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Eighteen months later . . .
"Ouch!" Crowley yelped, tenderly rubbing his shin. "Angel, how many times have I asked you not to move my coffee table?"
The clatter of pottering in the kitchen halted for a beat, and then Aziraphale was beside him, a supportive arm slipping around his slender waist. With gentle insistence, he guided Crowley to sit on the piano stool.
Aziraphale dropped to a crouch in front of him, face sketched with concern. "Oh my! Are you hurt?" He made a small noise of self-despair as he cradled Crowley’s calf in his hands, sliding up the soft material of his trousers, inspecting the damage.
It really was a very nice leg, he noted absently, much like the rest of him, come to think of it.
Gently, he ran a speculative thumb over the offered sore spot, eyes flicking up to Crowley’s face, searching for the slightest wince.
Although these unfortunate mishaps were slowly improving, they still occurred almost daily. And whilst he was indebted to Crowley for his unwavering patience when it came to these little ‘incidents’, he had learned his boyfriend did have a propensity towards the dramatic.
This occasion being one of them.
Crowley’s face scrunched up, and his pout was Academy Award-winning. It was the sort of pout, Aziraphale reasoned, that one might pull when the desire for compensation far outweighed the actual injury.
"It really hurts,” Crowley complained, hissing ridiculously at Aziraphale’s lightest of touches. His shoulders sagged with the tragic conviction of someone auditioning for a Victorian fainting couch. “I might not be able to manage today after all."
Aziraphale’s expression shifted, sliding from worry to something distinctly less impressed.
“It’s a jolly good job you can’t actually see the look I’m giving you right now, Anthony Crowley,” he said, voice lilting with mock sternness. He gave Crowley’s skinny thigh a playful slap and gently lowered his leg back down. "This is your big day, and a tiny bump on your shin is certainly not going to stop it from happening."
Crowley wasn’t really hurt. Aziraphale had long since learned that now and then, his impetuous redhead simply needed reassurance. And this was how Crowley reached out—seeking confirmation that Aziraphale was still on side, that his blindness wasn’t becoming a burden or, worse, a bore. Of course, tender words were exchanged daily, but it was touch that Crowley trusted the most. And frankly, if a little touching was what it took to convince Crowley he wasn’t a nuisance - well, it was hardly a chore. Especially not when he’d be slouching around the flat in his customary skinny-fit band t-shirt and those infuriatingly low-slung combat trousers.
Knowing their dance, Aziraphale rose to his feet slowly, a hand resting purposefully on Crowley’s right shoulder—a silent cue.
Crowley tilted his head in quiet expectation, and Aziraphale leaned down to meet him, his lips finding their place—soft and unhurried, an unspoken apology folding into the press. Even now, after the thrill of their first kiss had settled into something more familiar, his heart still leapt when he touched Crowley like this.
It was like an internal pinch reminding him that this—all of this—was real.
"Okaaaay, you’re forgiven. Again,” Crowley murmured against his mouth. Aziraphale felt the words more than he heard them, as Crowley’s hand came up to touch his face, long fingers dimpling the soft skin along his jaw. His apology willingly reciprocated, Crowley became utterly absorbed in the moment, clearly enjoying every second of this tender union. Aziraphale could feel his gangly frame begin to relax under his hands as they settled into a rhythm, their lips brushing together like it was something they'd always known how to do.
Eventually, a slow smile bloomed between them—mischief always lurking at the edge of even their gentlest moments. Crowley pulled back for the briefest pause. “At least you’ve finally stopped leaving the toilet lid closed,” he whispered, pointedly.
Aziraphale laughed against his mouth and kissed him some more, feeling, not for the first time, how very lucky he had been to run into such good fortune on what had been a calamity of an assignment on the platform that day.
He reached up to tuck a stray lock of red hair back behind Crowley’s ear, humming softly as he did. Then he paused, taking in every detail of his face-the roguish tilt of his chin, the soft scatter of freckles across his cheeks, the silver arc of the piercing in his nose that never failed to spark something fizzy and ridiculous in his chest. Like the kind you get when you realise the hot-looking guy in the leather jacket is yours—and still calls you “Angel” like it's the most natural thing in the world.
Unable to resist the urge to let him go completely, Aziraphale touched his lips once to his forehead—a parting gesture of affection that had Crowley sinking back onto the stool, his grin as contented as an alley cat let loose in a cream factory.
"I’m sorry about the coffee table," Aziraphale said, frustration creeping in. "I completely forgot to move it back after shifting it for the boxes I brought over last Saturday. I was reorganising my Theology section on the new shelf. I’ve got a lecture next week.”
Crowley crooned, intrigued, “Hmmm, and what are you enthralling your students with this week . . . Dr Aziraphale Fell?” He always made Aziraphale’s name sound faintly indecent when he used that voice— all embers and honey, like he was some ruggedly handsome archaeologist who'd just swung in on a bullwhip. Yet, if Crowley had any idea what the talk was about, and more specifically how long it was, then he might’ve chosen a different tone entirely.
“Oh, it’s a good one. The Ineffable Plan: Free Will and Divine Vagueness in Apocalyptic Texts—we’re exploring how sacred writings wrestle with the tension between prophecy and personal agenda. It’s the perfect excuse to dust off my old Bibles.”
“Right.”
Aziraphale tittered as Crowley’s brief flicker of engagement vanished as quickly as it came. “Well, anyway,” he went on, “I won’t miss tripping over those damned boxes in the hallway and nearly breaking my neck,” he gave his head a rueful shake.
Aziraphale’s expression shifted, guilt weighing in behind his eyes.
