Chapter Text
The morning stole in silently, softly, like an apology for the storm of the night before. Quiet drops of rain plopped steadily from the top of the window frame down to the sill as the distant cries of seabirds and the rhythmic roar of the ocean waves against the rocks below gently roused Aziraphale from his comfortable slumber.
He let out a soft hum of contentment as he buried his face into the pillow, warm and cosy, and…
Wait.
Something wasn’t right. The… the bed felt different, softer, more worn-in… the scent on the pillow was… well, it was vaguely familiar, but still definitely not what he’d been waking up to for the last few weeks.
It took a few more slow, sleepy seconds for the events of the night before to trickle back into his consciousness. The storm. The lighthouse. The wine. Crowley.
Aziraphale’s eyes flew open.
He was in Crowley’s bed.
His fists curled into the dark sheets as every last bit of breath exited his lungs sharply, suddenly dizzy with the realisation that the scent that filled his nose and surrounded him now – probably clinging to his clothes, his skin – was the scent that belonged to Crowley. He was wrapped in it, held by it, that earthen, spiced and yet honeyed smell that spoke to Aziraphale of candles and secrets shared in the dark.
Swallowing, he blinked several more times, and the most divine thing he thought he had possibly ever seen swam into view.
Less than two feet away from him, Crowley was laid out on the bed, stretched out on his back, presumably having kicked the covers off sometime in the night – one arm was thrown above his head, and the other casually draped over the curled-up ball of wiry fur that was snoozing in synchronicity with his master. Crowley’s vibrant hair tumbled over the dark pillow in messy, tangled waves, his eyelashes gently fluttering and his mouth slightly parted as he let out the faintest of snores. His face looked more relaxed than Aziraphale thought he had ever seen it, so serene compared to the expressive scowls and smirks he seemed to pendulate between.
He knew it was terribly impolite to stare at someone whilst they slept, but Aziraphale couldn’t seem to tear his eyes away, his heart stuttering foolishly as he took in all Crowley’s sharp angles and spiky edges, somehow smoothed down into something softer, sweeter. The man was always pleasing on the eye, but the way he looked now made Aziraphale want to take out his sketch book and capture the image, tuck it away somewhere precious to treat and torture himself with at a later date.
He must have let out a wistful sigh, because Dog opened one eye and fixed him with a stare.
Feeling caught out, Aziraphale tentatively smiled at the canine – but this was clearly the wrong decision, as Dog instantly lifted up his head, ears pricked, his tail whacking a firm, happy beat – right onto Crowley’s ribs.
“Shhh, Dog, no!” whispered Aziraphale, in panic, but the sound of his voice only seemed to increase the tempo of joyful tail wags, each one hitting the sleeping lighthouse keeper with a resounding thwack.
Crowley began to stir, letting out a muffled grumble as he tried to push Dog away from his side.
Taking the hint, Dog jumped off the bed as Crowley stretched lazily, announcing his impending wakefulness with a loud, uninhibited yawn. As he stretched his long arms above his head, Crowley’s top rode up slightly, revealing a tantalising sliver of lily-coloured skin decorated with a whip of black ink – but before Aziraphale could inspect it further, the top slid back down, leaving Aziraphale inexplicably breathless (he would never, in his entire life, have considered himself as someone who might be attracted to men with tattoos of all things – in fact he may have had more than one conversation where he had referred to them as common and tawdry – but he would happily take every word of it back now).
Good lord. What was this man doing to him?
Aziraphale was so distracted by that patch of skin – and his sudden and rather physical reaction to it – that he didn’t notice that Crowley’s eyes flutter open.
Before Aziraphale could tear his eyes away and pretend that he hadn’t been lying there staring at him thinking… things… Crowley’s head turned towards him, and he was captured by the man’s wide-eyed gaze.
Aziraphale felt like a deer caught in headlights. He couldn’t look away.
Crowley’s beautiful and mismatched eyes slowly blinked at him, as if surprised to see him there, their hue almost golden. The faint scars that threaded out from his right eye seemed silvery, translucent, in the pale morning light that spilled in from the window. Aziraphale recalled with a sudden painful twist in his chest the accidental slip of the tongue that had revealed how Crowley had come by the injury, and had to stamp down the sudden urge to trace over those feathery lines with his fingers, as if by some miracle showing them some gentleness, some kindness, would undo the harm that had been done.
Crowley stared.
Aziraphale breathed.
Silence yawned between them.
All the secrets and vulnerabilities that they had shared the night before seemed suddenly exposed, raw, with no door or blanket or cover of darkness from behind which Aziraphale could hide. It seemed to hang in the air between them, fragile as freshly-blown glass, fragile in its beauty but entirely capable of collapsing in on itself, shattering, or going up in a blaze of flames.
Summoning up every last ounce of courage he could muster, Aziraphale sucked in a deep breath. “Hello.”
Crowley opened his mouth, then closed it, blinked, cleared his throat, and spoke. “Nnnghm. H-hi.”
Aziraphale felt his smile melt into something genuine, full of fondness. “Did you… er, sleep well?”
Crowley’s eyes flicked to where Aziraphale’s hand still lay, curled in the space between them, where it had been last night, and visibly swallowed before looking back at Aziraphale. “Mmn. Hnnng. Y-yep.” Crowley shuffled, turning his body to face Aziraphale, quickly tucking his hands beneath his face like a pillow, knuckles white. “You?”
“Quite – quite well, actually.”
