Chapter Text
Crowley’s cock was the third Aziraphale had sucked that day. Good going, especially for a Sunday. Most people didn’t travel on Sundays, preferring to stay put, in a misguided imitation of God’s day of rest. His well-deserved break at the end of a whole week of creation.
Funny that, even after the destruction, people still clung to that idea. Just like they clung to sex. Another act of creation, at least if the bible was to be believed. Aziraphale would know, he had one hidden in the kitchenette of his caravan with the other books, in the chest underneath the bench.
Books weren’t banned or valuable or anything. Aziraphale just liked to keep his little collection private. Something just for him. Since he gave so much of himself away the rest of the time. Occasionally, when someone fascinating passed his caravan on their way north, he’d fold up the soft chenille seat and show them the books. Most were polite enough to at least feign interest.
But Crowley appeared to be genuinely into it. The ends of his flaming hair grazed the yellowed pages as he bent over the book.
‘There’s a bit about a garden, isn’t there? And a snake, telling the woman to eat the forbidden fruit or something.’
Aziraphale took the bible from his hands and opened it at Genesis. In the beginning. He read.
‘And the woman said unto the serpent, we may eat of the fruit of the trees of the garden: But of the fruit of the tree which is in the midst of the garden, God hath said, ye shall not eat of it, neither shall ye touch it, lest ye die. And the serpent said unto the woman, ye shall not surely die: For God doth know that in the day ye eat thereof, then your eyes shall be opened, and ye shall be as gods, knowing good and evil.’
‘That’s the bit,’ Crowley said, leaning back into the mattress, propped up on an elbow. ‘I’ve always wondered what’s so bad about knowing the difference between good and evil anyway.’
Aziraphale snapped the book shut and put it aside.
‘I suppose the theory is that if one is incapable of knowing evil, one is also incapable of doing evil.’
‘That’s just a load of bollocks, though. I mean, look at the demons, they don’t even know their own names and still manage to be vicious bastards.’
Aziraphale nodded, pensively.
‘Speaking of which. The sun is setting in an hour and a half. You better get yourself somewhere safe before night falls.’
Crowley bit his bottom lip and looked up at Aziraphale with round eyes. Oh no. He knew what was coming next.
‘Couldn’t I stay here overnight? I’ll pay extra.’
Aziraphale suppressed an exasperated sigh. Crowley couldn’t know he got that question at least once a week. He put on a kind smile, but still gave the same answer as always.
‘My dear, I’m not a hotel. However, there is one just a little east from here. Tadfield Manor. Clean beds, lovely rooms, and the landlady is very trustworthy. Tell her I’ve sent you and she might even offer a cup of tea on the house if she’s feeling generous.’
Crowley nodded, decidedly dejected, and sat up to pick up his possessions, which were kept in an enormous camouflage backpack. Most travellers had one of those, strapped to the back racks of their bicycles. Aziraphale didn’t. Ugly things, they were. He had standards, after all. Plus, he never went anywhere.
He also had the caravan, of course, which made him richer than most of the travellers he serviced. He had a home, and something to offer. A quick fuck and a chat, a little extra energy on the way. A moment of companionship. Only for some, Crowley evidently among them, it wasn’t enough.
And while Aziraphale was happy to indulge them to an extent, especially if they were as handsome and pleasant to talk to as Crowley was, he was not a charity. The next client could be knocking on his door any minute now.
But when Crowley left, cycling off in the direction of the hotel, Aziraphale allowed himself a little twinge of sadness. In different circumstances, perhaps, he would have let him stay. But in different circumstances, Aziraphale would be completely unrecognisable. Firstly, he’d have more books. And he’d have them on display, on a proper shelf. There was no open wall space for that in the van. Secondly, he probably wouldn’t be in the business of selling sex.
He considered the matter as me made his evening cup of tea, measuring out one teaspoon each of sugar and powdered milk. Perhaps he would be in the business in any circumstance. Even if he had a house. If he lived in Scotland. He liked his work, most of the time. He was good at it, and he found it interesting. Found people interesting. Shame they were so few and far between these days.