Crowley’s invitation to move in full-time had been news Aziraphale had longed for after a blissful year of dating him—and yet, it was taking some getting used to. The suggestion had come, of course, in true Crowley fashion, after Aziraphale had spent sleepless nights agonising over whether to broach the subject himself. Were they ready for that step? Was Crowley content living solo with Bentley? Had he misread the signs of how well things were going?
Then, one Tuesday evening in the local supermarket, just as the cashier asked, “Do you need a bag, Dr Fell?”, Crowley had dropped the offer casually among the carrots and parsnips, like a conversational grenade.
“Do you wanna move in with me?” he’d said, idly tossing and catching a loose apple expertly in one hand, his skinny frame propped against the edge of the conveyor belt as though they were discussing the weather.
It had taken every ounce of Aziraphale’s self-control to keep his jubilation under wraps as he scrabbled to collect the cascade of coins that had clattered from his fingers. He garbled his thanks to the cashier, stuffing his bags at reckless speed. One squashed loaf of bread, one exploded strawberry yoghurt, and a large tin of Campbell’s condensed mushroom soup, dropped squarely on Crowley’s foot, later, and he was wrapping his arms around his boyfriend's shoulders in the car park with a delighted squeal of acceptance.
Crowley had staggered to keep upright, ending up squashed against a row of trolleys, his expression hanging somewhere between laughter and alarm, utterly bemused by the whole fuss.
But now, the reality of living with Crowley was upon him.
Amalgamating their two lives felt rather like trying to smuggle a Victorian bookshop into Apple’s headquarters—and Aziraphale’s tendency for hording and woolly-headedness had caused more complications than he’d hoped.
The books, teacups, and trinkets that came with him seemed to multiply overnight, spilling into every available crevice. Precarious towers of clutter cropped up in entirely unsuitable places - coffee tables, doorways, and far too close to the edges of previously empty units. Crowley, who once glided through his flat with the ease of memory and instinct, was now reduced to bashing into unseen hazards like a malfunctioning RoboVac.
It had been a long six months of adjustment, but Crowley, bless him, had taken it all in remarkably good grace.
"At least someone here has my safety at heart.” Crowley grouched, turning his attention towards the large dark shape spread out on the floor by the sofa, “Hey, Boy?".
Bentley lifted his huge head from the mat, where he lay ‘off duty,’ soaking in the steady murmur of daytime television from the set mounted on the wall. He considered getting up, briefly weighing the effort against the reward of a pat.
With a low huff, he decided against it.
He loved Crowley dearly, but ever since his owner had hooked up with that disaster of a blonde-haired human, his downtime had been compromised far beyond the expectations of any self-respecting guide dog.
Still, he’d never seen Crowley so happy. These days, he sang when the other one was out—whistled too, which was frankly off-putting and made Bentley’s ears twitch. But truth be told, his new friend wasn’t all that bad. Even if he did mean extra work. He wore lovely tartan slippers and often slipped him bits of dinner when Crowley wasn’t paying too much attention to the sounds in the room.
And sausages, Bentley had learned, were very hard to eat quietly.
Content with his decision, he stretched out his legs and dropped his head down with a wuffily doggy-sigh.
Aziraphale gestured to the shelf. “Well, my books are all tidied away neatly now, organised by colour, don’t you know—heaven forbid I disrupt your obsession with cutting-edge interior design.”
“It’s not so much cutting-edge, Angel, as just not having breakable things on the edge. Or anything on any edges, for that matter.” Crowley scratched his head, speaking with the faint, familiar air of someone who knew he was wasting his breath.
Aziraphale grimaced, glancing around the flat. What had once been artistically sparse was becoming decidedly less so with each return visit from the bookshop. Every time he popped back after he’d opened the shop, he did his best to smuggle another small box of clutter under the nose of his very gorgeous, but very sightless, boyfriend.
There was a small part of him that felt guilty for taking advantage of Crowley’s blindness this way, but Aziraphale was the sort of person who needed his things around to feel settled. And smuggling them in wasn’t as easy as he’d imagined. Crowley was a worthy opponent, with an uncanny knack for sensing when his space was being filled, almost as though he could feel the air in his flat shrinking around him.
But now, looking around at the pictures and ornaments from the bookshop and his flat, tucked into corners he hoped Crowley didn’t frequent too often, Aziraphale felt a quiet satisfaction. It was starting to feel like home.
And, unexpectedly, Crowley seemed to love having him there.
He certainly wasn’t fazed by a spilt cup of tea or the occasional head-on collision with an open kitchen cupboard door—he simply grumbled, then pulled Aziraphale into a scruffy cuddle and a kiss on his ridiculously oversized sofa.
Crowley had turned out to be an incredibly tactile partner, far more than Aziraphale had ever imagined anyone would want to be with him. But Crowley’s affection flowed as easily as their conversation had on their very first date.
Touch, Aziraphale had come to learn, was how Crowley saw, without needing to ask too many questions.
Sometimes, when Aziraphale went a little quiet, Crowley’s fingers would find his wrist, his thumb pressing lightly to the pulse point. He never asked outright; the rhythm told him everything he needed to know. Steady and slow—everything was fine. A little quick, a little uneven? Something was brewing. And without missing a beat, Crowley would adjust, softening his voice, guiding Aziraphale’s hand into his own, grounding him wordlessly.
He noticed the subtler things, too. The way Aziraphale’s weight shifted when something unsettled him. A fraction more space between them on the sofa, just enough to be felt but not remarked upon. And Crowley would lean in, closing the gap like nothing had happened, offering quiet reassurance without ever naming it.