Crowley nodded, but said nothing. There was captivating about the way the morning light illuminated the lighthouse keeper’s face, highlighting the delicate spread of golden freckles that were impossible to see unless you were this close, the way his eyes were rounded, disarmed, suddenly and completely without their usual wariness, moving slowly over Aziraphale’s face.
Aziraphale’s little finger twitched, the memory of Crowley’s little finger curling around his own still tingling, burning, as indelible as the ink on the other man’s skin.
“’Ziraphale,” said Crowley, slowly, his voice almost a whisper, “Um, last night… want to… ‘pologise if I…”
“Don’t worry about it,” said Aziraphale, immediately, feeling the moment begin to shatter, cracks in the glass, splintering slowly, painfully.
He didn’t want to hear whatever the end of that sentence was. He didn’t want Crowley to explain all the reasons why he didn’t want Aziraphale, why he’d leapt away when Aziraphale had reached out, why he’d wanted to sleep on a tiny, uncomfortable sofa just to be nowhere near him. Aziraphale understood, he really did… after all, he’d dropped two rather large bombshells – his shameful indiscretion and his humiliating inexperience – and then practically thrown himself at the poor man.
If anyone should be sorry, should apologise, it was Aziraphale.
“But –”
“It really doesn’t matter,” said Aziraphale, and he could hear the desperation in his voice. “Honestly.”
Crowley looked at him strangely, a look Aziraphale couldn’t interpret – but then it slid into something blank, passive. “Right.”
“I – well, I should probably go, let you get on,” said Aziraphale haltingly, after a beat.
Crowley grunted.
“Puffins to watch, work to do, right?”
Aziraphale blinked. Somehow, the world beyond the lighthouse, beyond this room, beyond the man whose amber eyes held him steadily in their gaze, seemed incredibly far away. It hadn’t even occurred to him that he was probably late for work, that Newt might be wondering where he was, that he should be anywhere else but right here.
“Something like that.”
Crowley’s mouth opened, as if he was about to say something – but Dog let out a sudden whimper. He was sat by the bedroom door, looking at the pair of them as if to say, We’re all awake, come on, let’s go!
Crowley snorted. “Sorry, buddy. Let me go to the loo and I’ll let you out.” Crowley sat up, swinging his legs off the bed, facing away from Aziraphale, and hesitated. “You. I mean. Have you… got time for a cup of tea? Or. Or something. If. If the power is back on.”
Crowley’s words dropped staccato, matching the irregular tango of Aziraphale’s heartbeat.
“I…” Aziraphale hesitated, torn. He knew he should just leave, take his want and his longing and his desperation out of the lighthouse door and let Crowley be, but… but… “Yes, that sounds delightful. Very kind of you. Thank you, my dear.”
Crowley dropped a string of unintelligible noises before stalking into the bathroom without so much as a glance at Aziraphale and shut the door behind him.
Dog let out another pathetic whine as Crowley disappeared, and scrabbled up onto the bed, settling into the warm dip where Crowley had just been, sad eyes fixed on the bathroom door.
“You and me both,” muttered Aziraphale under his breath, reaching out to give Dog a scratch behind the ears.
Aziraphale pushed himself up in the bed and curled his knees up to himself. He took time to properly inspect Crowley’s bedroom – it was fairly bland, like the rest of the living space, eggshell-white walls and old, mismatched furniture, none of it really giving any indication of what sort of person lived there, apart from the absolute jungle of plants that seemed to have sprouted on every available surface. They were absolutely beautiful, luxurious and verdant, and were a breath of life in an otherwise empty space. It was obvious the plants were tended to with great care, far more care than anything else in the room – the wardrobe had a door that was wonky, the CD player on the shelves above the bed was old and battered, CDs of bands Aziraphale had never heard of stacked in irregular, precarious piles, and Crowley’s desk had one leg propped up with – a book.
Aziraphale winced – but it lessened the bulge that had been trying to make itself apparent in his joggers (Crowley’s, joggers, his brain unhelpfully supplied, returning the problem with gusto).
Crowley exited the bathroom, took one look at Aziraphale and immediately looked away. His brows were drawn into an almost-scowl, and Aziraphale felt his stomach clench as Dog jumped off the bed and wagged his tail at Crowley, expectantly.
He couldn’t tell, could he? Aziraphale risked a glance down at himself – no, he was definitely fully covered up. Thank goodness. Was it just written all over his face?
Crowley walked over to the door. “Power’s back on. I’ll – put the kettle on, ‘n let Dog out.”
“Alright,” said Aziraphale, but Crowley had already left the room with Dog in tow, virtually slamming the door behind him. The silence rang out in the bedroom, an empty, harsh serenade that instantly solved Aziraphale’s problem, and left disappointment tasting like copper as words died on his tongue.
+ + + + + + + + + +
Crowley, being the total enigma that he was, seemed in totally different spirits after Aziraphale emerged from the bedroom into the small kitchen area, smiling as he dished out Dog’s breakfast and washed up the mugs from yesterday, ready to use again. He had swept Aziraphale into easy, light conversation, full of the gentle teasing and easy banter that he was so good at.
“Really? You’ve never had a sleepover? I mean, I know you never had a, uh…” he trailed off. “But not… not even as a kid?”
Crowley shot Aziraphale a fascinated look, as if he found the man every bit as intriguing as Aziraphale found him.
“No,” said Aziraphale, shrugging the attention off, uncomfortably. He crossed his arms over his chest. His childhood was never a favourite topic.
“Huh.”
Crowley turned away, and Aziraphale watched, wide-eyed, as he made his tea just the way Aziraphale liked it, one sugar, a splash of milk, and pushed it along the counter towards him without meeting his gaze.
