used to it by now. He comes back up with a smile that’s only a little sharpened. “Don’t apologize, ‘ziraphale. You had a bad dream. Do you…” he hesitates, unbearably curious despite himself. “Do you dream about that often?”

Aziraphale gets a shifty look about him. He picks at one of the quilt’s fraying threads. “That and… other things, yes. You know I don’t like to sleep, dear. This is part of why.”

“I’m sorry,” says Crowley, at a loss. “Er, is the other part so you can stay up all night reading?” Aziraphale laughs, a little strained, but a laugh nonetheless. It eases something in Crowley’s chest. “Anyway, how are you feeling? Better? You look better.” He holds out his hand to help Aziraphale out of bed, and the other man takes it gratefully.

“I feel it, too. Ms. Potts said you had a hand in picking out that tea from earlier. It was truly marvelous. She also said you’ve…”

Crowley arches an expectant brow at him.

Blushing, Aziraphale says, “She said you’ve been here the past few days, helping to take care of me. Thank you.”

Crowley waves away his thanks impatiently. “It’s my job to take care of you, remember?”

This was apparently the wrong thing to say, as Aziraphale’s face falls at once. “I see. Of course. Oh! How many days are there until the wedding? I’m afraid I’ve rather lost count. I haven’t missed it, have I?”

“Er,” Crowley does a quick mental tally in his head. “Not today, and not tomorrow, but the day after that.”

“Goodness gracious,” Aziraphale murmurs to himself. “I’ve spent nearly the whole week asleep, then?”

“You definitely needed it.”

“I’m sure.”

“Anyway,” Crowley scratches the back of his neck awkwardly. “I, uh, brought up some nibbles for you earlier just in case.” He points out the tray on the table by the armchair. “I’m sure you want your privacy, and I’ve imposed long enough, so I’ll be getting out of your hair. I can send someone up to launder the bedding?”

“You’re leaving?” asks Aziraphale, and Crowley thinks he sounds disappointed.

“I don’t have to,” is out of his mouth before he can stop it. “I could, er, get you some more tea?”

The beaming smile Aziraphale graces him with could light cities.

Chapter Text

“Crowley,” Aziraphale begins very quietly, as close to a whisper as he can get. “Would you care to explain these?” He leans back in his chair, hands pressed together in front of him almost as if in prayer, but his icy blue gaze is intent upon Crowley. The other man is standing with his arms folded behind his back, not even a hint of a slouch in sight. He’s never managed to stand at attention so perfectly.

Aziraphale hates it.

On the desk lays a string of pearls. They might have been innocuous in nearly any other context, but not here, not when he ’d found them during a routine inspection stuffed inside a dull grey sock rolled inside another, tucked away in the far corner of Crowley’s belongings. Aziraphale probably should have left well enough alone, but he hadn’t.

Necklaces weren’t illegal, not by any means, but that just made his curiosity burn brighter. That and the naked panic on Crowley’s pale face had made him pocket the pearls on a whim, silently indicating Crowley join him in his office to talk, which brings them to the here and now.

“It’s a necklace, Lieutenant Fell, sir. My, er,” he darts a nervous glance at Aziraphale, “my lass. She gave it to me to remember her by.”

And there ’s his out. Aziraphale should nod, apologize for wasting Crowley’s time, and send him on his merry way. “You don’t have a lass, Crowley,” he says instead, soft and certain and steady. “I know you don’t.”

Crowley flinches as if Aziraphale had struck him. He doesn ’t argue, doesn’t try to plead his case. He just nods once, a sharp, jerky movement. His eyes are closed, his mouth down-turned and miserable.

Aziraphale had witnessed many a man be sentenced to the gallows, and Crowley looks much the same as they had. He’s trembling. He’s afraid of Aziraphale.

“Crowley, won’t you look at me, please?” Aziraphale implores him suddenly, unable to bear his fear any longer, but scared of giving himself away for no reason. He’s never told anyone— “Crowley?” he cuts off his own train of thought. Crowley is looking at him now, those amber eyes a little less warm than usual, distant and hazy. “If this is… indicating what I think it implies, nothing will happen to you, Crowley, I swear it. This stays between us.”

“Wot?” croaks Crowley. This isn’t what he had expected to hear.

“If I may make a suggestion, might I keep these here, with me?”

Crowley ’s mouth drops open. “Why? Do you not—er. What’s going on?” He clamps his mouth shut again, eyes narrowed suspiciously.

“It’s only, if they were here, I could keep them locked up safe and sound. Aside from yourself, everyone else in the garrison actually knocks before barging into my office, even Ibrahim.”

“Why would you want to do that? What’s in it for you?”