And when they were out, arms linked in that way that made them feel inseparable, Aziraphale knew it wasn’t about dependence. It was about closeness. Crowley simply liked to touch—and, as it turned out, was rather fond of touching him.
Over time, they had developed a whole repertoire of wordless cues, allowing Crowley to offer his affection spontaneously, confidently, unhindered by the boundaries his blindness might otherwise impose. With a little trial and error, missteps gave way to ease, their natural rhythm with each other settling into something seamless.
In the darkness, they became equals, neither led nor followed, neither hesitated nor second-guessed. Here, touch spoke louder than sight ever could, and whispered words carried more weight than any glance.
From the very beginning, Crowley had given his love instinctively. And Aziraphale had flourished because of it. It was Crowley’s generosity, after all, that he treasured most.
Crowley unfolded himself from the stool, standing up to finish the last tuck of his formal grey shirt into the top of his pencil-straight trousers.
“So, how do I look?” he asked, adjusting his suit jacket by the lapels.
“Good enough to eat,” Aziraphale replied, smoothing the fabric fussily before producing a tie from his pocket. “Shall I do your tie, or would you prefer to?”
Crowley rolled his neck, slipping two fingers between his collar and his skin, very much a man out of his comfort zone.
“Nah, you do it. I’ll only get it wonky. I can’t show up looking like a scruff. I need to seal this deal.”
“I quite agree,” Aziraphale said solemnly, looping the thin material around his neck. “It’s important to make a good impression.”
“Wait—what colour shirt am I wearing?” He wriggled, chin lifted, as Aziraphale straightened the ends with practised ease, breathing in the gentle scent of Imperial Leather clinging to Crowley’s freshly washed skin.
“The not-as-grey-as-your-suit-but-greyer-than-your-tie one,” Aziraphale replied, starting to work at the knot.
“You sure?” Crowley said, suspiciously. “Because last week, that shirt you gave me—the one you swore was powder blue—turned out to be ocean blue. That shirt with those trousers!? What were you thinking? It was humiliating. No wonder I didn’t get the job.”
“Did anyone at the interview actually mention it?” Aziraphale asked patiently, looping one end around the other, his fingers deft and careful.
“No. But I knew—once I realised which shirt it was.”
“How did you know?”
“I’ve got a colour scanner on my phone. Tells me what colour my clothes are.”
Aziraphale hummed, impressed. “Well, I think you looked sensational. I would have offered you the position on the spot.”
“Yeah, but you’re biased. You’d say anything to get me out of the daily hell I currently reap upon humanity.” Crowley said, fidgeting, rolling his neck like a stray dog testing the weight of a shiny new collar.
“I consider it my moral duty,” Aziraphale countered with a grin, “to protect the world from demonic salesmen in biker jackets, particularly those sporting combat boots that could easily fit a woolly mammoth.”
Crowley chuckled softly and stilled, letting Aziraphale work. The fabric slid and folded between them, wrapping into a perfect Windsor knot with practised precision. Aziraphale stood back, admiring both the knot and his unusually well-heeled other half, only to catch the quiet, the subtle stiffening around Crowley’s mouth. A flicker. A tell. One he’d picked up the very day they met.
You’re not nearly as bulletproof as you like to pretend, he thought, a fond ache curling in his chest.
“What’s the matter?” he asked, head tilting in concern. “You’ve gone unusually quiet.”
“I dunno. Just . . . feeling a bit nervous, that’s all,” Crowley admitted, shifting in his suit like a scarecrow stuffed into a hessian sack. “What if I mess this up?”
“You’ll be fine. You’ll have Bentley by your side—he’ll see to it that everything goes to plan.”
“Yeah, but…but what if they realise they’ve made a mistake? Taking me on, I mean.”
“You? A mistake? Don’t be ridiculous.”
“It’s a big deal, y’know? Taking on a blind guy.”
“If you ask me, they’re probably more worried about getting it right than you are.” Aziraphale smiled, smoothing the lapels of Crowley’s jacket. “Besides, it’s often your general diabolicalness, not your lack of sight, that gets you into trouble. You really can be quite a handful sometimes.”
“I thought that was the reason you fell in love with me - on the station platform,” Crowley said, feigning innocence.
Aziraphale blustered a laugh, giving Crowley’s slim waist a squeeze beneath the jacket. “A little presumptuous of you, I’d say. At the very least, it was halfway through the main course on our first date.”
He settled both hands deliberately on Crowley’s shoulders, pressing a kiss to his right cheek. “Now, sit back down and turn around—I need to sort out your hair. Time, as ever, is ticking.”
Crowley obeyed, dropping onto the piano stool with a smirk and swinging his long legs toward the keys. Idly, and out of pure instinct, his fingers found the ivory, coaxing out a few gentle chords: dreamy and timeworn, a melody as comfortable as a pair of well-loved slippers.
“As first dates go, it was pretty fantastic,” he said, his fingers drifting lazily across the keys.
“As first dates go, it was pretty expensive,” Aziraphale replied dryly, picking up a hairbrush from the top of the piano and drawing it through the gleaming strands of Crowley’s hair. “I do wonder, some days, if taking you to hear Macbeth was really worth the investment.”
“Hey!” Crowley protested, wriggling off-key. “Careful, that was a knot!”
“Whilst I sympathise that navigating unfamiliar ‘public conveniences’ can be a challenge for you,” Aziraphale went on, voice infuriatingly calm, “sending someone to announce over the tannoy— ‘Could a Dr A. Fell please report to the gentlemen’s lavatories, as his boyfriend is stuck in the toilet’—was hardly the lead-up I imagined to Tennant’s gritty portrayal of the Scottish King.”
