AN: this is the first fanfic I've written for a very long time. It's also my first ever attempt at portraying any real kind of romance. Will there be a second chapter? Maybe. Depends on whether I can write it to a level that I'm happy with. Constructive criticism is welcomed and will likely be acted upon. So all that's left to say is that the characters and universe they are within belong to Neil Gaiman and Terry Pratchett, and I hope you enjoy this bit of headcanon as much as I have enjoyed thinking about it.
The rest of their lives.
Crowley was driving his Bentley, Bohemian Rhapsody playing almost loud enough to drown out the doubts in his head, a wicker basket on the back seats. Unlike the last time that this had happened, however, it was not yet dark. When he finally reached Aziraphale's bookshop, he remembered that he wasn't supposed to park there and let out a frustrated snarl. It was a problem that he'd never had before. One among many.
The taxi he'd called was waiting as he pulled up outside his apartment. He was so annoyed that he nearly slammed the Bentley's door. Not quite so annoyed that he forgot the basket though. It had taken him the best part of the day to sort it out and there was no way he was going anywhere without it.
"A.Z. Fell's bookstore," he told the driver, who simply nodded, having had the job for long enough to recognise when a punter didn't want conversation.
Having nothing to do while he was driven back to the bookshop was torture. At least when he'd been driving he'd had something else to concentrate on. Now there was no distraction from the unending commentary of thoughts in his head, despite the fact that he was as prepared as he was ever going to get.
Though he would never have admitted it, which was partly attributing to his foul mood, Anthony J. Crowley was worried.
It was a journey that had been both far too long and far too fast when the taxi pulled up outside of the shop. Crowley got out of the car, reaching back for the basket. With a slight cough, the driver reminded him of his fare.
Out of reflex, Crowley brought his hand up to miracle himself some money. Then he remembered, and sullenly pulled a snakeskin wallet out of his back pocket, removing several crisp notes.
"Is this enough?" He asked coolly, not bothering to check.
"Sure seems to be," the driver gulped and drove off quickly, having been overpaid.
Crowley stood for a little while, looking at the outside of the building. Then, putting on his usual carefree swaggering demeanour, he walked in.
"Crowley!" Aziraphale looked happy to see him, which always made him feel just a little more grounded, "I wasn't expecting to see you today!" Then he noticed the wicker basket and paled.
"Don't look so worried, Angel," Crowley told him as he walked past and headed to the back room, "you'll like what's in here. Shut up shop while I get it set up."
"I can't just close," Aziraphale protested, "I'm working."
"Never stopped you before," Crowley told him then shut the door behind himself. He didn't need to listen to see if Aziraphale would close up. He didn't have time.
Once, not that long ago, Aziraphale had mentioned two things: dining at the Ritz (which they'd done) and going for a picnic. They were both pretty certain that they had a bit of breathing room from the Powers Above and Below, for now, but nonetheless, neither wanted to draw Their attentions and a picnic in the park was pretty in-your-face. So Crowley had decided to bring a picnic to Aziraphale. Eventually. After a great deal of persuading himself that it was acceptable to make a friend food. And several attempts that had ended up thrown from his apartment because he changed his mind, or wasn't happy about what he had made.
Crowley had just finished setting up and was trying to find ambient park noises on an app on his phone when he heard a gasp.
Aziraphale was stood in the doorway, his hands at his mouth at the sight of a blue and white checked blanket spread onto the floor of the back room, complete with plates of ham sandwiches and cheese sandwiches, perfectly cut into congruent triangles, and a half-dozen of cupcakes with almost perfect icing (Crowley was still not happy with those. They had simply refused point blank to look how he wanted them to, though seeing Aziraphale's reaction, he couldn't help but feel a little bit warmer towards the things, begrudgingly).
"Crowley…" The angel breathed, an endearing expression of awe on his face. It was an expression Crowley knew well, and one he secretly loved to elicit, "How…? Where?"
Crowley shrugged, "Made it myself," sauntering over to a space and flopping down into it, the very vision of nonchalance.
Aziraphale's eyes got even wider, "You made all this?"
"Don't go on about it, Angel, it wasn't that hard," Crowley waved at hand at his friend, "just sit down and enjoy it."
Aziraphale did so, but refused to pick up any of the food, despite his glances at it, "Crowley, we said we weren't going to do any miracles for a while, not even small ones!"
Clearly, the angel wasn't going to eat while he was worrying about this, so Crowley sighed, "I didn't use a miracle, I used money."
"And where did you get money from?" Aziraphale demanded, a frown wrinkling up his forehead.
"What is this, the Spanish Inquisition?" Crowley joked. Aziraphale clearly didn't think he was being funny though.
"Crowley!" His voice was sharp and cross, which meant Aziraphale was worried. And if Aziraphale was worried now, Crowley knew he'd never agree to his plan.
"Fine," Crowley raised his hands in a gesture of peace, "I sold some things."
Aziraphale's expression changed immediately, "Not the Bentley-"
"No! Of course not!" Crowley rolled his eyes, "Just some stuff in the apartment that I didn't really need."
They sat for a moment quietly.
"Well," Aziraphale sat down on the opposite corner of the blanket to him, "then, I'm sorry for shouting." He picked up a sandwich and Crowley watched anxiously as he bit into it, ridiculously pleased when the angel made his usual yummy-food-sound.
By the time the food was gone (mostly eaten by Aziraphale, though Crowley had helped with the ham sandwiches and a cupcake he'd been surprised to find was rather pleasant), they'd also made their way through a bottle a wine, not so fine a vintage as they were used to, but an acceptable drink all the same.
"I had no idea you could cook, dear boy," Aziraphale told him as he topped their glasses up again from a new bottle.
Crowley covered his smile up with a smirk, "It's not exactly rocket science, Angel."
"Still, maybe it's something you could pursue in the future," Aziraphale sat down, "after all, it's not like we have to go around performing miracles, or temptations anymore."
This was a thought that had also crossed Crowley's mind. But he'd think about that later.
"Speaking of the future," he began, trying to remember the speech he'd prepared over the weeks since the world hadn't ended, "what with us not using miracles, have you considered what we're going to do about money? I mean, we're living like humans so we've got to use it, right?"
Aziraphale sighed and slumped in his chair, looking into his wine with sad eyes, "Honestly, Crowley, I'm not sure. I imagine I'll have to sell some of my books."
Crowley allowed the silence to build, looking into his own wine like he was thinking about it. He wasn't trying to be manipulative, though his actions might have seemed otherwise. In fact, he was simply being very careful. He knew Aziraphale better than anybody and knew that he was quick to shoot things down without considering them if they were presented in the wrong way, mostly due to fear of what Heaven would do if they heard about him agreeing with Crowley's suggestions. True, they'd both made their stances against Heaven and Hell, but he wasn't sure whether Aziraphale would still respond in such a way through habit. And he didn't want to put a foot wrong.
He'd already lost the angel once, or so it had seemed, and he had no intention of ever doing so again.
"Well, maybe," he said slowly, as if the idea was just coming to him, "There's this thing humans do, I saw it on TV the other day, where people who know each other and get on well... live in the same house. And you know," he plunged on ahead without looking at Aziraphale's face in case he lost his nerve, "We get on pretty well, and it's cheaper for two people to live together than separately…"
Aziraphale was frowning slightly when Crowley finally dared to look at him, "Crowley, are you asking me to move in with you?"
"Don't be ridiculous, Angel," Crowley tried to cover the nerves he was feeling with a stretch before lounging back onto his chair, projecting a sense of ease he knew full well he wasn't feeling, "I know you'd never leave this place. I was asking if I could move in with you."