“Nothing at all, really. Except I really am concerned for your safety. If you wanted to ever wear these, it would probably be best to do so behind a door that can be shut and locked, don’t you think?”

Crowley nods mutely.

Considering him, Aziraphale pulls the pearls closer to himself, running his thumb along the smooth swells of them, feeling out their imperfections while he thinks. “Oh!” he blurts out suddenly. “That’s why you don’t like being called ‘Mr. Crowley!’ Because you’re not a mister all the time, are you? Or are you ever? Oh dear,” he frowns, deeply worried now.

Crowley makes a strangled noise in the back of his throat. “No—I mean, yes. Sometimes I’m a mister. Most of the time, actually. I—“ he blinks rapidly. “Sorry, I’m just—this is a lot to process. Aren’t you going to report me?”

“No!” Aziraphale cries. “No, no. Of course not. You’re a good soldier, Crowley. Too good to lose over something as petty as this. And besides,” he draws in a fortifying breath. “If I were to report you it would be, er, rather hypocritical of me, so to speak.”

“Oh.”

“Quite.”

“Oh,” Crowley stumbles toward the desk. He places both of his hands over Aziraphale’s, over the pearls, clutching at him for support. “You mean you’re—you’re like me?” There’s a wild, unbridled hope in his eyes, softening his face and giving him a childlike appearance.

Aziraphale winces. “Not exactly. I’m a man. I just… I’m, ah…” He flushes scarlet. What was he doing? He’s never told anyone. Not anyone, not ever.

“You like other men?”

And the way Crowley asks, so gently, with so much understanding, all Aziraphale can do is nod. His face crumples, and his eyes fill with tears. “Hey, you’re alright, angel,” he says, slipping around the desk and wrapping Aziraphale up in a loose hug, easily broken out of if he so chose. “Alright?”

Aziraphale nods. “Angel?” he asks with a watery laugh.

“Yes,” Crowley tightens his hold on him. He begins to speak, and Aziraphale finds himself relishing being allowed to feel the rumble of his voice straight from his chest, his throat. “I knew it was ssstupid, bringing those over here with me. I could get caught any time, and I guess I did. But I’d just been thinking… I could die over here, and that’s, y’know, a part of me. A big part. I didn’ want to be…”

“Not yourself?”

“Yeah. Yeah, that’s exactly right.”

Aziraphale doesn ’t comment on the wetness he feels in his hair where Crowley’s tears had fallen.

Aziraphale scrubs tiredly at his face. For as much sleep as he’d gotten these past few days, he’d half expected he wouldn’t need any more for the next fortnight at least. Evidently, his body had had other ideas.

At least the plaster has dried, and he’d slept through the worst of the swelling. The pain has reduced to a low-grade burning ache that only becomes unbearable when he bumps into anything unexpectedly. He gets out of bed and struggles through dressing himself while only being able to use his left hand, quickly growing frustrated.

His socks and trousers were challenge enough, but at least doable. His shirt and waistcoat prove to be another matter entirely. Have there always been this many buttons? Aziraphale realizes he’ll have to wait for Ms. Potts’ arrival with breakfast and ask her for assistance, embarrassing as the idea is.

While he waits, Aziraphale sits in his armchair with the book Crowley had left out the day before. Keats is as good a choice as any to spend a morning with.

The sky turns from navy to pink-gold to a clear azure, and eventually there’s a knock at the door. “Come in,” he says absently, thinking to finish his current stanza first. “If it isn’t too much trouble, I’ll need your help dressing.”

The person at the door clears their throat, and Aziraphale is abruptly made aware that this is not, in fact, Ms. Potts. “Good Lord,” he gets out. Flushing red from the tips of his ears down to his chest, he pulls his shirt shut, twisting the fabric tightly in his fist to preserve what little decency he has left. “Crowley! What are you doing here?”

“I, er, I brought you breakfast.” Crowley has his glasses on, but even so, Aziraphale can tell that he’s squeezing his eyes shut. Head ducked, he holds the breakfast tray out in front of him like a shield, or an offering, or an apology. Perhaps all three. “Ms. Potts asked if I could since I was already up for the day, and I said yes. I can go get her if you’d like?”

Aziraphale is conflicted. On the one hand, he doesn’t want to pull Ms. Potts away from the wedding preparations she must be heading up, but on the other hand, he can’t leave his room looking like this. He says as much to Crowley, who makes a contemplative noise. “’S just buttons, yeah? I can—” he clears his throat again. “I can do buttons.”

The breath catches in Aziraphale’s chest. It takes a conscious effort to let it out again. “I’m sure you can.” This doesn’t mean anything, especially not between two friends who had known each other as long as they had, who had slept in the same bed and shared drink from the same cup. ‘Screw your courage to the sticking place,’ he thinks, and gives Crowley his assent.