“I was just checking to see if you were a keeper.”
Aziraphale huffed a laugh. “I should have left you in there. You’d have been far less trouble. I still can’t believe you convinced that poor girl behind the bar you were David Tennant’s stunt double.”
“Didn’t take much convincing. Though I think she got suspicious about the cane,” Crowley said, twisting around with a grin. “Anyway, if you had left me locked in the loo, you wouldn’t have had the chance to take me out to dinner.”
He turned back to the piano, the tune slipping into something more recognisable—the first few bars of ’O Sole Mio’, played slowly, with a warmth that lingered like candlelight. His voice followed, playful but gentle, threading through the melody. “Remember this, Angel?” he broke off, laughing.
Aziraphale sighed. “I’m never going to live that down, am I,” he grumbled, running his fingers through Crowley’s hair, separating it with care, tucking stray pieces behind his ears, coaxing others into a tidier version of his signature auburn mane.
Crowley kept playing, the sound of Italy unfurling around them—romantic, ridiculous, full of charm—as Aziraphale cringed his way through the memory of their first meal together.
~ ~ ~
He had booked a cosy little Italian restaurant just around the corner from the theatre. He could get by in Italian, and they knew him there, so naturally, he’d asked Crowley if he could order for them both. What better way to impress his date than with a waiter approaching through the heady aroma of garlic and oregano, greeting him in fluent Italian with: “Your usual dinner choice, Signore Fell?”
Aziraphale had handed back their menus with an assured smile.
“Sì, per favore, mangeremo entrambi lo stesso piatto,” he said easily. Yes, please, we will both eat the same dish.
Crowley, ever the picture of insouciant cool, leaned back in his chair as the plates arrived. The rich, briny scent hit first. He tilted his head, suspicious.
“What is it?”
Aziraphale, still basking in the triumph of his selection - the house speciality, no less - opened his mouth, preparing to answer with perfect pronunciation. Then he glanced down at the plate. And froze.
A flicker of realisation.
Then horror.
His blood ran cold.
“It’s Spaghetti… erm… Vongole.”
Oh, Aunt Matilda’s pyjamas. What had he done?
“Vongole?” Crowley’s tone sharpened. A single dubious eyebrow lifted over his glasses. “Vongole?”
Aziraphale winced.
“You ordered a blind man a plate of dangly pasta and seashells. Seashells!” Crowley blurted in a hushed whisper across the table.
“Oh, good Lord,” Aziraphale choked, mortified. “I didn’t think.” He scrambled in his seat, eyes darting in search of a waiter, apologies spilling with every breath. “I’ll get it changed—right away.”
Crowley's lips pressed into something unreadable as he slowly rotated the plate.
His brow creased.
He frowned.
Aziraphale’s heart plummeted. That was it. That was the expression of a man already regretting dinner and possibly the entirety of this evening.
He’d stuffed it up. Oh, bother—he’d gone and completely stuffed it up.
But then, Crowley exhaled. A small sound, but decisive. His fingers reached forward, hovering over the cutlery, then curled around the fork like a man stepping into battle.
“Nah, nah, nah. Hold on—wait a minute,” he said. “It’s fine. I’ll give it a go.”
“You don’t have to,” Aziraphale said meekly. “I really am a total jack-ass.”
“S’okay.” Crowley tapped his fork lightly against the cloth. “I can’t have your friends here thinking you go around dating ungrateful bastards.”
And that, Aziraphale remembered vividly, was the exact moment he lost his heart to this man.
“You really are quite lovely. I hope you know that.”
Crowley hesitated, the corner of his mouth twitching wryly. “Yeah, but that’s just between us. Okay?”
Aziraphale smiled inwardly, his mind kicking that comment around like a tin can down a dusty alleyway—though truthfully, his heart was doing slow-motion cartwheels.
But now the romantic declarations were done, Crowley still had a plate of long, slippery pasta tangled around sneaky little clam shells to defeat. And for once, even he looked daunted.
“Right then,” he muttered, shifting in his seat. “Let’s see if I can get through this without ruining my chances of a second date.”
Aziraphale stilled, water glass mid-air. Was that a joke? Or—no, surely not—an actual thread of uncertainty?
A proposed second date. After this.
He sipped his water, suddenly flustered. Stammering a reply. “You must know you already have one, don’t you?” he offered softly. “Though next time… I think it should be your choice.”
Crowley let out a short breath—maybe relief, maybe steeling himself - and set to work, twirling his fork, aiming blind. The pasta wasn’t kind, it slithered mockingly, its long strands, coated in olive oil and herbs, delighted in avoiding capture. His next attempt at ensnaring them met resistance—a clamshell clanking rudely against his fork. Another try, and one shell slipped free, skittering onto the table with a delicate tap.
Aziraphale watched, wide-eyed and guilt-ridden, trying to keep the conversation afloat in calm, measured tones, slipping in useful directions only when asked. The table began to look like a mollusc massacre. But the worst was over.
Eventually, Crowley sighed, “For the last time,” he gritted, determined, “just tell me which ones still have the bloody things in them.”
And that’s when Aziraphale had laughed and reached across the table, brushing his palm across the back of Crowley’s hand in a heartfelt apology. “I’m so sorry,” he had giggled, as Crowley had laid down his cutlery and raised his hands in mock surrender. “Shall we get the bill and go home?”