No-one else came by, and when the sun began to set, Aziraphale went through his evening routine in silence. He folded up the table and two chairs outside, collapsed the sign advertising his business, and cranked shut the awning that provided shade for the little patch of grass he grandiosely called his veranda. Then he went inside, locked the door, shuttered the windows, and weighed out his earnings for the day.
Not bad at all for a Sunday. Perhaps he’d take a little trip to the shop tomorrow, stock up on tea and potatoes and, if he was feeling fancy, perhaps even some chocolate, should Anathema have any in stock.
He put the gold back in the jar, took his clothes off, and settled in bed with one of his favourite books from his collection. The pillow was fluffed up and propped against the back wall of the van. It was barely enough to cushion his sore back. Needed a wash, too. Aziraphale pressed his face to it and sniffed it. Still all right for another day or two.
Something stuck to it caught the dim light of the reading lamp. A copper reflection. It was a single red hair, as long as Aziraphale’s forearm. He pinched it between thumb and forefinger and flicked it onto the floor. A real shame he’d had to send Crowley away. A bit of company for the night might have been pleasant. But where would he be if he allowed strangers to stay over just because he liked the look of them? Out of business, that’s where.
He squished the pillow back in place behind his lower back and opened his book. Outside, the demons were crawling out of their holes in the ground, roaming the deserted roads and the overgrown fields in between. Aziraphale heard their shuffling noises, their pitiful cries in the distance. But they were easy to ignore, after so long. Inside the safety of his caravan, Alice was about to go down the rabbithole.
‘How’s business?’ Anathema asked the next morning, as she weighed out spoonfuls of tea on a dainty set of scales.
Aziraphale was the only customer in the shop. He liked that. It meant he got to stay and chat a little without having to worry about being in the way.
‘Booming, actually. There’s always a bit of a rush before it gets too hot to travel. But I need it, there won’t be hardly anyone coming by from the end of May onwards.’
‘Don’t I know it.’
She scooped the tea into a paper bag, which she rolled up and secured with a strip of sellotape before placing it next to the cans of vegetables, the razorblades, and the tub of vaseline. Aziraphale tutted.
‘At least you’ve still got the customers that live around here. I’ll always need tea and—’ he gesticulated towards the pile of groceries on the counter between them ‘mushy peas and whatnot when it’s hot. Whereas I highly doubt you’ll be coming round to mine for a bit of intimate personal relaxation and stress relief any time soon.’
Anathema laughed.
‘I expect Newt would consider that a frivolous expense.’
‘And he would be right to think so.’
Aziraphale’s clients were always travellers, and always alone. Anathema had Newt. Tracy had Shadwell. And Aziraphale had his work. It was a measly replacement, mere moments of human connection in an otherwise solitary existence. But it was enough.
‘So what are you gonna do when business dries up again?’ Anathema asked, with a real note of worry in her voice.
‘Live off my savings, same as last year.’
He didn’t mention how hard it had been, the previous summer. How badly he’d miscalculated. She wasn’t an intimate enough friend for him to admit weaknesses like that. The truth was, without Tracy’s care and endless generosity, he’d never have made it through to the autumn. Just the memory of it made him shudder.
Anathema packed his shopping into the cotton tote bag he handed her, cans clinking against each other as she piled them in.
‘No chocolate this time? I’ve got some dark one in, 70% cocoa, not even slightly rancid.’
‘Not today, my dear, thank you.’
He pulled out his pouch and handed her a small amount of gold, which she weighed on the dainty scales as well, returning the change.
After saying goodbye, he set off for the hour-long walk back, the tote bag slung over one shoulder. He’d be back at his van before it would start to get hot. The lunch hours were already insufferable. Aziraphale had never been comfortable in warm weather, and he certainly wouldn’t risk a sunburn when he could instead sit outside his van in the shade of the awning, with his little tartan-patterned fan providing at least the imitation of cool.