“Right.” Crowley leaves the tray on the table by the armchairs and approaches Aziraphale cautiously, as though he were a skittish animal who might bolt at any second.

Frowning, Aziraphale draws himself upright. He was in the military, for God’s sake. He can handle being touched. He thinks so, anyway, and then Crowley pulls the ends of his shirt together, starting with the bottom button first. The man is focused on his task, moving with quick, precise movements, almost clinical as he works his way up over the swell of Aziraphale’s belly and then his chest.

Crowley doesn’t linger, and Aziraphale doesn’t understand why the realization pains him. Isn’t this what he’d wanted? What he’d asked for so long ago?

An idle fingertip brushes over his skin and he giggles unexpectedly. Crowley’s hands still; he gives Aziraphale a questioning look. “A bit ticklish, I’m afraid,” he explains.

“Ah.” A smirk pulls at Crowley's mouth, and he finishes buttoning the rest of the shirt, then the waistcoat, with little fuss.

Now fully set to rights, Aziraphale sighs with quiet relief. “Thank you, my dear. It really is so much nicer being out of my nightclothes.”

They eat breakfast together. Or, more accurately, Aziraphale eats breakfast, places slices of buttered toast on the side of his place closest to Crowley, and pretends to be cross when Crowley inevitably nicks them for himself. Crowley prepares more of that slippery elm tea for Aziraphale, which he drinks obediently. “It truly is remarkable, dear!” he exclaims once his cup is drained. “It’s like I was never even sick.”

Together, the pair of them go down to mingle with the other guests. Some of the men are smoking and playing darts in the lounge, but it’s a nice enough day that Crowley tempts Aziraphale out into the garden after an hour or two. “The fresh air will do me good, I think,” he explains to Gabriel, who agrees and waves him out after extracting a promise from him to be back by luncheon.

Beyond the overworked horticultural horror that is the manor lawn, a low hill slopes gently into the forest line. It’s not so far a walk that they couldn’t get Aziraphale back to the manor if he had a sudden relapse, but it’s far enough to provide a break from the constant chattering that seems to fill the manor halls. Beneath the shade of a hearty maple, Crowley lays down a picnic blanket and basket.

“What did you pack?” asks Aziraphale, stomach already growling despite his recent meal.

Crowley pushes the basket towards him. “See for yourself.”

Eagerly, Aziraphale opens it. There are crackers and cheeses, of course, hard cheddars and creamy Brie. There’s a jar of the cook’s homemade cranberry spread, which he knows for certain pairs marvelously with the Brie. There’s another jar of apricot preserves, a tin of cream cheese with chives, some prosciutto, and rosy pink and yellow apples.

Crowley plucks an apple from the bunch, slicing into it with a knife Aziraphale hadn’t even noticed. He wriggles the piece loose and holds it out to him. “What do you say, angel? Tempting enough?”

Aziraphale takes the bit of apple and places it in his mouth, savoring the crunch of it, the sticky sweetness of the juice. “Tempting enough,” he says. “Wily thing.”

“You know it,” says Crowley approvingly. Flopping back on the blanket, he cuts up more of the apple for himself. “So, I noticed by the front entrance they’ve swapped out the camellias for English primroses, which are just so bloody boring. Who decided on that, d’you think? Gabriel?”

Aziraphale snorts. “The gardener, I should hope. That is what they’re paying him for.” He carefully spreads some of the chive spread atop a cracker, following it up with a thin slice of prosciutto. The taste is heavenly. He can’t help a soft moan of appreciation.

“Well I’m just saying, camellias are clearly the way to go. Their flowers have all those layers, you know. Like roses, but frillier? They remind me a bit of the dresses in those paintings you like, the uh—”

“Rococo period?”

“Yes!” Crowley exclaims, delighted Aziraphale had known what he was on about. “Exactly. The Rococo period.”

They continue on in this vein for some time, with Crowley expounding on the objective superiority of certain plants over others, and Aziraphale thoroughly enjoying the food, the view, and the present company. The sky is not the dull grey overcast so characteristic to late autumn here, host instead only to spun-sugar clouds of the softest white.

The weather is milder than it had been earlier in the week, a single coat more than sufficient for warmth, and a faint breeze skims through Aziraphale’s hair. Somehow, on days like this, even the red-brick manor at the bottom of the hill manages to look inviting.

Crowley pulls out the copy of the Keats anthology, apparently having swiped it from Aziraphale’s room without his knowledge. “Before you mortally wound me,” he holds up his hands to appease him, “I’d only thought to bring it out here to read to you. It’s a good day for it. Or, er,” he rambles on, “you could read to me? Or there could be no reading. This was stupid, wasn’t it?”