He accepted the cup with a smile, trying not to show how pleased he was that Crowley had remembered.
“I didn’t have many friends, as I’ve said before. My mother did once try to set up a sleepover, with one of her friend’s children, but it… well, I didn’t want to.”
He took a scalding hot sip of tea, burning his lips, to stop himself from saying more.
Aziraphale hadn’t wanted to sleepover at that boy’s house partly to do with the fact that the child in question had a habit of calling Aziraphale awful, hurtful names that stung mostly because Aziraphale feared they were true… but also because he’d had the sudden, irrational fear that his mother was going to leave him at that house and never come back for him. He remembered how his mother had looked at him as he begged to go back home with her, the scorn and disappointment written all over her face, the absence of light in those pale grey eyes. He eventually got used to seeing that look, accepting his role as the unwanted disappointment she had never asked for, but had never quite managed to rid himself of the shame that stuck like a thorn in his heart.
“f*ck, I had sleepovers all the time. Any excuse to get out of the house,” said Crowley, leaning back against the kitchen counter, staring into his tea (he had it black, no sugar, just like his coffee. Aziraphale would remember, too). “Everyone else’s parents were so much nicer to me than my dad was. Not that that says a lot.”
Aziraphale felt that urge, again, the same one that had tempted him to reach out and brush his fingers over the scars on Crowley’s face. It was bordering on an ache, the tenderness that was growing in soft tendrils, seeking to wrap themselves around him.
“Well, you can say you’ve had a sleepover now, can’t you?” Crowley gave Aziraphale a sideways glance, with a grin. “Better late than never.”
“Yes,” agreed Aziraphale. “Better late than never.”
Aziraphale wondered if any of Crowley’s friends had ever slept with their pinky fingers intertwined with his, hearts hammering in their chest.
He hoped not.
“D’you want something to eat?”
The words took a moment to register, but when they did, Aziraphale’s stomach growled before his mouth could form a response. “Oh… I… I don’t know…”
Crowley chuckled, put his tea down and rummaged around in his cupboards before Aziraphale could protest. He made increasingly frustrated noises. “’Kay, maybe I shouldn’t have offered before having a root around… I live on junk food mostly… I don’t have a lot here… I’ve got some biscuits left, though.” He glanced at Aziraphale, a light behind those golden eyes. “Hey – have you ever played biscuit chicken?”
Aziraphale blinked at him. That sentence, in any arrangement, was incomprehensible. “Er…”
Crowley grinned. “Ha! Okay.”
He triumphantly held up the packet of biscuits as he slammed the cupboard door shut.
“Biscuit chicken is a game I used to play at my friend’s house when we were kids,” Crowley explained, and he opened the pack of biscuits. They were chocolate-covered digestives, not one of Aziraphale’s favourites but not a terrible choice. He tried to pay attention to Crowley’s words and not the entrancing way his surprisingly elegant hands danced when he talked. “So you each take a biscuit and dunk them in your tea at the same time. Then you wait as long as possible before taking the biscuit out to eat. You win if you’re the last one to pull the biscuit out – but it has to be in one piece.”
Aziraphale thought it sounded utterly ridiculous, but Crowley’s face had lit up like a Christmas tree at the suggestion, and in the face of that smile, Aziraphale was helpless.
“Sounds easy enough,” said Aziraphale as gamely as he could, setting his tea down on the counter.
“Ah!” said Crowley, his grin wide and wicked, waggling a finger in Aziraphale’s face. “’S trickier than it seems, trust me – can’t tell you how many times I’ve ruined a good cuppa by keeping the biscuit in too long.”
Aziraphale winced at the thought of ruining a perfectly good cup of tea, but gestured for Crowley to hand him a biscuit.
Once they had a biscuit each, Crowley raised a single brow at Aziraphale, a confident smirk loitering on his lips. Aziraphale tried to keep his gaze fixed on his eyes, not letting them fall to that perfect cut of a mouth, not allowing himself to remember the last time they had been stood in this exact place and they had almost… they almost…
“Ready? Go!”
Aziraphale started, but he plunged the biscuit halfway into the depths of his tea as Crowley did the same. Crowley’s eyes hadn’t left Aziraphale’s, that smirk taunting, tempting.
The heat from the tea rose up, turning his hand pink. Moisture began to gather on his palm, and Aziraphale knew the biscuit was softening, weakening. That’s what heat did, it made you soft, made you break down…
All of a sudden, Crowley yanked up his biscuit and gave a shout of triumph before shoving it, whole, into his mouth, his eyes still fixed on Aziraphale as he crunched on it, eyes glittering with amusem*nt.
Aziraphale knew before he even tried to lift his biscuit that he’d ruined his tea, that the biscuit couldn’t possibly have held on to its structure for that long surrounded by wetness and warmth without coming apart, but he still gave a theatrical howl of mock disappointment as he pulled up – only half a biscuit came up, the other half presumably sitting soggily at the bottom of his cup.
“Ha!” crowed Crowley, his whole face wreathed in delight. “Told you, didn’t I?”
“You did,” said Aziraphale, trying to keep the smile from his face and failing miserably. “You were right.”
“Obviously. Always am.”
Aziraphale quirked a brow. “Of course you are, dear.”
“Is that sarcasm? Lowest form of wit, you know.”
“Well, one sometimes has to lower one’s standards when in the company of lower forms, you see…”
Crowley snorted in a way that was clearly meant to come off as offended but was clearly delighted. “Bastard.”
Perhaps Aziraphale should have been offended, but there was no mistaking the warmth in Crowley’s tone. “Perhaps you could give me a chance to redeem myself before I go? One more round?”