~ ~ ~
Crowley crashed the final few notes of the song into discord, yanking Aziraphale back to the present with a startled blink. Still completely overcome by Crowley’s kindness that evening, he leaned down, hands settling on narrow shoulders, and pressed a kiss to the small tattoo at his temple.
Was it truly possible to love someone so much that your very soul ached with it?
Crowley swung around on the stool, hands catching the edges of Aziraphale’s thighs, capturing them snug between his own. He leaned back slightly, smirk unmistakable.
“Did we kiss that night?” he asked, a theatrical frown tipping across his brow. “Can’t remember. I was too busy checking I still had all my teeth after crunching through that bowl of bivalves.”
Aziraphale huffed, scandalised. “Of course I didn’t try and kiss you on our first date. What kind of degenerate would you have taken me for?”
“I wouldn’t have minded,” Crowley offered charitably.
“You know we kissed on our second date,” he said instead, arch and indignant. “Inside that gentlemen’s club of yours—that place that lived up to its name in every possible way.”
“Gentlemen’s club!” Crowley barked out a laugh, tipping his head back. “You mean Glam-Punk Night at The Inferno.”
~ ~ ~
Inside, the air had been thick with heat, sweat, and the electric hum of anticipation. The walls pulsed in deep red neon, keeping time with the bass that rattled the floorboards. The crowd was a chaotic sea of safety pins, sequined jackets, ripped denim, and unapologetically styled hair—all pressed tightly beneath the giddy swirl of bright stage lights.
Crowley had dragged him there to see The Screaming Saints—a band that played like they were summoning something unholy. Distorted guitars, pounding drums, vocals that tore through the room like a battle cry.
Aziraphale had spent the first half of the set mentally clutching his pearls, drink gripped in whitening fingers, his posture stiff and eyes wide. He was, unquestionably, out of place.
But then, somewhere between the fourth song and his second drink, the rhythm found him. Without realising, he let himself be pulled into the noise.
And then somewhere in the semi-dark, Crowley leaned in, grinning, shouting something Aziraphale couldn’t make out.
Ears ringing with the noise, he took a guess and nodded, shouting yes in return, loud and certain, hopeful that it meant ‘everything’s fine’.
Then Crowley’s hand was against his cheek, thumb brushing toward the corner of his mouth, finding him—and in that split second, Aziraphale suddenly understood exactly what he’d been asked.
The noise had blurred into something distant, swallowed up by the feel of Crowley’s lips suddenly upon his—the flash of heat between them, the breathtaking rush of touching someone you wanted - and being wanted back. It had been the kind of moment that tipped the world sideways—where nothing outside of them, nothing beyond the press of their mouths, had mattered.
And yet, it was ridiculous—the sheer absurdity of trying to kiss for the first time in a place so defiantly unromantic wasn’t lost on him. The bass rattled through their bones, the air was thick with sweat and spilt beer, and the crowd had pressed in close, utterly indifferent to whatever was unfolding between them. A kiss stolen in chaos, in noise, in the middle of something wild—and that had made it all the more unforgettable.
~ ~ ~
Even now, Aziraphale wondered if the excitement of that moment had ever actually left him. It was the day he felt he had started living—his quiet, staid world turned upside down in glorious technicolour by a man with red hair, dressed entirely in black.
"I broke all my personal safety rules that night, when we went back to yours after the club." Crowley’s face twitched, his smirk half-formed, as if still baffled by his own choices. "You were a very bad influence on me that night, Angel," he added, a teasing lilt in his voice. "Bentley was furious when I waltzed in at 5 a.m. grinning like a bloody Cheshire cat."
Aziraphale flushed—just a little—pleased despite himself.
"Reckon he gave me the cold shoulder for a week."
"Well, Gabriel certainly had a few things to say about my commitment to the job later that day, too," Aziraphale giggled with a faint air of rebellion, "Although they were fairly justified. After all, I did fall asleep on the couch in the staff room after lunch."
Crowley’s mouth spread into a wide, officious smile, his voice suddenly mimicking Gabriel’s self-important cadence, "Aziraphale, buddy, let’s be honest," he began, in a clipped midwestern drawl, his hand moving to grip Aziraphale’s arm in an overfriendly gesture of camaraderie. "This role requires efficiency, decisiveness, and an ability to follow basic instructions—none of which, regrettably, appear to be your strong suit."
“Rude,” Aziraphale protested, but didn’t deny it.
Obviously enjoying himself, Crowley squared his shoulders, throwing in an exaggerated flick of his wrist, as though dispensing profound wisdom. "Perhaps, Sunshine, it’s time to consider… other avenues. One's better suited to your particular talents—or your rather spectacular lack of them."
Aziraphale sighed, arms crossed, though the corner of his mouth twitched. "You’re enjoying this far too much."
"Naturally.” Crowley grinned, dropping the American accent. “I think Gabriel and I need to sit down to compare notes sometime.”
"Well, my ineptitude on the station floor did work out well for me in the end," Aziraphale said defensively, adjusting the bottom of his waistcoat. "I think Gabriel’s decision to exile me to reorganise the archives was supposed to be some sort of punishment—when in fact, I’ve never been happier."
"Not really keeping to your original plan of meeting people, though, was it?" Crowley offered, giving Aziraphale’s legs a gentle squeeze with his knees before standing up. He gave his trousers a sharp shake, flicking each leg straight, then stretched his arms wide, rolling his shoulders as he shucked his jacket into place again. His fingers found the knot of his tie, tugging at it absently.
Aziraphale hummed, reaching out without a thought to straighten it again. “After meeting you, my dear, I believe my interest in working with the general public waned rather dramatically.”
