Chapter Text
Crowley slammed the door to his rental car shut and shoved his hands into his pockets. It had been a fucking fridgid drive from the airport on the wrong side of the road, white-knuckling it the whole way until he could finally stop.
He yanked his suitcase out of the boot and trudged up the snow covered walk. The damn lodge was still under construction but fuck, if he was going to pay for a room in this godforsaken place.
He didn’t even want to be here. For whatever reason, his uncle had left him a half-renovated lodge in the arse end of Oregon. According to old emails, the town was idyllic and wonderful and beautiful in all seasons and, according to the will, his uncle wanted him to carry on the legacy or some shite.
Crowley was not about to do that. The place looked like the sort of town that swarmed with tourists during the ski season, and, during the off-season, festered. Why his uncle had bought real estate here, he had no idea. All he knew was that he needed to get the renovations in order and sell the fucking place.
“You must be Mr. King’s nephew.”
The posh voice drew Crowley’s attention. Received pronunciation, soft but with a bit of a lilt that sounded like they had been away from the UK for awhile. Crowley turned and his mouth went dry.
Behind him stood a chubby man in red plaid, shirt tails tucked into jeans held up by black braces. His wavy blond hair was pushed back from his forehead and even through his thick beard Crowley could see his dimples.
His heart fluttered in his chest and he firmly told it to cut it out.
“That’d be me,” Crowley replied, thankful he only sounded about half as choked as he felt.
The man stepped forward and reached out his hand to shake Crowley’s. When he took it, Crowley was utterly distracted by it’s warmth, the way it engulfed his, the scrape of calluses over his own smooth palm. The fluttering in his chest dipped lower, seeming to want to get his stomach in on this new exciting development.
“And you are?” he asked, withdrawing his hand and trying to keep his cool. Since when had he been attracted to chubby blond men? Or even men with beards? Not his type whatsoever.
Even if the streaks of almost white gray at his temples made Crowley feel weak at the knees.
“I’m Aziraphale,” the man said, still smiling that easy smile that made Crowley’s heart patter. “I worked for your uncle a bit, doing some of the renovations. I was just finishing up with one of the downstairs windows. The pane was broken and needed replacing.”
“Oh,” Crowley breathed. Aziraphale. The name was familiar. He’d been in the list of contacts in the documentation regarding the lodge. Crowley had trouble piecing it all together because he was still staring but he couldn’t stop. It was the slope of the man’s strong shoulders, the pull of the red plaid over his barrel chest. The fucking braces that showed the exact curve of his belly. The top two buttons of his shirt were undone and Crowley could see the shadow of chest hair that he had the most insane desire to feel under his mouth.
Fuck.
“I’m, er, Anthony. But you can call me Crowley,” he said hurriedly, feeling like quite the fool. Tongue-tied like a boy with a crush. Pathetic.
“What has you stopping by tonight?” Aziraphale asked politely, seemingly not noticing Crowley’s awful distraction. “I didn’t expect you until the morning. Well, not if I was going by the itinerary you sent.”
Crowley frowned, still caught up in the way Aziraphale’s jeans fit his thighs. They were really fucking good thighs. “Itinerary? I didn’t send an itinerary.”
Aziraphale laughed and it was a gorgeous sound, a thing that arose deep in his belly and pealed out like a bell. It was unselfconscious in a way that Crowley simultaneously envied and found unbelievably attractive.
“I apologize. I meant the itinerary your assistant sent. Eric, I believe,” Aziraphale said, raising his eyebrows expectantly. In the porchlight of the lodge, Crowley could see the bright blue hazel of Aziraphale’s eyes, the shot of gold in the center. “He said you’d meet me here in the morning.”
Crowley cleared his throat and looked at his boots. “Right. Eric. Well, we can meet in the morning but I’m here because my flight just got in and I’m staying here until I wrap my business up.”
Aziraphale gaped. “Absolutely not!” he said sharply, the firm schoolmarm-like quality of his voice in direct opposition to his appearance. He sounded like he was the gran from Little Red Riding Hood but he looked like the woodsman. Crowley pushed away his thoughts of rifles and axes and particularly hungry wolves.
“There is no working heat,” Aziraphale continued, a bit plaintively. “The place is freezing.”
Crowley shook his head. “It’s fine. I can bundle up or something.”
“Nonsense. There are perfectly serviceable rooms in town,” Aziraphale said and then he hesitated. He bit his lip which was unfairly adorable, a flash of teeth in the bristles of his beard. “However, it is the high season and nearing midnight. It’s going to get below twenty tonight. You shouldn’t stay here. You can stay with me.”
Crowley gripped the handle of his suitcase. He felt like the world’s most obvious out of towner in his designer jeans and fitted shirt. Aziraphale must think him a rube, the worst sort of city-slicker, showing up in the middle of the night without checking if anything worked.
Then the meaning of his words sank in.
Stay with me .
“Erm,” he stuttered out, mind whirling. He pictured the sort of place Aziraphale would live in. Probably full of handmade quilts with a cozy fire.
But that was probably every place in this hallmark-movie town.
Aziraphale’s hand went to his chest. “Oh dear, I didn’t mean...that is, I’m not - I’m certainly not propositioning you. I simply have a pull out couch.”
Crowley looked at him and swallowed. He’d known that’s what Aziraphale meant and yet he still felt a sharp stab of disappointment at his obvious distress.
“Also, working heat,” Aziraphale added with a small smile, and Crowley was fairly certain his eyes twinkled. Which should have been impossible and yet…
“Fine, yeah. Appreciate it,” Crowley grumbled.
Aziraphale clapped his hands together and then jerked his chin in the direction of the lodge. “Let me turn off the lights and we can be going. You can follow my truck out.”
Crowley followed his gesture and saw a beat up red truck parked in the lodge’s drive. This man...drove a truck. It looked like the sort of truck that you filled with firewood. That you drove out to the lake with your sweetheart so you could kiss then under the stars.
Crowley’s stomach did something wobbly.
“Sure, yeah,” Crowley said, walking back to his car and then collapsing against the side of it. He watched Aziraphale go up the walk. His braces formed an X across his back, emphasizing his shoulder blades and the lush spread of his arms. And that arse. Fuck, if the jeans made his thighs look good...his arse.
Crowley closed his eyes against the very unwelcome wave of lust that smashed into him.
It was just a month. He was here for a month and then he would be gone. He shouldn’t think about gorgeous mountain men with twinkling eyes and mouth watering arses. He should get the work done and get out.