“I wouldn’t go quite that far,” says Aziraphale. He’s thinking of another time, another poem, amber eyes filling with tears so many years ago. Before it can really take root in his mind and ruin his afternoon, he stubbornly beats back the memory and the misery that accompanies it. “I would be honored to have you read to me,” he admits, only a little shaky.

“Oh,” Crowley breathes. He flips to different pages at random, coming to a stop on a poem with nature words in the title, as that seems topical at the moment. “Er, alright, then. Here we go.” He takes a moment to compose himself. “Bright star, would I were stedfast as thou art— / not in lone splendour hung aloft the night,” he carries on, and already Aziraphale feels himself lulled by the other man’s voice. It calls to something deep inside his mind, or maybe his heart. Memory, yes, but also dream.

“The moving waters at their priestlike task / of pure ablution round earth’s human shores, / or gazing on the new soft-fallen mask / of snow upon the mountains and the moors—” Crowley continues to read, and he does not pause when Aziraphale lays back against the blanket so he might stare up at the sky peeking through the barren boughs of the maple tree. He feels safe, content, at peace.

Aziraphale closes his eyes, intending to rest them for just a moment. He wants to keep listening to Crowley, notes absently that he must have moved on to a new poem.

“Faded the voice, warmth, whiteness, paradise— / vanish’d unseasonably on shut of eve, / when the dusk holiday — or holinight / of fragrant-curtain’d love begins to weave…”

Aziraphale has a headache, and he doesn ’t think it’ll go away any time soon. They’re two days away from Wadi Halfa. Just two days, and then they’ll be safely out of the Sudan, beyond the reach of the Mahdi’s Ansar. The last few hours had been spent around a map with several of his men, arguing over routes to take, ways they could shave off travel time, marking off territory that was far too dangerous to cross.

So far, they ’d been following the Nile with great success, but as they approach Egypt’s southern border, the men have grown antsier, more paranoid. There’s little chatter on the road, nothing but terse exchanges that fall quickly back to silence, snapped commands, quiet questions.

Aziraphale leaves Ibrahim and Yousuf to hash things out with Taylor and Beckham, excusing himself for the night. Ibrahim is sufficient enough in English to translate, and they know where to find him if they really need him, though he suspects that won ’t be necessary.

He walks the perimeter of camp. He nods at the men on patrol when he passes them, and they salute him tiredly.

Eventually, he finds what he’s been looking for—or rather, who— even if he hadn’t realized it consciously at the time of setting out.

Atop a rocky outcrop beyond the confines of camp, Crowley sprawls comfortably. Aziraphale wouldn’t have noticed him unless he’d been paying especially close attention, which he supposes he must have been. He hurries over to him, breathless and smiling for the first time in days.

“Hiya,” says Crowley when he spots him, an easy grin on his face. “Take a seat,” he sweeps some sand off of the stone next to himself. “Please excuse the mess.”

Snorting, Aziraphale does as he’s bid. He notices the pearl necklace gleaming softly in the moonlight, wrapped twice around Crowley’s bony wrist. ‘She, today,’ Aziraphale thinks, and that’s that. It touches him, this small gesture. He knows she hadn’t been wearing it earlier in the day while they’d been marching for obvious reasons, but the fact that she wears it now… It means she had hoped he would find her here.

“Meeting went badly, I take it?” Crowley asks lightly. She lets Aziraphale ramble on about it for some time, laying back so her head rests on folded hands. After awhile, Aziraphale notices it’s been several minutes since her last quip, and, assuming she must be asleep, rummages around in his satchel for a book to read.

He hadn ’t been able to take much of anything with him in the way of reading, just his journal and the book of poems he’d picked up in the Sennar marketplace with Crowley so many months before, the first of many times the other had accompanied him.

“Can I read to you?” Crowley murmurs from beside him, just loudly enough to be heard.

Aziraphale jumps, hand flying to his chest. He huffs a laugh. “Oh, dear girl. You frightened me!”

“Sorry,” she says unapologetically. At the ‘dear girl’, her smile had become so wide on her face she has trouble just getting the word out. “Anyway, can I?”

Aziraphale passes her the book of poems. “By all means, go ahead.”

Crowley sits up, flipping through pages of the book and coming to stop on a random poem. For Crowley’s benefit, Aziraphale had gone through and inserted leafs of paper between many of the pages, upon which were scrawled both a phonetic transcription of the Arabic as well as an approximate English translation.

