The idea was unthinkable, but Crowley wasn't interested in voicing that anytime soon for hundreds of reasons. Instead, he raised his glass to Aziraphale and drank as he considered what to say, and delayed a moment further by looking at his glass. "Well. You know. There might be a Blitz on, but I did tell the head office there was a lot to get on with here. And nearly everywhere's a bit of a mess right now, isn't it? Might as well stay somewhere comfortable." He barely paused before adding mildly, "Good scotch. This is why I keep you 'round."
For some reason, Aziraphale's imagination ran away with him for a moment or two, fueled by those innocuous words. In that instant he allowed himself to imagine what it might be like if Crowley was not merely local for the next few years, oh, perhaps the next decade or so, but...here. With him. It wouldn't have occurred to him before tonight, he was distantly aware, because there were certain boundaries they did not cross, even though Aziraphale had for centuries allowed the bookshop to be a place they could drink and talk in private, even though they had their other meeting places, like St James Park. But to wish for more than that, something more intimate than their occasional meetings--
Aziraphale drank some of the whiskey, gulping down a mouthful rather than savoring it as was his wont. It was good, very, very good. He found he couldn't think about it at all. "Is that why, Crowley?" he asked before he'd even really thought of what he was going to say, his voice soft and low.
There was something to the tilt of Aziraphale's gaze and vulnerability in his tone that took Crowley aback, further mental steps than he could easily recover from without a noticeable pause after the angel spoke. "Love a drink, me," he said, but his eyes didn't leave Aziraphale's. A wry smile sneaked across his face, and he instinctively twisted it into a smirk before he could deal with the fact that it was sincere, of all things. "But I'll help you preen your feathers if you like. Good liquor's not a blessed thing without good company."
It had seemed like a good attempt to sate Aziraphale's ego and dismiss the topic, with the more uncomfortable truths that lurked beneath, but the instant the words passed his lips he regretted them. Sincerity. There were few things more embarrassing.
The pause before Crowley replied did nothing for his nerves. It was a space to allow the imagination to run wild again, with theories about everything under the sun that could go wrong from asking a question like that. Aziraphale didn't quite let out a breath when Crowley did answer; he wasn't sure whether to call this sensation relief or not. It seemed to defy such simplistic definitions. Crowley's gaze holding his, the glimpse of a smile before it turned into a more familiar smirk: he wasn't sure what to make of the fact that he wanted to linger over those little gestures like he'd linger over a book to be read cover-to-cover.
"Ah," he said when he became aware he'd been quiet a moment too long himself. "Good. Then we'll always have something to offer one another." There was a little smile curving his lips as he glanced down at the glass in his hands. "Can't remember the last time I had a good preening."
It wasn't the first time that Crowley, at least, had sensed this kind of tension, though Aziraphale had usually been cheerfully, dreadfully polite through it - probably completely unaware, knowing him - and not fixed him with such a fascinated look as he wore right now. It was new. It was interesting. It was probably stupid to the point of insanity to entertain. His eyebrows quirked up with interest anyway.
"You're thinking something," he challenged Aziraphale. It might have been foolish, but, oh, it was what the moment demanded, wasn't it? "Are you too polite to say it, or will I have to guess?"
If he'd thought back over the many, many centuries they'd known one another he might have been able to pinpoint one or three of those times when this sensation, this strange electric anticipation had risen between them, and realize how he had gone right past them without seeing the opportunity to let something new grow into their relationship. But he wasn't thinking at all of the past just now, finding it nearly impossible to concentrate on anything beyond this precise moment, with Crowley regarding him in that way, asking questions that made him feel just the slightest bit flayed open. The choice of playing it off with some frivolous remark and encouraging them both to get silly drunk was always available, he supposed. Seemed cowardly, though, and somehow shameful. Perhaps after the events of that night he was feeling as though he owed it to Crowley to offer the truth.
"I, ah." It certainly wasn't easy to put into words, but he tried. "I was thinking, I was just thinking about the books." Fearing it might sound like a non-sequitur, he hastened on, "It's just that I'd forgotten all about them at that moment, you know, but you didn't. You didn't have to do that. It's more than enough that thanks to you I'm not discorporated right now." Aziraphale took a nervous drink of the scotch, chasing it nearly to the bottom of the glass. "And I suppose now I find myself looking at things, ah, differently."