It was a shame that, in a sudden fit of foresight, he hadn’t picked up any chocolate. But the memory of last summer’s misery had spoiled his appetite anyway. He simply had to be wiser with his money this year. Could not go on hoping his garden would provide when the savings ran dry, as they inevitably would by mid-August. What a fool he’d been. This year, he knew his harvest would be a little more bountiful. The figs and cherries on the trees were growing well, and he’d been lucky with the grapes. He might even take a bagful to Tadfield Manor and share them with Tracy in exchange for eggs and her incredible goat’s cheese.
‘You should try winemaking,’ she’d told him the last time she’d been round for a visit.
Aziraphale liked the idea, but he wouldn’t even know where to begin. Surely one needed rather a lot of grapes to make wine. And equipment. Barrels and bottles and who knew what else.
But sometimes, when he was in his garden, looking at the vines that wound all along the back fence, he liked to imagine it was a vineyard. A vineyard would mean using the land for something frivolous. A vegetable bed was a necessity. But a vineyard was a hobby. And he’d have all the wine he could ever want. Perhaps a whole cellar full.
Aziraphale laughed at the idea of a hidden trapdoor in the linoleum floor of his caravan, leading down to an underground storage room piled high with dusty wine bottles.
‘Let me just get the 2077 vintage,’ he might say to Tracy, when she was over with her Tarot deck and a tin of flapjacks. ‘I keep it just for you.’
It wasn’t as if he never had wine these days. Just a few months ago, he split a bottle with Tracy and Shadwell, to celebrate the new year. But he wouldn’t mind indulging a little more often than he got the chance to. Perhaps one day. But until then, the grapes were for eating and the caravan was just a caravan.
He was nearly there now, not having encountered anyone on the road. Which was bad for business. But it was still early in the morning. The first travellers usually passed him around 10 o’clock.
However, when he turned the last corner and saw his little caravan illuminated beige by the morning sun, he found that there was someone already waiting for him outside, with his hands in his pockets and his bike leaning against one of the van’s flat tyres.
‘Hello again. What a surprise.’ Aziraphale couldn’t keep the note of delight out of his voice. ‘So sorry you had to wait, I was out to the shop.’
‘I know.’
Crowley pointed at the slip of paper that was taped to the van door.
Out to the shop. Back by 9:30. Aziraphale x
‘Well, here I am, on the dot. I take it you’re back for another round before you set off again?’
Crowley scratched the back of his neck, gaze fixed on his own boots. How precious. He was shy.
‘Come on inside, and you can tell me exactly what I can do for you.’
Aziraphale unlocked the door, turning his head to hide his grin. He dropped the bag of groceries on the kitchen counter and went straight through to the back, where the bed took up the entire width of the van, framed on three sides by walls. He sat on the edge, motioning for Crowley to join him.
When he did, he gifted Aziraphale an uncertain smile.
‘You don’t think it’s… you know, greedy… wasteful? Twice in two days?’
Bless. As if Aziraphale would want to discourage this stranger from spending his gold here in his van.
‘I’m not your accountant, my dear.’ He leaned closer, dragging his gaze from his pale brown eyes down to his parted lips. ‘But I can tell you one thing. I like greedy men. I like it when they know exactly what they want.’
Crowley’s hand landed in his hair the same moment their lips met in a kiss, and Aziraphale felt the hesitancy melt away to nothing. The faintest rumble of a moan vibrated against his mouth. He inhaled the sweet scent of apples wafting over from Crowley’s hair. Tracy’s shampoo. He must have had a shower at the hotel in the morning. Which cost a pretty penny. This man was clearly rich. Or careless.
The fact that he was back in Aziraphale’s caravan suggested the latter.
‘Fuck,’ Crowley panted when he pulled away, ‘I couldn’t leave without seeing you again. Just had to, one more time, you know?’
‘I know. I’m so glad you’re here.’
It wasn’t a lie. Crowley had been a model client the previous day. It helped that he was good-looking with a nice cock. And, of course, he’d been interested in Aziraphale’s books.
‘Aziraphale. I really want to fuck you. Is that… something you offer?’
‘If you can afford it.’
Crowley grinned, the last trace of bashfulness now completely gone, as he pulled out a wallet clearly filled to bursting with gold. Aziraphale glanced at it, before tipping his face up to Crowley with a smile.