To start, Crowley reads a lovely piece about the flowers in a palace garden, and how the sunrise seemed to set the polished stone minaret at the corner of the courtyard aflame each morning. Next is a colder thing, about ice and foreign seas.

Aziraphale is lulled into something like complacency, perhaps. Crowley really does have the loveliest voice, and she had picked up on the rolling rhythm of Arabic sounds with astounding speed. This is why it takes him until the beginning of the English reading for him to understand what she’s stumbled across. It’s too late to stop her.

“And I do not wonder at his beauty. / His waist is a sapling, his face a moon, / and loveliness rolls off his rosy cheek,” Crowley reads aloud. She’s smirking, as she often does when the poems wax on about love, apparently having little patience for them. Not like Aziraphale, who takes in the words with his eyes and pours them out from his mouth, longing for something he cannot ever hope to hold in his hands.

Then, abruptly, the smirk disappears. She swallows roughly, her Adam’s apple bobbing before she continues. “I die of love for you, but keep this secret: / the tie that binds us is an unbreakable rope. / How much time did your creation take, O angel?” she chokes on the word. It sounds like a confession. “So what! All I want is to sing your praises.”

Aziraphale sits suffocating in the silence, too many emotions whirling in his mind and his heart to make sense of. When he had written down the translation, transcribed it so painstakingly, hadn’t he been imagining Crowley’s voice whispering them in his ear? ‘How incriminating. How humiliating! Of all the ways for Crowley to learn—’ and then there are warm lips on his, entirely too welcome in the coolness of the desert night.

Hands with long, elegant fingers—fingers that must have once excelled at playing the pianoforte but had since been taught to handle a rifle just as skillfully—hold Aziraphale’s head gently, tilt his face up so his lips can be peppered with chaste kisses again and again.

“Angel,” Crowley sighs against his mouth, and it slams Aziraphale back into the present, into his body. He’s suddenly too aware of the camp so near, of the men patrolling it that might see them, of the fact that Crowley might have… expectations, and Aziraphale would be forced to disappoint her, disappoint both of them.

“Stop,” he pushes against Crowley’s chest, immensely gratified when she scrambles back at once.

“What is it? What’s wrong?” she asks, amber eyes wide and imploring.

Aziraphale captures one of her hands in his, gives it a pat. “I’m sorry, my dear. I can’t—you… you go too fast for me, I think.”

“Okay! Right, yeah. I should’ve asked. Horrid of me to just spring myself on you like that,” Crowley laughs nervously. “I promise we can go slow. As slow as you need, angel. No rush. No rush ever. Maybe… maybe when we’re back in England? Lots more people there. More places to blend in, be ourselves.”

Blanching, Aziraphale is already frantically shaking his head. The idea of having more people around is the opposite of comforting. More prying eyes and hateful minds, itching to turn them over to the authorities.

And then, even if that weren’t the case, how long could he possibly hope to fend Crowley off when she inevitably wanted… more? How long before he gave in, tried to force himself to enjoy it, inevitably came to resent her even though it was his own blasted fault to begin with. No… no, the kindest option for both of them in the long run would be to end things now.

“I’m sorry, Crowley. You are my dear friend, and I,” Aziraphale stifles a hiccupping sob. “I hope you find someone that can make you—make you so happy. You deserve to be so happy, Crowley. That just, it can’t be me. I couldn’t possibly—I’m sorry,” He rises, dusts himself off, and hooks his satchel over his shoulder. “Goodbye, my dear.”

“Wait, angel. Aziraphale, I’m ssssorry! I’ll never do it again, I promise! Just please, please don’t leave,” Crowley can’t truly shout, can’t chase after him or any of the other dozen things she wants to do, because that’d cause a scene, give them away in front of the whole camp.

Aziraphale does leave. He hears her calling out his name, but then Jacobsen on patrol waves a greeting to him, and he’s too much of a coward to turn back after that.

‘Tomorrow. I’ll find Crowley tomorrow. We can sort this out then. Just… just not now,’ Aziraphale thinks to himself wildly, fingers twisting together in his anxiousness. After all, she deserved a proper explanation, didn’t she?  He knows he would want one, were he the abandonee rather than the abandoner. He’d explain, and she’d understand, maybe look at him with some warm kind of pity, which he’d bear only because it came from her—

Shots ring out, echoing through the hills and making it impossible to identify where exactly they’re coming from. The warning screams from the patrolmen come too late; chaos reigns. Bullets hit the ground by his feet, sending up sprays of scorching hot sand in their wake. He stares in mute horror as they arc closer to him. He’s going to die here, isn’t he? ‘Oh, God,’ he starts to pray.