There was no good hellish excuse for the books, and he'd known that right away as they'd gotten into the Bentley. It was pure sentiment, purely wanting to avoid the pinned back devastation on Aziraphale's face when priceless books burned, and maybe that was the cause of all this right now. Books. Of all things to tip Aziraphale in this direction, it did make the most sense.
"Never know when a good prophecy book might come in handy." No, that was a stupid thing to say. He shook his head abruptly. This conversation might wait another thousand years if he let it go this time, even if it was dangerous to entertain. "Tell me, Aziraphale, what do you see?"
He would let it go, he told himself, if that was what Crowley wanted, he would put these thoughts and feelings away, maybe for another day or maybe not. It might be all to the better that way anyhow, for the two of them--angel, demon, all of that. Or...he would speak truthfully if truth was demanded, as perhaps one ought to when given an opportunity that seemed so rare and precious.
"Well, I think...you, Crowley." Aziraphale looked up at him again. "Not that you're different, I mean to say, but I--" Oh heavens. He hadn't thought of how difficult it would be to say what he meant without resorting to the kind of sentiments that would probably make Crowley hiss at him for daring to credit him with any undemonic qualities. Aziraphale sighed. "You're so dear to me. I suppose I've failed to see it clearly until now, but you are."
He had thought he was ready for whatever sentiment was ready to escape Aziraphale's mouth, but he really hadn't been. It was so him, so perfectly sweet and genuine, and it just made mustering a denial all that much more difficult. There was a pause he knew was probably agonizing for Aziraphale as he examined the bottom of his empty glass, then he spoke. "Imagine me without you and you without me." It lacked his usual drawl, more matter-of-fact than anything. "Can you?"
Maybe it was easier to put the impetus completely on Aziraphale for this. He had plausible deniability for dealing with Aziraphale, a claim that he was tempting an angel downwards, maybe, but the angel would have nothing to say to Heaven. It was his decision.
It was agonizing to some extent, that long pause, but Aziraphale understood it. Perhaps because the effort of trying to explain all of this was so new, not at all practiced--he'd never in his 6000 years on Earth attempted to make feelings of this nature clear to anyone. He'd never had such feelings, not for a single other entity. He loved, of course, it was what he was made to do, but in a general sense, broadly and gently, never focused on any one individual being. To feel to such magnitude--to have such feeling narrowed to a single entity, one who he could quite honestly admit was his oldest and perhaps only true friend--to become so suddenly aware of the enormity of it was almost fearfully overwhelming.
He didn't blame Crowley if he needed a minute.
"I can't. I--I would never want to." It was a surprisingly painful thought. Aziraphale set his glass aside, shifting uncertainly and to no purpose, until with abrupt resolution he turned his body towards Crowley. That was the easy part of what he wanted to do; the other took a little more struggle, but in the end Aziraphale reached out his hand and laid it over the top of Crowley's, stroking briefly over the backs of his fingers.
Oh for hell's sake, it was just hand over hand, but Crowley's stupid corporal form burst heat through him. He spoke before the sentiment could overtake him any more than it already had. "Do you realize what you're doing?" There was no judgment in the words, just a plain and direct response. His fingers curled around Aziraphale's anyway, and he raised his eyebrows to punctuate the question, maybe encourage him a little. "On the other hand." His grip and gaze held firm. "Is this worse than what we usually get up to?"
"Of course I do." It was difficult to speak with dignity when your cheeks were almost certainly red and your voice threatened to shake, but Aziraphale did his best. He glanced briefly down at their hands when Crowley's curled around his, gripping back, perhaps almost too tightly out of nerves, and then met his eyes again. "I'm, well, I'm attempting to make it plain that I do know, actually." Humans made this sort of gesture all the time. They did...all sorts of things to convey their feelings towards the object of their affection.
"As for that--" He hesitated, and then forged on ahead with a determined sort of recklessness, "It may be no better or no worse, but it would certainly be something--something new to try. If you wanted."
Ugh, it was cute, and he pressed his free hand to his face as he tried to recover some demonic dignity, before swiping it over his face. That was better. He could look Aziraphale in the face, now, without feeling like a right idiot. "Something new," he drawled instead, his tone bearing more bravado than his traitorous face, as if he hadn't just ducked his face away. "Always up for new experiences, me." He was a demon; temptation was baked into him, wasn't it, and Aziraphale had already given his own type of permission, hadn't he?