He was definitely imagining the disappointment that flitted across Crowley’s face when he mentioned he had to leave.
“Alright then, but I’m a pro at this, y’know,” said Crowley, and they both reached for the packet of biscuits at the same time.
Aziraphale’s fingers collided with Crowley’s, skittering over the biscuits and coming to a complete halt as his fingertips grazed over the other man’s skin. His skin sang at the reunion of their touch, completely unable to move and dumbly revelling in the sparks, the explosions, the absolutely cacophony that razed through his body at being connected again.
Crowley wasn’t moving either, his fingers frozen around a biscuit.
Aziraphale tore his eyes away from where they were connected, and looked up into round, wide honey-brown eyes, the left pupil so dilated it almost matched the one on the right.
The realisation hit Aziraphale like a truck.
This look on Crowley’s face, the one he’d seen last night, this whole-body reaction, it wasn’t repulsion.
It was fear.
Crowley was staring at Aziraphale like he was the truck that was about to hit him.
Before Aziraphale could say or do anything, there was a sharp knock at the door. Both of them jumped, hands flying away from the pack of biscuits. Aziraphale almost knocked his cup of tea over in his haste, huffing as the hot liquid spilled over the counter. He quickly grabbed the cloth to wipe up the spill as Crowley headed for the door, trying to ignore the blood that was rushing in his ears.
Aziraphale heard Anathema’s voice at the door.
“Have you seen Azira – oh!”
Cold dread washed over him as Aziraphale realised what had just happened. He turned slowly to see Crowley stood with the door wide open, standing stock still, whole body rigid, and just over his shoulder – Anathema’s wide-eyed, open-mouthed stare.
Aziraphale was striding the tiled floor in less than two seconds.
He slid himself between Crowley and Anathema effortlessly, gently pushing Crowley behind him and closing the gap in the door slightly so that Anathema couldn’t see into the lighthouse. “Good morning, dear,” he said, as brightly as he could manage.
From behind him, there came the sound of footsteps, then the slam of a door.
Anathema blinked behind her round glasses. “Oh, thank goodness you’re alright!” she exclaimed in a rush of breath. “When you weren’t in your bed this morning we thought… well…” She shook her head and closed her eyes briefly, and Aziraphale felt a sudden wave of guilt, recalling how she had warned him against going out in the storm.
“Oh dear, I’m terribly sorry for worrying you,” said Aziraphale, wringing his hands. “I was rather wet by the time I got here last night, and Crowley was kind enough to let me in and get out of my things, and...”
Anathema’s eyes gleamed and her eyebrows raised, and Aziraphale felt his cheeks instantly heat. “Oh, I – I don’t mean – we didn’t –”
“Of course not,” she winked. Before Aziraphale could argue further, Newt appeared over her shoulder, blue eyes wide with disbelief, and immediately flung his arms around Aziraphale’s neck. Shocked, Aziraphale gave a few awkward pats to Newt’s back and the young man withdrew, his eyes strangely watery behind his thick glasses.
“Very, uh, very glad you’re alright, professor,” said Newt sheepishly, clearly as embarrassed as Aziraphale was by his lack of decorum. “We’ll call off the search party.”
“The – the search party?” echoed Aziraphale, faintly.
“Oh, yes,” said Anathema, airily. “My uncle will be disappointed – not that he won’t be glad you’re alright, of course.” She hastened to reassure Aziraphale, though, privately, he had his doubts, “But I haven’t seen him this animated in months, going on about the most likely places we’d find your body and everything and how we could retrieve it. I hope he hasn’t called the coastguard already.”
“Right,” said Aziraphale weakly, feeling somehow as though he owed Shadwell an apology for not being dead.
“We’ll go now…” Anathema trailed off, her eyes darting over Aziraphale’s shoulder into the lighthouse. Aziraphale straightened, bristling, and Anathema smiled softly at him. “I’m glad Crowley has you. Tell him I hope I’ll see him soon.”
Aziraphale waved them off and closed the door, trying to ignore the way his heart thumped a little faster at Anathema’s words.
He turned around. The kitchen was empty, their two mugs and the packet of biscuits left abandoned on the counter. The bedroom door was closed. With a deep breath, Aziraphale walked over to it and knocked softly.
“What?”
“Can I come in?”
“No.” A pause. “Yeah. Whatever.”
Aziraphale opened the door.
Crowley was sat on his bed – he’d somehow managed to make himself seem small, pressured his long limbs into submission and squeezed his legs up to his chest, arms wrapped around them tightly. His head was down, forehead touching his knees, his vermillion hair spilling over them like a warning sign.
“Anathema said to tell you that she hopes to see you soon,” said Aziraphale. The other part of her words he kept for himself, to tuck away in the secret, safe place he’d been storing Crowley’s nonsensical noises and the memory of his touch.
The scrunched up figure on the bed made a movement that might have been a shrug.
“Are you… are you alright?”
“No!” It was an explosion, a hiss. “Nnnnot alright! I – I’ve… f-for years… and then you…”
Aziraphale flinched as Crowley lifted his head, eyes red-rimmed and the accusation in them undeniable. “You made me ff-forget.”
“Forget?”
Crowley gave a laugh, but it was a mirthless, empty thing that reminded Aziraphale of dry earth and sawdust. “What I am.”
Aziraphale stared at him. The glare in Crowley’s eyes was fierce, but still, behind it, he could see fear. Now he knew what it looked like, he was astounded that he had never seen it before. It jabbed out from him like a kind of prickly aura, its purpose to keep everyone and everything at bay, and oh, why hadn’t he seen it before?