‘Well, hello big spender. You really shouldn’t go flaunting your wealth like that. Dangerous thing for a man to do out here on the road.’
‘Don’t you worry your pretty head. I can look after myself just fine. How much is it, then?’
Aziraphale stood up and weighed out the right amount, in full view of his client, like he always did, before sneaking to the front of the van where, behind the privacy of the curtain divider, he stashed it away in its usual hiding place.
When he returned, Crowley was still sitting on the edge of the bed, leaning back on his hands, giving Aziraphale an appreciative once-over.
‘I could just look at you all day.’ His voice was hoarse. ‘You don’t happen to sell photographs of yourself, do you? Pin-ups, like what they did in the olden days. To keep a man company on a lonely night.’
Aziraphale laughed.
‘If I ever get my hands on a camera, you’ll be the first to know.’
It was meaningless flirting. In just a few hours, Crowley would be gone, continuing his journey to Scotland, and Aziraphale would never see him again. The thought stung, somewhere deep in his chest. He forced it away.
‘You’ll have to be patient now, I’m afraid. If we’re going to fuck, I’ll need a little time for my… toilette.’
The coy wink that accompanied this really rather candid statement made Crowley laugh. Aziraphale grabbed his wash bag from the shelf and left the van, treading the familiar path that wound its way between overgrown hedges and piles of moss-covered rubbish, through the shrubs and hazel bushes, until he emerged on the other side at the gate to his garden.
Right at the bottom of it was a stream of clean, clear water. It was lively today, the rushing sound of its abundance filling the air. In a month or two, it would be significantly thinner, laboriously trickling along its bed. Just enough to sustain Aziraphale and his garden, without allowing for even the slightest waste. But for now, it was enough. He unpacked his wash bag, undressed, and rinsed himself off, inside and out. He was fairly efficient at it, these days. Not that many clients paid him for anal sex. Most couldn’t afford it or, sensibly, opted for the cheaper and quicker option of a blowjob. Crowley evidently liked to splash out.
Crowley. Fuck. He was in the van. Aziraphale had just left him there. With all of his possessions. With his stash of gold, which was hidden, but not well enough to withstand a thorough search. And his bag of groceries, just sitting there on the kitchen counter. Canned vegetables and real sugar and his precious tea.
Aziraphale scrambled out of the water, hastily drying himself off with the towel he’d brought along. He pulled his clothes back on haphazardly. By now, Crowley could be halfway to Leamington Spa with all of his food and all of his money. Aziraphale wouldn’t be able to catch up. He ran up the path to the van, scolding himself the entire way there. How could he have forgotten basic safety precautions? Never leave a stranger in his van. Always make them wait outside.
He burst inside to find Crowley exactly where he’d left him. Sitting on his bed. Legs dangling off the edge. His boots were neatly set aside on the floor in front of it.
‘Heard you running,’ he said, with a self-assured grin that bore no trace of his earlier shyness. ‘Eager, are we?’
Aziraphale leaned back against the door he’d just slammed shut, panting. His shopping was still there, in the bag on the counter. The curtain looked undisturbed. His heart rate slowly returned to normal. He forced a seductive smile onto his face. Back into work mode. He stepped up to the bed and straddled Crowley’s thighs in one smooth movement.
‘That’s right. I can’t wait to feel that glorious cock of yours inside me.’
Crowley exhaled a soft sigh and wrapped his arms around Aziraphale’s waist. He tipped his head back, letting Crowley mouth at his throat, licking over his skin all the way down to where the collar of his shirt was in the way, slightly damp from the water dripping from his curls.
‘Take it off then,’ he murmured, his own hands pulling at the hem of Crowley’s black t-shirt.
‘Oh, that’s down to me now, is it? What exactly am I paying your exorbitant fee for if I have to do all the work myself?’
There was a mischievous gleam in Crowley’s eyes that made Aziraphale chuckle. He was glad he’d come back for another round. This would be an easy hour’s work. Fun, even.
