Author's Note: The fluff abounds, much to my bemusement. Betaed, as per usual. Thank you, my dears.
Rated 'T' because I worry.
Disclaimer: Still not mine.
Sometimes, when the world just seems a little too loud, a little too brusque, moving just a little too fast, they create a small safe-haven for themselves. Oftentimes, it's simply the dark back room of Aziraphale's bookshop, where candles are lit, filling the space with a sweetened, calming scent. They ignore the blaring of human movement on the busy Soho street, and the angel removes the tarnished clock resting on the mantelpiece, allowing their careful conversation alone to fill the air.
The topics they choose are deliberate. Music, theatre, books - topics which can be frivolous and laughable, or, if the mood takes them, deeply personal. Aziraphale sometimes falls into the delightful trap of waxing lyrical on his newest acquisition, but Crowley can never bring himself to mind. The angel's lips and manicured hands move quickly, trying to convey the particular joys of the half-read novel, but Aziraphale's eyes are steady, only tearing away from his face to look down in surprise at his own vehemence.
He always apologises for monopolising the conversation, but Crowley only smirk-smiles, and assures him that it's all fine. He would be the first to admit that it was strangely reassuring to hear Aziraphale speak - his voice smooth and eloquent - of things other than approaching misery and death.
The demon sometimes wonders if Aziraphale, too, has bad days, where everything seems to go wrong, even in the most inconsequential of ways.
He suspects that he does.
Sometimes, not often, Crowley brings scratchy records which they play on the angel's gramophone, and it somehow seems like an experience - the dark melancholy of a cello, the soaring voice of a violin, the breathy playfulness of a flute - they seem so much more.
They don't speak until the last note has been echoed and haunted and is dying away, and it is usually he whose breath is stolen, once the music comes to an end.
Sometimes, once in a century, when the loneliness refuses to dissipate, and Crowley can feel the absence of a certain something which he refuses to ponder, Aziraphale takes his hand, and kisses him. Somehow, the clutch of their hands seems more intimate than the gentle touch of their lips, and a warm feeling suffuses through the demon, and in those moments Crowley wishes he could speak of trust, and beauty, and hope.
It isn't right for a demon to love, but somehow he does so, anyway.
Sometimes, very rarely indeed, this isn't enough. He always feels awkward; all pointing bones and gangling limbs filled with nervous tension, but this is soon soothed away with Aziraphale's seemingly endless patience and lingering lips. Crowley knows that the angel, too, isn't entirely comfortable with himself, but that's almost worth it in the end. Seeing such a being - an angel - look up at him with unselfconscious devotion as he unravels is almost enough to make him weep.
Occasionally, he does. Any human would be concerned, frightened that they'd hurt him in some way. Any demon would be disgusted. Any other angel would never have made love with him in the first place. He knows Aziraphale understands enough about his job - about him - that he doesn't mind.
Sometimes, only once, actually, they lie for hours afterwards, not distancing themselves as they usually do, but touching every area of skin they can reach - shoulders, cheekbones, the sensitive insides of wrists - like the long-time lovers they always have been. Aziraphale is murmuring endearments against his body, and Crowley can only catch brief snippets of words. "I. You. Love, oh. Crowley. My dear."
Lying back on the age-worn quilts neatly draped upon the angel's rarely used bed, being worshipped in a way Crowley could never have dreamt of, his heart begins to beat painfully. It is a good hurt, the realisation that he truly adores Aziraphale, that without him he would have twisted, morphed into a cruel imitation of a demon - a terrible combination of infernal and human powers.
"Angel," he says, finally allowing himself to whisper the word as a sweet - everything, really. "Angel, I -"
Aziraphale's answering smile is slow, but blinding, and Crowley can't help but pull him close, his fingers entangling in ash-blond hair, reaching to stroke the subtle and warmed edge of his halo. The angel's eyelids half-close with languid pleasure, and his faintly plump, aristocratic fingers cup Crowley's face as they kiss again.
"I know," he says between kisses which are so sweet, so imbued with longing that the demon can scarcely believe that this is happening. "I've always known."
And with that, Crowley is beaming, because of course Aziraphale had known, and never bothered to tell him, the bastard. And it's becoming just a little difficult, now, to keep their lips pressed together because their bodies are shaking with barely-suppressed laughter, and he just said that aloud without even realising. And he just has to kiss Aziraphale properly now, because the angel is his bastard, and is bound to him, and Crowley can simply not contend with the sheer love which is coursing through his veins, controlling his actions, and tugging wondrously at his heart.
Sometimes, always, their time together is like a safe-haven.
It is theirs, and it is simply everything.
Finis
Thank you for reading.
Finally, do you see that little 'review' button? He is calling out to you, begging for you to press him and write something - anything. He just feels so lonely, sometimes, although he knows that there are lovely readers out there who are willing to help him through this difficult time. My little friend the 'review' button is asking you not to let him down.
Why, yes, I am a shameless writer. :-D