He took a deep breath.
“What you are, my dear, is wonderful. Lovely. Nice. Kind.” Crowley narrowed his eyes at him, about to argue, and something about that challenge fired up Aziraphale’s confidence. “Beautiful.” He could feel his face heat as he said it, saw Crowley’s mouth go slack, but he kept going. “And I won’t hear you say any more of those awful things about a person I… I like a… a great deal.”
Crowley’s limbs had gradually unfurled during Aziraphale’s little speech, making it look a little like he’d melted onto the bed.
“You… you can’t jus’…” Crowley stammered. “Jus’ … say stuff like that…”
“Well I just did,” said Aziraphale tartly. He wished he had his own clothes on, this kind of speech called for a smoothing down of a jacket or an adjustment of a bow tie – rearranging the toggles on jogging bottoms just wouldn’t have the same effect. “Now, I have a pair of sunglasses I brought with me in a drawer back at the cottage – I’m sure they won’t be quite to your taste, and I’m not sure if they will have the, um, ah, coverage you require… but if you would like them, I would be happy to drop them over to you later. If you… if you think it would help.”
Crowley just blinked. Aziraphale couldn’t help but notice the dampness that still clung to those dark lashes, wetness glimmering in the corner of his eyes.
“I’ll bring them over later then.”
Crowley sucked in a breath and nodded.
“I – I ought to get back, apologise for the worry I put everyone through and then get to work.” Another nod. “Thank you for… for letting me stay, for the clothes, for… for my first sleepover.” He smiled, hoping to get something, anything, out of Crowley – but the lighthouse keeper just kept staring at him unblinkingly. “I – er, I’ll see you later.”
One final, slow nod, and Aziraphale held a hand up in awkward farewell and left the room, feeling somehow as though he was leaving a piece of himself in there.
+ + + + + + + + + +
Aziraphale headed out to the clifftops on the other side of the island after making a quick pitstop at the cottage to reassure Tracy (“Oh lovey, you poor thing, I’ll make you an extra special dinner tonight to warm your co*ckles, don’t you worry!”), and to apologise to Shadwell, who gave him a quick grunt before turning back to the television.
The island was rain-sodden in the wake of the storm, and his boots made loud sucking sounds in the mud as he walked the narrow track down to the nesting cliff.
The cliffside was now spotted with flowers of pink, white and yellow that fluttered gently in the morning sun, but the bright blooms paled in comparison to the vibrant orange and yellow beaks of the bustling birds that were milling about, enjoying the damp conditions.
Most of the mating pairs had eggs in their nests by now, one partner staying on the nest for a day or more whilst the other fed themselves and then swapping over. It was a precarious time, because if one of the puffins in a pair got injured or killed, it was more than one life that got lost – the remaining partner would have the difficult choice of abandoning their egg to feed themselves, or staying with it and starving to death. Most birds eventually realised their partner wasn’t coming and would leave the nest, but not all. Some waited, and waited, ever hopeful of their partner’s return, and died trying to keep their egg warm, against all sense of self-preservation.
Aziraphale settled on a flat, damp rock and watched the puffins as they scuttled at his feet, one of them attacking the toggle on his wellington boots. He took out his notebook and binoculars, ready to make his daily observations and check all their tagged pairs were doing well – but just put them to the side of him and sighed heavily.
He was glad Newt hadn’t joined him today. Aziraphale needed this – the salty breeze, the smell of damp earth, surrounded by his birds – so he could think, so he could give himself a moment to reflect.
This morning he had learned two very important things – that Crowley hadn’t rejected him, possibly even wanted what he wanted, too, and that Crowley was, for whatever reason, desperately, wildly afraid.
And for all Aziraphale didn’t know about being in a relationship, or intimacy, or romance – he knew a lot about wildlife, wild things, and Crowley, he had decided, was an extremely wild thing.
Aziraphale had been observing the natural world since he was very small, coming to understand them far better than he’d ever managed to understand humans. He’d watched from high up in trees, behind bushes, through binoculars and being quiet, being still – the number one rule of working with wild animals is that you never, ever approach them. You stay where you are and wait for them to come to you – and if they don’t then you respect that and back off. And sure enough – every time he had taken a step towards Crowley, the man had run off.
So.
So.
Aziraphale let out a long breath, a breath he hadn’t even realised he’d been holding.
Waiting was something he was good at. He had spent his entire life waiting. He’d spent his existence up until this point denying himself, telling himself no, cannot have, must not want, waiting for some great moment when his real life could actually begin.
He could wait a little longer.
Aziraphale watched a puffin peek its face out of a nest beside him, tilting its head, looking left and right, before disappearing back into the darkness. Waiting.
Some things, Aziraphale knew, were worth waiting for.
+ + + + + + + + + +
Aziraphale walked up the lighthouse that evening with the sunglasses tucked safely inside his jacket pocket.
The early evening was cool and clear, and he could smell the promise of rain in the air. The whole island seemed to have an aura of serenity, of peace – even the sea was calm, the only interruption being the gulls that let out the occasional squall as they circled the lighthouse.
Aziraphale felt anxiety clench around his windpipe as he approached the lighthouse door and swallowed. He knew it was ridiculous to feel nervous – he’d been knocking on this door every day, so why should he feel any differently now?
He knocked on the door, and he heard Dog yap twice and then a shuffling noise. “’Ziraphale?”
“Yes, it’s me.”
“Kay, hang on.”
The door opened slowly, bit by bit, until only a sliver of Crowley was visible – a shoulder, an arm, one eye. The left eye.