A short while later, Aziraphale was kneeling, bracing both hands against the wall of the caravan, as Crowley fucked into him in hard thrusts, his own knees pushing deep craters into the threadbare mattress. Yes. This was good, actually. He’d been worried, just a little. Hadn’t had a cock in him for at least three weeks. Most passers-by had neither the money nor the leisure.
But Crowley had been surprisingly gentle, entering him slowly, carefully, pausing when Aziraphale winced or pulled away. And now— well, there was nothing wrong with the enjoyment of a good pounding. No one said work had to be arduous.
‘That’s it, harder. You feel so good. Fuck.’
He wasn’t even lying. Crowley did feel good inside him, satisfying in a way Aziraphale didn’t get to relish often. On the rare occasion someone did pay to fuck him, they were usually too desperate, too starved for it to actually savour the act. But Crowley knew what he was doing, slowing down at times, nearly pulling out of him only to slam back with a force that made Aziraphale moan with pleasure.
He arched his back, trying to angle himself in a way that would make Crowley lose his mind. This was good sex and he was getting paid for it. Had already gotten paid for it. Crowley’s mouth was on the curve of his shoulder, sucking and biting, and Aziraphale didn’t even care about the inevitable hickeys. He threw his head back until his cheek was resting against Crowley’s. The smell of sweat mingled with Tracy’s apple shampoo filled his nostrils. Aziraphale breathed in deep, held it in his lungs.
The caravan shook as Crowley neared his climax, the arm around Aziraphale’s naked waist tightening. His own cock was bobbing along, half-hard and neglected. He’d take care of that later, in the privacy of night, when he was safe and alone and Crowley was halfway to Nottingham.
‘Aziraphale,’ Crowley panted into his ear, voiceless and breathless, ‘I’m gonna—’
‘Yes. Come for me. Make me feel it.’
There was one final thrust, a deep, guttural moan, and Crowley pulsed inside of him, with his head heavy on Aziraphale’s shoulder, and his hands uncomfortably hot on his sides. Aziraphale shifted, his knees stiff, his hands even a little numb where they were pressed against the wall of the van.
Crowley pulled out and sank back onto his haunches. Aziraphale turned around to find him with his eyes closed, breathing rather fast.
‘Are you all right?’
Crowley smiled, his skin crinkling over the sharp ridges of his cheekbones.
‘I’m very all right. Fuck. I can’t even remember the last time I had sex like that.’
Aziraphale sat down and tucked his knees up to his chest.
‘It’s been a while for me, too, if you can believe it.’
‘I believe you ‘cause you don’t strike me as a liar, but… really? Isn’t that, you know… your job?’
‘Most of my clients don’t have the leisure and, frankly, the funds for it. Blow jobs are my bread and butter.’
Crowley laughed, an uncontrolled cackle that made the muscles of his belly twitch.
‘Sorry, sorry… s’just kind of a funny sentence.’ He opened his eyes. ‘Bet you think I’m wasting my money then, eh?’
‘It would be very bad business for me to discourage you.’
They stayed there in silence for a while, Crowley still sitting back on his heels. He looked like a statue, something pastoral or mythical. Narcissus at the stream, perhaps, or a milkmaid picking flowers.
Aziraphale leaned against the side wall of the van and just gazed at him for a little while. He knew he was one of the lucky ones. He got to see other faces, more often than most of the people who had made a home in what was left of Tadfield. But moments like this, of genuine closeness, of companionable stillness, were still precious and rare.
Crowley relaxed into a more comfortable position, untucking his feet and crossing them in front of him. His eyes were alert, a tawny shade of brown, and they were taking Aziraphale in keenly. A flush rose to the back of his neck, entirely ridiculous considering he was sitting there, bare naked, with Crowley’s come trickling down his leg.
Which reminded him, he really needed to wash.
‘Shouldn’t you set off now? It’s nearly five hours still to Leicester.’
Crowley bit his lip and looked down at his ankles. Not again.
‘I was wondering, actually, if I could stay a little longer.’
This time, the answer hurt. But it was still the same. Could never be anything else. Aziraphale said it with as much regret as he could put into his voice.
‘You can’t, Crowley. I’m sorry.’