So he lifted their linked hands to his mouth and pressed a kiss to the top of Aziraphale's hand, lingering there for just a moment before he returned their hands back to the arm of Crowley's chair.
It was a lot to be getting on with all at once--trying to say the right thing, and hoping it didn't somehow change or even, Heaven forbid, ruin the camaraderie they'd had with one another for all these years, and if Crowley was going to tease him on top of it all then really...really, he ought to do something about it, Aziraphale thought.
He found himself smiling, a little tremulous but nonetheless genuine, watching Crowley after he had lifted his hand and kissed it. The hint of tenderness he felt underneath everything else was surprising. It was the bravado in Crowley's voice, maybe, that brought it out of him--this couldn't be simple for Crowley, either. "Well then." It seemed that he was at liberty to pursue what he wanted, so Aziraphale said, "Would you like to come closer?"
Aziraphale had to know what he was getting into. Right? Doubt flashed through Crowley anyway, then he cursed himself for treating the angel with kid gloves. He was as old as Crowley was, he wasn't tempting some ingenue human, someone without a sense of perspective. Or was that just an excuse to mask his own fears?
"Oh, fuck it," he muttered to himself, pushed himself out of the chair, and pinned Aziraphale back against his own chair in a swift motion. "Tell me you mean it," he said pointedly.
It was a swifter reaction than Aziraphale had been expecting, and it made his breath catch when Crowley had pinned him back to the chair, his lips parting as he tried to take it in all at once--Crowley against him, very close indeed now, almost as close as Aziraphale secretly hoped and wished for...but perhaps it wouldn't stay a secret very long. He settled his hands on Crowley's hips.
"Oh, yes." His voice was rather breathless. "Yes, of course I mean it." Goodness, didn't Crowley realize? Aziraphale stroked his hips, and then his waist, and then reached up both hands to cup them tentatively around Crowley's face and draw him down. He wanted...yes, this, his lips against Crowley's, his eyes closing as he tilted his head a little to accommodate for the glasses.
Oh, that was very nice. Crowley's fingers sought behind his neck as he kissed him, once and again, every bit of contact just underlining how long he had let this idea linger at the back of his mind. He had had no choice but to wait; Aziraphale never would've forgiven him for an outright temptation, and he had known that for centuries at least.
"Look at you," he murmured after, still close enough to feel Aziraphale's breath on his cheek. "What do you want, angel?"
His fingers fanned out gently at Crowley's cheek. Aziraphale was still catching up from the kisses, feeling a little dazed and hot, but he drew back a little to look at Crowley again, his gaze dropping briefly as though to take all of him in. "I'd like to see more of you," his fingers slid hesitantly against the collar of Crowley's shirt as he spoke, as though to demonstrate what he meant, and his eyes lifted back up to his face, "if that would be all right. I'd like to touch you." He swallowed. Hesitated again, then reached up to the rim of Crowley's glasses. "May I?"
"Go on then." He gestured with his head once the glasses were removed for them to indicate they be safely deposited aside, as though he didn't already feel a bit naked without the sunglasses already. He wasn't made of money, and they were harder to come by with the war on.
As if that was the important thing. He pressed a knee into the chair he'd so comfortably pinned Aziraphale, and caught him in a kiss again, deftly undoing his own tie in a swift, decisive motion. The time for teasing was over.
He did so love getting to see Crowley's eyes clearly, if only because it was such a rare occasion. He laid the glasses to the side, taking care with them just as he should, looking at Crowley for a moment--no, it wasn't only because it was a rare occasion. They really were exceptional.
And he'd have agreed with that sentiment, if Crowley had voiced it aloud; he was eager, hungry even, heated through from being kissed again and being aware that Crowley was undoing his tie. Aziraphale reached out to help him, catching at the buttons of his shirt and fumbling them undone. He might have thought to miracle some clothing away for efficiency's sake, if he could have really thought of anything that moment other than Crowley's mouth against his, but maybe not. Maybe it was best to take the slower way.