And he never finishes, cut off rather rudely by being tackled to the ground and rolled away. A heavy weight drapes across his back. He tries to buck the person off, whoever they are, but they hold him fast and do little else. “Angel,” the person gasps near his ear, pained and blessedly familiar.

“Crowley?” Aziraphale hisses back, relief warring with icy fear. “Are you alright?”

Crowley’s head droops into the crook of his neck. “Nnh. Yeah. Just fine,” she says. Aziraphale goes deathly still when he feels something warm and wet drip down his cheek. “Got hurt a bit,” she mumbles in explanation. “’S hard to see.”

“Crowley, my dear. Just hang on a moment.” Aziraphale tries to wriggle out from under her.

“Ssstop,” Crowley tries to keep him from moving, but to no avail. Aziraphale gets his knee underneath himself, so consumed is he by his need to get them both to safety, and then fire shreds through the meat of his thigh. He screams.

“Where’s Crowley?” Aziraphale asks the harried looking nurse when she has a moment. “The,” he feels the word 'woman' die on his tongue. They wouldn't know what he meant. “The soldier that was with me was hurt.”

“There’ve been a lot of hurt soldiers through here this week, love, but you can check the records once you’re up and moving.” The doubtful look she gives him indicates she doesn’t think that’ll be any time soon.

Aziraphale thanks her and lays back down, staring blankly up at the white cotton stretch of the hospital tent and trying to think about anything but the awful pain in his leg, or the pain in his heart, which is somehow worse.

He doesn’t see Crowley again until four years have passed, and by then it’s too late for apologies.

“Aziraphale?”

It must be early evening now, if the orange tint to the sunlight is anything to go by.

Aziraphale looks at the hazy figure hovering close to his face. He blinks a few times, and the haze resolves into sharply defined features: red hair fallen across an age-lined forehead, a strong nose, a mouth thinned with worry. “Crowley,” he murmurs. He reaches for him, mildly irritated when his right arm proves heavier than it ought to be. Ah, yes. The cast.

“Hey, angel,” Crowley’s face breaks out into a wide smile. “It’s good to see you. We’ll need to head in for the rehearsal dinner in an hour or so, I think. I made your excuses to the servant that came to fetch us for luncheon earlier.” He helps Aziraphale ease himself upright. “You were crying in your sleep,” Crowley tells him quietly. “Tell me to shove off if you’d like, but, erm, was it about the attack again?”

And the answer is on the tip of Aziraphale’s tongue. ‘Yes,’ he could say so easily, and it would mostly be true, but… “Not entirely,” he says instead.

“Oh?” Crowley asks. It’s hard to tell whether or not his nonchalance is merely a front.

“I dreamt some about the aftermath, waking up in the infirmary and being told you’d already been shipped off to Asyut for emergency care. Finding you in the Warren all those years later, I don’t know that I’ve ever felt so relieved in my life.”

Crowley gives him a soft look. “Yeah. Me too.” He offers Aziraphale his hand, which he gladly accepts.

Aziraphale should stop here, be contented in the warm stoicism Crowley provided, and a large part of him wants to. It would certainly be easier, but this is something that’s been years in the making. Decades, even. Turning his attention to the worn fabric of his trousers, he takes a steadying breath. Quietly, he admits, “The dream started… before.”

They’ve never talked about Before, always skirting carefully around the subject any time it had come close to being mentioned. 

The present festers when the wounds of the past go untended for too long. Sometimes, secrets need to be carved out, aired in the open. Lies, too, hidden desires. Apologies. Confessions.

“I left you there alone,” Aziraphale says miserably. “I regretted it as soon as I had, but I was so afraid of—of everything, really. And then I hurt you. I’m so sorry, Crowley. More sorry than I can say.”

Crowley tightens his grip on Aziraphale. He darts a glance up at Crowley’s face. His mouth is down-turned, strained. His eyes are inscrutable behind his glasses. “That’s ancient history, angel. It doesn’t matter.”

“It does matter!” Aziraphale protests. “I’ve had many years to think on it by now, and I need to tell you. I acted in haste that day. I—” and here his courage begins to falter. “I said things I didn’t mean.”

Crowley grows very still. “What things?”

Aziraphale casts his mind back, trying to remember. He’d pushed Crowley away, had told him—well, her at the time—had told her he wished she might find someone that could make her happy, that he didn’t think he could be the one to do that. “Now that I think of it,” he flushes a little, “I suppose I did mean those things.”

Clearly stung, Crowley yanks his hand loose. He crosses his arms, expression closing off. “Thanks for the clarification, then. I know you don’t love me like that, alright? I get it. I wasn’t after anything with all of this, if that’s what you were worried about, and if this is just your roundabout way of asking me to—I don’t know—leave you alone? You could have just said that to start with.” Crowley scrambles to his feet, gathering up the picnic basket as he prepares to storm off.