Crowley crinkled his nose. “Not sure if I’m to take that as a compliment or an insult.” He swung around, lowered the piano lid with deliberate care, then perched himself on top of it—one leg folding over the other as he cocked his head. “Gabriel, though. He still doesn’t know about me?”
Aziraphale bit his lip and checked his pocket watch. “I’m not sure,” he said, uncertain. “In my mind, you’re still my guilty little secret.” He wandered over to the window, pressing his palms to the sill as he peered down at the street below. “Though I’m still fairly convinced I’d lose my job if he found out I’d run off and shacked up with one of his customers.”
“You know if he did, it wouldn’t matter, right? I could cover the extra rent on the bookshop if your lectures don’t,” he said, casual as ever, with the smallest shrug. “I know you love it there. We all do.”
Aziraphale returned from the window, pausing in front of him, the kindness, as ever, simple and matter-of-fact. He pressed a hand to Crowley’s chest, then leaned in and kissed his left cheek.
“Whilst that is very kind of you, my dear,” he murmured gratefully, “I neither need nor have ever wanted a sugar daddy.”
Crowley burst out laughing, tossing his head back, shoulders shaking. “Sugar Daddy!” he echoed gleefully, clutching at his hips. “I’d bet money that I’m younger than you.”
“Ah, but you still don’t know that for sure,” Aziraphale said with a mysterious little tilt of his head.
“That’s because you’ve never told me how old you actually are!”
“And I plan to keep it that way for as long as humanly possible.” Aziraphale lifted his chin in playful defiance, then clapped his hands once. “Now—enough chat. The car will be here any minute. Why are we always up against the clock?” He scratched his head, nose wrinkling. “Where did I put your suitcase? It needs to be in the hall—you’ll need it later.”
Crowley levered himself off the piano, still chuckling, and with a languid gait, amusingly at odds with the sharp lines of his formal attire, began to follow Aziraphale out of the lounge.
Bentley pricked up an ear and cracked open one eye as Crowley’s familiar footsteps shifted across the room.
He cocked his head, watching as his owner made a steady path toward the kitchen—where that bubble-headed boyfriend of his had been earlier. And that could only mean one thing.
Trouble.
Bentley scrabbled upright, shaking himself into action with an invigorating flap of his ears.
The place was bound to be booby-trapped.
He trotted after Crowley, skirting the sofa and padding silently beside him, as Crowley trailed an anchoring finger along the hallway wall.
With ninja precision, Bentley slipped ahead, nudging open the half-closed kitchen door with his nose. One potential hazard, neutralised.
He padded into the room, still and alert, his soft brown eyes scanning the terrain.
Aziraphale had definitely been in here. That much was obvious. There was always a certain . . . trace left behind when Aziraphale had been into a room—a fragrant blend of tea, ink, and forgetfulness.
Crowley reached the sink, humming quietly, and plucked something from inside a glass before placing it gently on the draining board. Then he reached behind him for the tea towel looped through the cutlery drawer handle on the island, feeling for the fabric to dry his hands.
Bentley stiffened.
His eyes locked onto the tea towel.
Then, onto the way one half of it had been folded back, flattened onto the island’s gleaming surface.
He took in the collection of freshly washed wine glasses, stacked precisely on top of it.
Poised for catastrophe. One tug. That’s all it would take.
Bentley let out a sharp, disgruntled bark.
Crowley hesitated, fingers hovering an inch away. "What?"
Bentley barked again, more insistent.
Crowley sighed, withdrawing his hand immediately. "Right, fine. What fresh hell have you saved me from now?"
He shook the water from his fingers, deciding it was safer to flick them dry than risk another kitchen disaster. Picking up the object from the draining board, he started back across the kitchen, trailing his fingers lightly along the edge of the counter as he went.
Bentley padded silently beside him, ears twitching in anticipation.
Crowley was nearly past the kitchen table when Bentley hesitated.
There was ‘The Chair’.
Aziraphale’s chair.
As any guide dog worth his salt would agree, that chair was a basic infringement of a blind person’s rights—an obstacle masquerading as furniture, all flouncy woodwork and far too many protruding curls and twizzles, waiting to hook into their next unsuspecting victim.
Its only redeeming feature was that it had a lovely red velvet cushion—one Bentley desperately wanted to sink his teeth into and shake until the feathers flew out in a glorious explosion of downy softness. But of course, that would have to remain merely a thought. He was far too professional to indulge in such personal fantasies.
And, naturally, getting back to the point—' The Chair’ always askew, since Aziraphale liked to sit here.
After all, Aziraphale didn’t give a hoot about straight lines, nor did he respect the basic laws of geometry—or, indeed, the concept of spatial harmony at all.
Bentley flicked his tail, assessing the scene with long-suffering accuracy. The chair had assumed its usual infuriating angle—just enough to be a menace, never enough to look deliberate.
This was mostly the chair Aziraphale read in, preferring the cosy feel of the kitchen to the starkness of the lounge, undoubtedly drawn to the warmth of the kettle and the distant promise of biscuits. And if it hadn’t been for the biscuits—the odd one or two often offered his way—or the positively heavenly rub of his tummy at times, then he’d have very strong feelings about the chair situation indeed.
Crowley stepped forward, blissfully unaware of his impending fate.
Bentley, ever vigilant, moved with the precision of a seasoned bodyguard, pressing his nose against Crowley’s thigh in warning.
Crowley halted, catching on immediately. "What now?"
Bentley huffed, stepping in front of him with firm yet gentle insistence, nudging him away from the chair-based disaster before it was too late.