Crowley shrugged off his jacket, his shirt, working at Aziraphale's multiple layers of clothing with growing amused exasperation. He pressed kisses along his jaw, to his neck, and hissed, "You wear too much clothing" before vanishing off, at least, the coats, which found themselves a rumpled mess on a nearby table covering up some precious books. He licked his fingertip and ran his finger with a sizzle down Aziraphale's shirt until it was rent in two pieces, and smirked.
Aziraphale didn’t wear too much clothing, that was absurd. He wore just the amount of clothing that someone smart and presentable ought to. Though Crowley always had a rather different sense of style in his garments, which suited him just perfectly, except at the moment he was just as anxious as Crowley to have him get rid of them. He had no objection to the top layer of coats being miracled away, or even to them being discarded in a heap on one of his tables, but he did give the demon a look somewhere between exasperation and fondness when he rent his shirt in two.
"I'm afraid you owe me one for that, my dear," Aziraphale informed him, and he pushed Crowley's shirt off his shoulders (which he had taken care not to rip, thank you very much).
"Too many buttons," Crowley dismissed, very pleased with himself anyway. Oh, it was nice seeing all that bare skin, and he let his fingers slide down Aziraphale's chest and behind the small of his back to pull him close, hip to hip. "Besides, what fun is behaving at a time like this."
Bodies were strange; he'd never exactly felt this hunger for touch before, but now he wanted his lips on Aziraphale's mouth, his neck, the slightest nip there, and his free hand simply lingering right at his thigh.
"Only a little patience--" He gasped when Crowley's fingers moved down his chest and around to his back, dragging him close, the contact between them lighting curious sensations anywhere they touched, hands to bare skin or hips to hip, "--would have seen them undone."
They were in agreement, though: behaving was not what he had in mind. He stroked greedily, tenderly over Crowley's bare skin wherever he could reach it, tilting his head to offer more of his throat. He was vaguely aware of Crowley's hand at his thigh, entirely willing to encourage his touch wherever it wanted to wander, his own hands moving back down to Crowley's hips where they'd been when he'd first slung himself into his lap. He grasped Crowley's hips firmly, pressed his own up against him--caught his breath again, oh, that felt lovely.
"Fuck," Crowley growled out, and caught his mouth in a sound kiss before rocking into Aziraphale's hips. It was hideously good, the heat caught between them, the heat and slight sweat to Aziraphale's skin as he touched him. After shifting back he slid his hand right up between Aziraphale's legs and cupped, stroked, calling back to admittedly hazy memories of indulging himself with humans.
"You done this before?" he murmured, gaze tight on Aziraphale's face as he kept touching him.
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For some reason, Aziraphale's imagination ran away with him for a moment or two, fueled by those innocuous words. In that instant he allowed himself to imagine what it might be like if Crowley was not merely local for the next few years, oh, perhaps the next decade or so, but...here. With him. It wouldn't have occurred to him before tonight, he was distantly aware, because there were certain boundaries they did not cross, even though Aziraphale had for centuries allowed the bookshop to be a place they could drink and talk in private, even though they had their other meeting places, like St James Park. But to wish for more than that, something more intimate than their occasional meetings--
Aziraphale drank some of the whiskey, gulping down a mouthful rather than savoring it as was his wont. It was good, very, very good. He found he couldn't think about it at all. "Is that why, Crowley?" he asked before he'd even really thought of what he was going to say, his voice soft and low.
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It had seemed like a good attempt to sate Aziraphale's ego and dismiss the topic, with the more uncomfortable truths that lurked beneath, but the instant the words passed his lips he regretted them. Sincerity. There were few things more embarrassing.
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"Ah," he said when he became aware he'd been quiet a moment too long himself. "Good. Then we'll always have something to offer one another." There was a little smile curving his lips as he glanced down at the glass in his hands. "Can't remember the last time I had a good preening."
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"You're thinking something," he challenged Aziraphale. It might have been foolish, but, oh, it was what the moment demanded, wasn't it? "Are you too polite to say it, or will I have to guess?"
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"I, ah." It certainly wasn't easy to put into words, but he tried. "I was thinking, I was just thinking about the books." Fearing it might sound like a non-sequitur, he hastened on, "It's just that I'd forgotten all about them at that moment, you know, but you didn't. You didn't have to do that. It's more than enough that thanks to you I'm not discorporated right now." Aziraphale took a nervous drink of the scotch, chasing it nearly to the bottom of the glass. "And I suppose now I find myself looking at things, ah, differently."