“I brought you the sunglasses, like I said,” said Aziraphale, hating the false cheeriness in his voice. He held out the sunglasses – thick, plasticky, horrible things, really, nothing like the sleek silver-rimmed pair Crowley had worn before, but they would have to do. “Sorry they’re not the best…”
“S’great, thanks,” mumbled Crowley, taking them with a movement as quick as a cobra strike. He disappeared behind the door for a moment. When he opened the door once more – wider this time – he was wearing them. They didn’t look right on his face, wrong shape, arms too thick, and Aziraphale missed the sight of his eyes already, but the relief in Crowley’s expression was obvious even with the dark lenses. “Perfect. Thanks, Aziraphale. Really.”
“It’s no problem, honestly,” Aziraphale protested, but a pleased warmth bloomed in his chest nonetheless. “They look – lovely.”
Crowley smiled, even if wobbled across his face like a drunken spider, and Aziraphale tried to smile back. Things were different between them, he realised. Something precious and fragile and easily broken.
“I, um, should probably get back,” said Aziraphale. He had been tentatively hopeful of an invite in – after all, they usually spent this time sat either side of a door, talking – but it was clear from Crowley’s body language that it wasn’t going to happen. “Apparently Tracy had taken it upon herself to cook me a special dinner to warm me up after the terrible tragedies I endured last night.”
“Oof,” chuckled Crowley, a grin beginning to tug at the edges of his mouth. “Wouldn’t wanna miss that.”
“Indeed.”
Aziraphale returned Crowley’s smirk and squashed down the urge to invite him to dinner.
“Well, see you, then,” said Aziraphale, forcing the words out of his mouth before turning away.
“Wait! ‘Ziraphale –”
Aziraphale turned back around, his hope curdling like milk the moment he saw the look on Crowley’s face.
“I’m, uh… not gonna be around for a bit. A while.”
Aziraphale stared at Crowley. The lighthouse keeper was looking down at the ground, at his feet, at the grass – anywhere but at Aziraphale.
“What…” Aziraphale began, but it was barely a whisper, so he tried again. “I mean to say, where are you going?”
Crowley slouched in the doorframe and sighed as though he was having to explain quantum physics to a pigeon. “There’s some other small islands near here with lighthouses that are automated but have nobody on the island – I check on them regularly, part of my job. Well. Part of Shadwell’s job, technically, but he can’t make it up and down those cliff steps anymore, or do half the manual work, and – well.” Crowley shrugged nonchalantly. “After the storm, figure I should do some maintenance checks. They’ve all got – beds, y’know, places to sleep, back from when they were manned… and I thought… ngghh… d-do me some good… hnnn… to get away f-for a bit.”
Crowley still wouldn’t look at him.
“I see,” said Aziraphale, softly.
What do wild things do when they’re scared?
“I’ll be leaving Dog with Shadwell in the morning. So… so… I won’t be around, like I said.”
They run.
Aziraphale nodded, which Crowley missed because he was busy picking at some peeling paint on the lighthouse door, so he cleared his throat. “Well that sounds lovely. Just – just the ticket, I expect.”
“Just the ticket,” mocked Crowley, softly, and finally raised his gaze to meet Aziraphale’s. “Where did you even come from, I swear…”
“I’ll miss you too, dear,” replied Aziraphale, leaning hard into sounding as catty as possible to cover up how true the sentiment was.
Crowley gave him a look, and Aziraphale knew, could feel it deep in his bones, that if those glasses were removed he’d see the wide-eyed fear, the skittish, frantic thing that seemed to pull this man away from him every time he stepped too close.
Aziraphale swallowed, sucked in a breath, and stepped away.
“Have a good trip, then. And… and I’ll be here.”
“You’ll...”
“When you get back, I mean. I’ll be… waiting.”
Crowley’s eyebrows climbed up from behind the glasses.
“I mean…” Aziraphale pushed it down, did what he’d been doing his entire life and packed all his feelings into a tiny little box and locked it up right. “I… I need… t-to try and beat you at biscuit chicken, don’t I? You can’t possibly think I’d let you get away with the crown that easily.”
Crowley let out a short laugh. “Right.”
His body language was still all wrong, still turned away, closed off. And Aziraphale was trying to be okay with that.
“Oh, I meant to say – I’ll wash the clothes you lent me and get them back to you, uh, when you return, I suppose.”
Crowley shrugged. “Nah. Keep ‘em.”
Aziraphale tried to think of a suitable reply, but before he could, Crowley gave him a wave (at least, he thinks it was a wave, it was a jerk of an arm), grunts a goodbye and closed the door in his face.
On opposite sides once more, thought Aziraphale.
+ + + + + + + + + +
Much to Aziraphale’s great annoyance, the island seemed to suddenly burst into bloom shortly after Crowley’s departure. The sea campion and oyster plants, thistles and primroses were exploding into colour, the green spread of moss springy and vivid and the dark rock of the cliffs now shining deep red in the warm May sunshine. It was beautiful, peaceful, idyllic – barely recognisable from the island he had first seen a little over a month ago.
It didn’t seem right, somehow, for the world to look like this, a veritable paradise, with Crowley gone.
Aziraphale had missed Crowley dropping off Dog at the cottage because he was out on the cliffs with Newt, but the little dog quickly took to spending most of his time in the evenings with Aziraphale, and had instantly jumped onto Aziraphale’s bed on the first night, wagging his tail expectantly as Aziraphale changed into his pyjamas.