Crowley sighed, then chuckled, ruffling Bentley’s fur in quiet appreciation.
“You’re too good to me,” he murmured, sinking down to press a fond kiss to Bentley’s velvety head. “And he is getting better, I promise.”
Bentley huffed.
Sure, he was. But not nearly fast enough for his liking.
A clunk came from further down the hall, and Aziraphale appeared, rolling a suitcase behind him. Bentley stood in the kitchen doorway and stared at him, shoulders squared. Now, where exactly are you going to put that, my curly-haired, biscuit-loving friend?
Aziraphale caught Bentley’s look just as he was about to abandon the case right in the middle of the hallway.
Bentley gave him a stare. Seriously? That? There?
With a flat look of begrudging compliance, Aziraphale shuffled the suitcase to a safer position against the wall.
“Happy now?” he said, lips pursed.
Bentley licked his chops, victorious.
And then, Crowley’s phone buzzed: the car was a few minutes away, and the hallway erupted into motion.
Aziraphale crouched to settle Bentley into his harness, scratching behind his ears and offering a thoroughly unnecessary reminder to keep Crowley out of any self-induced mischief.
Crowley joined them by the front door, grabbing his cane from the hook in the cloakroom, placing the thing he’d retrieved from the kitchen onto the table beneath the mirror—the mirror itself a grand, gold-plated monstrosity.
As it was the only one in the flat, Aziraphale had made sure it counted.
“So, what are you feeling like today? Ray-Ban, Dior, Dolce & Gabbana?” Aziraphale pulled open the table drawer, running a finger over the neatly arranged boxes inside, each adorned with a tiny sticker marked in raised dots. The contents of the drawer alone probably cost more than he earned in six months.
Yet he could hardly begrudge Crowley the indulgence.
If designer sunglasses filled the space where sight had once been, if they brought even a fragment of confidence, who was Aziraphale to measure that in money?
It was easy to forget sometimes, with his generosity, his effortless charm, his endless quest for the ridiculous, just what Crowley endured every day.
Because if it had been him—if he had woken to darkness, his life rewritten without consent—Would he be as steady?
He wasn’t sure.
Crowley asked for the Gucci pair—the ones with the red stripe to match his socks.
“Can I put them on for you, or would you like to do it yourself?”
“Nah, it’s fine. You do it.”
Aziraphale lifted the sunglasses from their case and eased them gently onto Crowley’s face, sliding the arms over his temples with practised care. His fingers hovered for a moment, adjusting the fit, smoothing them into place as if it were the most natural gesture in the world.
“There, you look gorgeous,” Aziraphale hummed, leaving no room for argument. “With or without your sunglasses, I might add.”
He needed Crowley to hear it. To know it. Not just in moments like these, but always.
A pause.
“I wish I could see how good you look.”
The hallway fell quiet, heavy with words unsaid. Regret was a place Crowley never ventured, though Aziraphale suspected it was always there.
“M ’just saying,” he mumbled. “Bet you look great. That’s all.” His shoulder lifted into a shrug, like it meant nothing.
Aziraphale chewed his lip. It meant everything.
He couldn't rewrite what had come before. The pages of Crowley’s past were stamped and bound. But here he was, Crowley’s present, and he hoped a part of Crowley’s future - if that wasn’t too Dickensian to swallow. And if Crowley—out of everyone—had entrusted him, the fussy, flustered, chronically clumsy mess that he often was, to hold the delicate parts of his life . . . then Aziraphale had better prove to him that he could.
He didn’t want to feel pity for Crowley.
But he had to meet that silence with something.
Casting a glance over his reflection in the mirror, an idea formed.
Because, of course, he described the world to Crowley every day.
Not out of obligation, but with quiet joy, like painting a scene with his voice, his gentle patter threading swathes of colour through Crowley’s darkness, turning red into ripe cherries in sunlight, crushed velvet, the inside of a pomegranate. He refused to let Crowley live in darkness—not when there was so much world to share.
So, he made them go to galleries, museums, and windy piers—each object or painting or rusted iron bench he found a personal challenge. To make it not just visible, but felt. A shared act of imagination. A declaration, really: you don’t have to see it to belong in it. I’ll bring it to you.
And why was that so different from now?
“How about if I helped you see what I’m wearing? Describe what I’ve chosen?” he asked tentatively, touching a hand to his own jacket to feel its weave. “The colours and fabric.”
Crowley hesitated. Then nodded, “Yeah. Might be nice.”
Aziraphale turned and, reaching out, guided Crowley’s hand gently to rest just below his shoulder. Slowly, curiously, Crowley’s fingers traced over the faintly grained texture, the material gathering slightly beneath his touch.
“I’m wearing a three-piece linen suit,” Aziraphale began, speaking carefully, clicking his tongue as he searched for the memory that would help seal the image in Crowley’s mind. “The colour of vanilla ice cream… the sort from a van, swirled into a cone and eaten in the park on a Saturday afternoon.”
Crowley’s thumb moved over the fabric, letting the feel of it and the memory settle. “Yeah, I remember that,” he said softly, a small smile tugging at his mouth.
“Good, let's continue,” Aziraphale gently lifted his hand, shifting Crowley’s touch across to his breastbone. Crowley immediately spread his fingers over the crisply ironed cotton, tracing the row of downward buttons with his thumb.
“My shirt is cotton—the colour of . . . blue chalk dust, the kind left on your fingers when you scribbled your name on the playground at school."
Crowley’s hand lingered under his palm, reading the moment. Aziraphale sensed a small change in his breathing.