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"Never know when a good prophecy book might come in handy." No, that was a stupid thing to say. He shook his head abruptly. This conversation might wait another thousand years if he let it go this time, even if it was dangerous to entertain. "Tell me, Aziraphale, what do you see?"
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"Well, I think...you, Crowley." Aziraphale looked up at him again. "Not that you're different, I mean to say, but I--" Oh heavens. He hadn't thought of how difficult it would be to say what he meant without resorting to the kind of sentiments that would probably make Crowley hiss at him for daring to credit him with any undemonic qualities. Aziraphale sighed. "You're so dear to me. I suppose I've failed to see it clearly until now, but you are."
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Maybe it was easier to put the impetus completely on Aziraphale for this. He had plausible deniability for dealing with Aziraphale, a claim that he was tempting an angel downwards, maybe, but the angel would have nothing to say to Heaven. It was his decision.
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He didn't blame Crowley if he needed a minute.
"I can't. I--I would never want to." It was a surprisingly painful thought. Aziraphale set his glass aside, shifting uncertainly and to no purpose, until with abrupt resolution he turned his body towards Crowley. That was the easy part of what he wanted to do; the other took a little more struggle, but in the end Aziraphale reached out his hand and laid it over the top of Crowley's, stroking briefly over the backs of his fingers.
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"As for that--" He hesitated, and then forged on ahead with a determined sort of recklessness, "It may be no better or no worse, but it would certainly be something--something new to try. If you wanted."
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So he lifted their linked hands to his mouth and pressed a kiss to the top of Aziraphale's hand, lingering there for just a moment before he returned their hands back to the arm of Crowley's chair.
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He found himself smiling, a little tremulous but nonetheless genuine, watching Crowley after he had lifted his hand and kissed it. The hint of tenderness he felt underneath everything else was surprising. It was the bravado in Crowley's voice, maybe, that brought it out of him--this couldn't be simple for Crowley, either. "Well then." It seemed that he was at liberty to pursue what he wanted, so Aziraphale said, "Would you like to come closer?"
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"Oh, fuck it," he muttered to himself, pushed himself out of the chair, and pinned Aziraphale back against his own chair in a swift motion. "Tell me you mean it," he said pointedly.
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"Oh, yes." His voice was rather breathless. "Yes, of course I mean it." Goodness, didn't Crowley realize? Aziraphale stroked his hips, and then his waist, and then reached up both hands to cup them tentatively around Crowley's face and draw him down. He wanted...yes, this, his lips against Crowley's, his eyes closing as he tilted his head a little to accommodate for the glasses.
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"Look at you," he murmured after, still close enough to feel Aziraphale's breath on his cheek. "What do you want, angel?"
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As if that was the important thing. He pressed a knee into the chair he'd so comfortably pinned Aziraphale, and caught him in a kiss again, deftly undoing his own tie in a swift, decisive motion. The time for teasing was over.
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And he'd have agreed with that sentiment, if Crowley had voiced it aloud; he was eager, hungry even, heated through from being kissed again and being aware that Crowley was undoing his tie. Aziraphale reached out to help him, catching at the buttons of his shirt and fumbling them undone. He might have thought to miracle some clothing away for efficiency's sake, if he could have really thought of anything that moment other than Crowley's mouth against his, but maybe not. Maybe it was best to take the slower way.
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"I'm afraid you owe me one for that, my dear," Aziraphale informed him, and he pushed Crowley's shirt off his shoulders (which he had taken care not to rip, thank you very much).
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Bodies were strange; he'd never exactly felt this hunger for touch before, but now he wanted his lips on Aziraphale's mouth, his neck, the slightest nip there, and his free hand simply lingering right at his thigh.
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They were in agreement, though: behaving was not what he had in mind. He stroked greedily, tenderly over Crowley's bare skin wherever he could reach it, tilting his head to offer more of his throat. He was vaguely aware of Crowley's hand at his thigh, entirely willing to encourage his touch wherever it wanted to wander, his own hands moving back down to Crowley's hips where they'd been when he'd first slung himself into his lap. He grasped Crowley's hips firmly, pressed his own up against him--caught his breath again, oh, that felt lovely.
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"You done this before?" he murmured, gaze tight on Aziraphale's face as he kept touching him.
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