Aziraphale had allowed the dog to curl into his body at night, idly stroking his fur and whispering into the dark where it could get lost, woven into the silent velvety blackness, “I miss him too.”
He tried to bury himself in his work, tried to find some enthusiasm for the dry-as-dust project his research was becoming, spending his days split between staring at a screen and sitting on a clifftop with binoculars and a pad in his hands.
The days ticked on, and he waited.
Anathema wouldn’t stop peppering Aziraphale with questions about Crowley, about what had happened between them in the storm, and what he knew about Crowley’s eye. She meant well, he knew, but he didn’t want to betray any of Crowley’s confidences – unfortunately, she caught him off guard when she asked him if the injury had been caused by his ex-boyfriend, the look on Aziraphale’s face must have confirmed it. Anathema’s face darkened, but she stopped asking questions, for which Aziraphale was extremely grateful.
He waited.
Shadwell had begun referring to him as a ‘Southern Pansy’, which everybody insisted was well-meaning, so Aziraphale took it as such. It did seem that Shadwell only gave affectionate insults to those he cared for, and he suspected that it was his friendship with Dog that had finally solidified his worth in Shadwell’s eyes. The very dog, who, incidentally, Shadwell referred to as a “wee beastie” or “that hellion.” The three of them had begun to enjoy watching an episode or two of Antiques Roadshow together before dinner.
He waited.
Tracy seemed to sense Aziraphale’s ennui and doubled her efforts to feed him up, blithely unaware that she was, in fact, making the situation rather worse. She watched over him as he ate with puckered red lips and worried, motherly eyes that made his own dampen when he realised that he’d never had this, never from his own family certainly, and so he continued to accept the tasteless, shapeless, atrocities for the acts of love they were.
He waited.
Newt had taken to walking with Aziraphale of an evening, usually after dinner. They’d walk around half the island and back – not to the puffins, as they did in the morning, but round by the lighthouse and the docks. Newt pretended not to know why they walked the same route every day, and Aziraphale pretended he didn’t check to see if that little boat with the weird name was back in the jetty. They talked about a lot of things – Newt was surprisingly a very sweet and thoughtful person, under the nervousness and technological chaos, and Aziraphale found himself enjoying the man’s company as they chatted about music and books and films and life at the University.
Still, he waited.
And then one day he saw it – The Bentley.
The boat was in the jetty, bobbing up and down on the soft evening waves.
“Do you want to go?” asked Newt, all pretence forgotten the moment Aziraphale had clutched at his arm upon seeing the boat.
“No,” said Aziraphale, eventually, releasing his grip on the man and turning away. He took several, calming breaths. “No. I’m… I’m going to wait.”
And he waited some more.
+ + + + + + + + + +
It was the next day, whilst Aziraphale was working late on a particularly annoying paragraph that he just couldn’t seem to get to sound right, when a streak of black moving in his peripheral vision pulled his eyes up from his laptop and to the wild path that connected the cottage to the lighthouse, now overgrown with flowers. A figure in the distance was walking towards the cottage, and even from far away there was no mistaking the sway of those hips, the bright copper of his hair.
Heart slamming against his ribcage, Aziraphale snapped his laptop shut and scooted back from the desk. He looked at his watch – it was twenty five minutes past five. Almost dinner time.
Tripping over himself, he quickly flung open his wardrobe and took off what he was wearing – the same soft, charcoal grey jogging bottoms and a cosy black sweatshirt he always wore of an evening – and quickly pulled on a sky blue shirt and corduroy trousers. He rummaged around in a drawer for a bow tie, and found his favourite one – tartan, of course – and did it up with fingers that seemed unwilling to co-operate, shaking and numb.
He'd finally tied it correctly, and straightened out the bow, when he heard the familiar sharp rap at the door.
Aziraphale hurried to answer it, but as he opened his bedroom door, he heard Shadwell’s voice.
“Oh aye, here he is, the bad apple himself. Yeh’ll be wantin’ yer dog back, then, eh?”
“Er, well, actually, I thought –”
Aziraphale strode into the hallway and peered over Shadwell’s shoulder, utterly unable to keep the smile from his face. “Crowley!”
Crowley’s face turned to him like a flower turning towards the sun. A smile bloomed across his face, a grin that was both pure and full of mischief at once. He was wearing the glasses Aziraphale had given him. “Hey, Aziraphale!”
Shadwell let out a huff. “Och, not this again,” he grumbled in what he probably thought was under his breath.
Aziraphale took no notice – he was busy taking in Crowley’s long, crimson locks, the angle of his grin, the sharp lines of his jaw… he was wearing the same waistcoat that he’d worn the first night they’d ever had dinner together, Aziraphale noticed. “You look nice,” he said, before he could stop himself.
Shadwell’s eyes flicked between the pair of them and then let out a deep sigh. He walked off, rolling his eyes. “For the love of–”
Aziraphale, only dimly aware of Shadwell’s exit, stepped closer to the open door. “Are you – coming in for dinner?”
“That was the plan. I mean, y’know if – if Tracy has enough.”
Something inside Aziraphale’s chest was singing. “Well I’d be glad to share with you if there isn’t.”
“Mm.” A single eyebrow quirked above the dark glasses. “Very selfless of you, I’m sure.”
Crowley stepped inside the hallway, his mouth twitching with a smile he was clearly trying to suppress, closing the door behind him. The sound of pots and pans clanging echoed from the other end of the hallway as Aziraphale stood there, heart fluttering anxiously like a caged bird in his chest.
Before he could say anything, the sound of frantic paws came skittering down the hallway, and Dog was jumping all over Crowley, his entire back end swaying from side to side with the force of his tail wags.