Aziraphale gapes up at him, his earlier apprehension forgotten. “You think I—what?”

Crowley looks somewhere between incredulous and tormented. “I mean, yes, you love me as a friend, and that’s great! I love being your friend. I love being a part of your life. I just—I always want more. Selfish of me, I know. I just. It’s absolutely maddening sometimes, angel. You’re just so,” black-gloved hands find their way into red hair, tugging at it hard enough Aziraphale half expects it to tear from his scalp.

“You’re brilliant, you’ve got a bastard streak a mile wide, and I’m—I love you. How could I not?” He stares down at Aziraphale. “I only have one question, and I guess I may as well ask now that we’re dredging it up.”

“What?” Aziraphale asks. He feels like he’s floating somewhere above his body. ‘I love you. How could I not?’ Crowley had said so flippantly, as if that hadn’t tilted Aziraphale’s world on its axis. But then that other thing, ‘I always want more.’ And wasn’t that what Aziraphale had been so afraid of? Why, then, did Crowley’s words send his heart aflutter with giddy anticipation?

“Was it…” Crowley begins hesitantly, then steels himself. “Is it because I’m not a man all the time?”

Aziraphale is confused. “Is what because you’re not a man all the time?”

“The reason you pushed me away. I know you like men, so that’s the only thing I’ve ever been able to come up with. You’re so good with it, and with everyone else like me at the clubs. But just because you’re not an arsehole doesn’t mean it wouldn’t be, er, a deal breaker—”

Aziraphale’s face has gone ashen. He looks sick. “Crowley, stop. Please. Why on Earth would I ever turn you away for something that was so—so integral to you?”

Crowley’s jaw clacks shut. His Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows. “So was it… was it just me, then? That’s… well, at least I have an answer, I guess. One less mystery in the world,” he punctuates the statement with a bitter laugh.

“Crowley,” says Aziraphale. Crowley flinches. “Would you please let me up? There’s quite a lot we need to get straight, you and I, and I’d rather not do so with you towering over me like that. We’ve been talking at cross-purposes for far too long.”

Crowley takes Aziraphale’s left hand and wraps an arm around his middle to support more of his weight, helping him to his feet without complaint. Even in the midst of arguing, even when he seems so certain Aziraphale was about to inflict pain onto him, he still puts Aziraphale’s needs before his own.

Oh, he’s been such a great fool, hasn’t he?

Out here amidst the trees, on top of the hill near the house that had never been as much a home to him as Crowley had, Aziraphale feels brave. “My dear,” he begins, both of Crowley’s hands holding his. It’s a bit awkward, as he has to keep his other arm tucked close to his side, but the sentiment remains. “I’ve been remiss these past many years. I want to make one thing perfectly clear. I love you. I have loved you for a very, very long time.”

“This isn’t funny,” Crowley whispers, hoarse. “Stop it.”

“I’m not joking, Crowley. I would never hurt you like that.”

“Yes, you would,” says Crowley with a quiet certainty, one that says: ‘you’ve done it before’.

Aziraphale, feeling rather like he’s taken a blow to the chest, stumbles closer to the other man, beseeching him. “I admit, I have not been completely honest with you on this subject, but that is due to my own considerable shortcomings. I was afraid, you see. I still am,” he laughs a little manically. “I am afraid of my family discovering the true reason for my self-imposed bachelorhood. I am afraid of the world at large, of what they’d do to me, and to you, were either of us to be outed publicly. The idea of you being harmed, just by virtue of your relationship to me, because of your love for me? It doesn’t bear thinking about, and yet I can’t stop thinking about it.”

Crowley has gone pale and a bit trembly. “Oh, angel. Shit. I was such a bastard. I’m sorry. I didn’t know—”

Aziraphale shakes his head, frantic. “Because I didn’t tell you. You were right to be upset, and wait, please,” he cuts off whatever Crowley had been about to say. “Before I lose my nerve. There’s something… else. It’s about me.”

Crowley tilts his head curiously, but doesn’t interrupt.

Aziraphale breathes in, then out. He squeezes his eyes shut, doesn’t think he’ll be able to bear the crestfallen expression on Crowley’s face once he knows. “I… I’ve never…” he heaves a sharp sigh, still glaring at the backs of his own eyelids. “I have never desired to have, ah,  relations with anyone, ever, and I doubt I ever will.”

“Oh,” Crowley says quietly.

Aziraphale’s heart plummets. This is it. This is where he leaves me. This is how it ends.

“Is that all?”