Could he see it? He prayed it did.
Aziraphale lifted Crowley’s hand once more, placing it gently to his collar. On his bow tie.
Crowley’s fingers and thumb grazed the fine silk.
“And finally, my bowtie is silk, its hue light gold,” Aziraphale murmured, reaching for a closing memory, "like the warm shimmer of sand at the seaside, on a late summer's afternoon."
Crowley remained still.
Then his breath deepened, and a quiet smile unfolded.
And Aziraphale knew that the colours had found him.
Crowley’s grip moved, slipping over Aziraphale’s right shoulder, their signal, and then Crowley was leaning in, kissing him like he was the most precious thing on earth. Him—just plain old him. Ordinary yet adored. And in that moment, there was no place in the world Aziraphale would rather be—now or ever—than right here, in the arms of the man he loved.
The beep of Crowley’s phone nudged them apart. The time had come to leave.
"Do you have the rings?” Aziraphale asked - the words still feeling strange on his tongue, as if he were an impostor in another man’s life.
Crowley tapped the top pocket of his jacket. “Yep. Definitely not entrusting them to you.”
Aziraphale giggled, “Yes, possibly for the best.”
“Still, I'm glad you handled the important bit,” Crowley grinned, adjusting his sunglasses. “I swear I would have lost my bearings and would have ended up married to someone else entirely.”
Proposing at the station where they first met had always been Aziraphale’s plan. That single moment had changed everything—for both of them—and even then, he’d known: some things were meant to begin, and only grow better, in the very place they started.
And he wanted to do it properly. Not sandwiched between the ketchup and cornflakes on a grocery run, not shouted through the bathroom door while someone was soaking in the tub. This moment mattered. Their extraordinary meeting was something he’d been carrying tenderly for what felt like forever.
So, it happened on a Friday evening, shortly after Gabriel had gone home for the day, that much was planned.
The sky outside edged into evening blue as the station exhaled after the rush-hour exodus.
Their rendezvous: Meeting Point B.
His steps had faltered as he approached it. That much he remembered—it was a detail that stayed with him, because the instant he spotted Crowley waiting there for him, everything else fell away.
The announcements. The footfalls. The low thrum of the coffee machines. All of it vanished.
There was only Crowley. His beloved Crowley. Standing in the middle of it all—a shadow in leather and denim, dark glasses reflecting the station lights like stars caught on glass.
His heart felt like it was going to gallop out of his throat. His nerves hummed like rails under a fast-approaching train. The world narrowed to a single point, closing the distance, his breath shallow, hands feeling suddenly too big.
He was terrified. Completely. But not uncertain. No, not one bit.
Because somehow—impossibly—this was real. A Soho bookseller with a fondness for first editions and lemon tarts, part-time theologian and full-time liability, was about to ask this striking redhead—all bone angles and band t-shirts, tattoos and piercings—to marry him . . .
. . . And then—somehow - he was there - in front of him.
And the ticket hall spun around them.
He held Crowley’s hand like it was the only solid thing left in the world.
Dropped to one knee without thinking. No plan. No prepared speech. Just words of pure, unfiltered love.
His voice trembled, his heart cantering in his chest as he told Crowley he’d fallen for him the moment they met. That he couldn’t imagine a future where they weren’t tangled up in it, together.
Sometimes, he said, it felt as terrifying as stepping onto an escalator with your eyes closed—other times just plain funny, like chasing a clam around your plate.
But if they did this life thing together, it would always be alright. Because it was those sorts of things—the messy, ridiculous, embarrassing moments—that shaped them. Even when they didn’t look like they were supposed to.
And then he asked, if Bentley had no serious objections—and if a future with the occasional bump or bruise sounded palatable—would he, Anthony Joseph Crowley, agree to be his husband?
And Crowley said yes.
And then—Crowley was crying. Actually crying. And Aziraphale was being pulled to his feet into a kiss that felt like sunlight at midnight.
Somewhere in the background, people had started clapping. Cheering. Taking videos—nice ones, this time. Ones he didn’t mind them sharing.
And Bentley sighed, rolling his eyes at all the drama. But he didn’t mind. Not really. A life with Aziraphale meant a future full of love—and, crucially, tartan slippers to chew and bits of sausage slipped under the table. It held a lifetime of being told what a good boy he was.
That, Bentley thought, he could handle. Chaos and all.
That just left Crowley, grinning like a dope, asking Aziraphale if he was sure, as he knew he could be a bit much sometimes.
And Aziraphale had just laughed, his blue eyes sparkling with emotion. “I’d have asked you the moment we collided eighteen months ago,” he said, still breathy with joy. “But we had to catch a train.”
They had dinner that night at a small French bistro, tucked just around the corner from home. A discreet table, away from the bustle, where the candlelight had flickered soft gold across their plates.
Crowley had ordered for them in flawless French—effortless, unshowy—and, of course, the dishes and the wine were perfect.
As the final touch to their suits, Aziraphale gathered their buttonholes from the small table, where his future husband had put them.
He fixed one carefully to Crowley’s lapel, then pinned on his own.
He collected their suitcases and paused for one last look in the mirror.
He smiled.
They looked like themselves. The very best versions.
And they fitted together perfectly.
Heart to heart. Flaw to flaw.
Everything was going to be just fine.
As he opened the flat door, he turned to Crowley, a passing thought nagging at the edge of his calm.
“You did tell your old school friend Hastur not to bring those fireworks, didn’t you?”
Crowley’s mouth twitched. “Told him no. He said, ‘Define fireworks.’ Which is… promising,” he said, the grin already forming . . .