“Hey, buddy, did you miss me?”
Crowley bent down to fuss over the small dog, and looked up at Aziraphale as he avoided enthusiastic dog licks. “He been good?”
“Very,” affirmed Aziraphale, feeling his heart melt at the sight of the two of them together. It was seeing Crowley with Dog that had first allowed him to consider that perhaps there was more to the man that meets the eye – if there was one thing that would melt Aziraphale’s soft little heart into a puddle, it was a man who was good with animals. “And he definitely missed you. But we’ve tried to keep each other company in your absence.”
Was he imagining the soft flush of Crowley’s cheeks as he stood up?
“Hnng.”
Oh, God, how he’d missed those sounds.
“Crowley!” A shriek, followed by a waft of incense and a flurry of maroon skirts zoomed past Aziraphale as Anathema flung her arms around Crowley, who let out a strangled sound.
“Oi, gerroff!” said Crowley gruffly, as he wound his arms around her and squeezed her back just as tightly.
They released each other, and Aziraphale saw something flicker over Crowley’s face. The lighthouse keeper reached up to touch his sunglasses, as if reassuring himself that they were there, and Anathema’s beaming smile turned into something softer.
“I’m… glad you’re here,” she said, and then gently slapped his arm. “Grumpy git. Finished sulking, have you?”
Instantly, Crowley grinned at her. “Shut up, squirt.”
Anathema laughed. “Right. Well at least this one might actually cheer up now you’re back,” she said, elbowing Aziraphale with a conspiratorial smile that Aziraphale absolutely did not return because his entire body had instantly gone into panic mode. Stop talking, stop talking! he thought desperately, trying to communicate it by widening his eyes at Anathema – but, for all she claimed having psychic abilities and picking up on ‘vibes’, she definitely wasn’t picking up on them now as she blundered on heedlessly, “He’s been worse than Dog, honestly.”
Crowley turned to look at him – but there was no panic in his face, no fear, just the hint of a smile pulling at one side of his beautiful mouth. Aziraphale felt his cheeks heat as Crowley raised a single brow. “Oh really?”
Newt suddenly popped up behind Anathema. “Tracy says dinner’s ready, and Shadwell says – er, ahh – w-well, something I’d rather not repeat, actually.” Anathema giggled as Newt took her by the arm and steered her down the corridor – she turned back gave a very obvious wink to Aziraphale.
Aziraphale sent up silent prayers, blessing Newt, his future children and all their endeavours for as long as they lived.
Crowley’s dark glasses were still firmly fixed in his direction.
“Er – well, shall we, then?” Aziraphale said brightly.
“Um, ah, nggh – before we go in –”
Crowley seemed to stop there, as if waiting for permission to speak.
“Yes?”
The word came out a pitiful squeak of a thing.
“Mmm. The – the weekend. Is. Gnnh. Er. Good weather. S-sunny. N-not hot, ‘cos it doesn’t ever really get hhhh – but – n-nice. Ish. And. Well.”
Crowley seemed to come to a halt again, his dark gaze slipping downwards, looking down at Aziraphale’s tartan-socked feet.
“Dyawannagopicnicwithme?”
Aziraphale blinked. He was beginning to get a grip on Crowley’s linguistic gymnastics, but whatever he’d just said was far beyond his level of understanding. “I’m – I’m so sorry, dear boy, I didn’t catch that last part.”
“Hnnnng,” garbled Crowley, looking pained. “I was wond’ring if… you wanted… to… maybegoonapicnicwithme.”
The last part of the sentence was still rushed and frantic, like a plaster being ripped off, but this time Aziraphale heard enough to parse what Crowley had said.
“You – oh,” he breathed, surprised.
It wasn’t a loud thing, no earth-shattering, heart-piercing moment, what was happening inside of him right now, it wasn’t brash or demanding – it was soft and it was quiet, as fragile and tender as the invisible slide of one little finger over another in the dark.
Hope.
Crowley finally looked up at him, brows furrowed, and Aziraphale realised he hadn’t answered yet. Oops.
“Yes, yes, of course,” Aziraphale said, wishing he had something to do with his hands – they just fluttered in the air pointlessly as he babbled. “That sounds – truly delightful, what a splendid idea.”
Crowley nodded, his shoulders seeming to drop several inches and the tension lines leaving his forehead, smoothing over in relief. “Cool.”
“Yes,” Aziraphale said faintly, trying to calm the hummingbird that seemed to have replaced his heart. “Very cool.”
Crowley snorted. “Don’t say cool, angel, it doesn’t suit you.”
And he sauntered off down the hallway towards the sound of cutlery clinking against plates, Dog loyally following behind the man’s preposterous, sinfully swaying hips. Aziraphale stared after him, his mouth silently wrapping around a word in wonder, in confusion, and in hope.
Angel?
He hastened after Crowley in a daze, admiring the fluid way the man poured himself into a chair with ease, and wondered at the enigma of this wild creature that kept surprising him, this man who was simultaneously awkward and fluid, brittle and soft, rushing towards and pulling away from affection like waves upon a shore.
Aziraphale slipped into his own chair, much less gracefully, and Crowley passed him a glass of wine. The lighthouse keeper's long, elegant fingers lingered lightly over his own for a moment before drawing back, a slow, intentional touch that was paired with a self-conscious grin and a blush that matched the gorgeous hue of his crimson hair. Aziraphale returned the smile, and allowed himself to relax, to feel anchored by that small, seemingly insignificant touch.
Some things, Aziraphale had known, were worth waiting for.