“What do you mean, ‘is that all?’” snaps Aziraphale, eyes flying open to find Crowley looking not disgusted, nor anywhere in the realm of disappointed. Instead, he appears to be barely able to contain his excitement. Perhaps he misunderstood?

“Crowley,” Aziraphale enunciates as clearly as possible. “That includes you, you know, even if you’re the most gorgeous creature I’ve ever laid eyes upon. There’s something about it that just makes my skin crawl no matter who it’s with, no matter how it’s done. I always feel ill.”

That wins him a broad, toothy grin. “You think I’m gorgeous?”

Rolling his eyes, Aziraphale can’t help but offer a slight smile in return. “Is that really what you’re going to focus on? Vain thing.”

“I do try,” Crowley quips, though his mirth fades quickly in the face of Aziraphale’s dangerously wobbling lip. “Right. I'm being an arse." He sighs. "This, for you, it's like… ‘s like my pearls, I guess. It’s hard to tell people about because, well, they’re people, but when they know, and they’re good about it, it’s got to be one of the most freeing feelings on the planet.”

Crowley’s hands leave Aziraphale’s at last, instead coming up to firmly grip his shoulders. “Aziraphale, listen. I love you, right? Loved you since Sennar and I never bloody stopped, try as I might. There is nothing on this planet that gives me more pleasure than seeing you happy, than making you happy. If I could, I’d bring you breakfast in bed every day, and take you out to dinner every night. We’d see plays whenever we wanted, go feed the ducks in the afternoons, and I’d drive you all over the country looking for books to add to your hoard. Frankly, I could care less about sex when I’ve got you.” Crowley looks suddenly nervous. “Bollocks. Getting ahead of myself, aren't I? Do I have you?”

“I should think so, after all of that. My Crowley,” says Aziraphale, and promptly bursts into tears.

“Aziraphale,” Crowley murmurs. He cradles Aziraphale’s face in gloved hands like he’s something precious to be handled, and wipes his tears away with his thumbs. “I really want to kiss you. Can I?” he asks. Aziraphale is nodding before Crowley’s even finished asking the question, face tilted up invitingly.

“Oh!” Aziraphale gasps before their lips have the chance to touch. Crowley jerks back at once, an apology half-spilled from his lips. “No, don't stop,” Aziraphale reassures him. “I only want you to take these blasted things off so I can kiss you properly.” 

Pushing his glasses up into his hair, Crowley smirks down at him. “O angel,” he quotes against Aziraphale’s lips, in the space where breath is shared. “All I want is to sing your praises.” And then he’s leaning in to press his mouth to Aziraphale’s. His hands remain soft against the angel’s jaw, fingers combing through white hair and caressing the smooth skin of his cheek. Aziraphale’s good hand, meanwhile, falls to Crowley’s waist and holds him close. 

The kiss isn’t a claim, far from it, but rather the promise of a future to be shared, and of many more kisses to come.

November 24th, 1925

Twenty Years Later

The sea crashes against the craggy shore, white foam frothing up over the rocks. Gulls cry out from their nearby roosts, and the clouds roll in thick and heavy and grey. As far as the weather is concerned, it certainly could be nicer, but the occasion this day marks makes it beautiful in Crowley’s eyes. She idly twists the Fell family signet ring on her finger, remembering when Aziraphale had given it to her with a fond smile.

Twenty years, now, since the day everything had gone right, since she’d kissed Aziraphale beneath an old maple tree and made all sorts of promises she’s yet to break, and Aziraphale had made vows of his own. 

The sound of rain startles her from her reverie. “Sssshit,” she hisses, scrambling to push herself upright. Her joints just aren’t what they used to be, and—a white umbrella appears overhead, shielding her from the onslaught. She tilts her head back to smile up at the umbrella’s owner. “Thanks, angel.”

“Not at all, dear.” Aziraphale had aged gracefully since that day. His hair, already white, is thinner now, his body wrinkled and weathered by time. But there are more smile lines around his eyes and the corners of his mouth than there had ever been before, and Crowley prides herself on knowing she’s responsible for most of them.

His grip tightens around the umbrella, the bronze serpent-shaped ring glinting against the pale skin of his hand. He holds out his other elbow for Crowley to take, which she does. They squeeze together beneath the umbrella’s paltry shelter and stumble back to the house, giggling like disobedient schoolchildren all the while.

Shaking out the umbrella on the front stoop, Aziraphale makes a contemplative noise. Crowley knows that contemplative noise. She’s got them all catalogued. “Getting peckish, angel?” she asks, draping herself over Aziraphale’s back and wrapping her arms around his waist. “What’re you in the mood for?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” he muses. “I was thinking something with… apples.”

"Mmm," Crowley hums. "Apples. I can work with that."