Well... ahem. Chapter 14 was bracing, wasn't it? Whoo.

For the moment, we are finished with the "physical" aspect of their relationship development, so if you are at work, or are uninterested in M-rated chapters, it is safe to proceed for a chapter or two now. :-) But there is at least one more steamy chapter on the horizon... another one I won't be able to gloss over, given the turn things are going to take in chapters 15 and 16.

Anyway, let's just call this the calm before yet another storm. I hope you find it sweet, a little aggravating, and ultimately worth it. Enjoy!


FIFTEEN

Yet again, Crowley and Aziraphale spent a night like none other.

They decided to call their carnal activities well-enough for now, each put on some combination of underwear and pyjama, prepared a fruit/cheese/charcuterie/bread plate, and brought it into the large, dark bedroom, along with yet more wine, not bothering with glasses. They shut out the world, and had a late supper whilst lounging on the bed, talking.

Eventually, they set aside the plate and lay back on pillows stacked against the headboard, sharing the bottle (actually several bottles), occasionally holding hands, and talking about everything under the sun.

This included, "I've been meaning to ask, have you noticed the plants down the back hallway are drooping?" from Aziraphale.

"Are they? I guess I've been too happy to threaten them lately."

"You threaten them?"

"Erm… ehhhh… yeah," the demon awkwardly confessed.

"Crowley!"

"Well, not anymore! Not since you moved in! Doesn't that count for something? Now, I just, you know, mist them from time to time."

"I suppose so, but… why don't you let me take care of the plants from now on?"

"No," Crowley sighed. "I'll get them greening again. Without using the waste disposal."

Aziraphale coughed on the wine he'd been drinking. "The waste… you use the… the one in the sink?"

"Only when they're naughty. And can you think of a clearer way to send a message to the others?"

"Oh Crowley! Oh… oh, no, no, no. This is a disaster!" Aziraphale whined.

"No, it's not. I'll nurse them back to health. And I'll be nice, okay?"

"Nice? Did you just say, you'll be nice?"

"Yes," Crowley groaned, rolling his marble-like eyes. "Ugh, don't make me say it again!"

"Oh, Crowley," Aziraphale mooned.

"They're just plants. I wish you'd stop being all..."

"Angelic?"

"Er…"

"Do you promise you'll deal with them, without resorting to being a…"

"Demon?"

"Well…"

"Yeah," Crowley pouted. "I promise."

Their conversation also included some fairly frank commentary on things they had done earlier this evening in the book shop, and there in Crowley's bedroom (commentary which almost led them back into it). Both had found it pleasant to say the least, both were ecstatic about the trajectory the relationship was taking. Each was grateful that the other was so keen to do whatever it took to coax out explosions of the highest order. But Crowley admitted that he had gone from thinking that their having a sexual relationship would be a lovely, rich, decadent piece of cake, if Aziraphale could just lean into it, to realising that there might be a learning curve involved for both of them.

But there was further talk, too, of prophecies and the coming war.

"Crowley, there's been a revelation nagging at me… I've been reluctant to mention it."

"Why reluctant?"

"Because I know how you'll react to it."

"Oh, shit," Crowley groaned, before taking a bracing swig off the wine bottle.

"I think you'll probably tell me to go jump in a lake, the way you did when I said we should confess to our respective former head-offices regarding the body-swap," Aziraphale sighed.

"I would never tell you to jump in a lake."

"You know what I mean. You asked why the living fuck we would do a thing like that, and then you shot me down…"

"Well, you're brilliant, angel, but that was not a brilliant idea, sorry to say."

"Fine. Accepted."

"What brilliant idea has been nagging at you now?"

"What if the two of us were to do whatever penance was necessary, and go back into the fold," Aziraphale said, tentatively.

"What if? We'd be cast out and killed, that's what."

"But that's I'm saying. What if we did whatever was necessary to gain forgiveness, so as not to be cast out and killed, and for a time, went back to the way things were."

Crowley sat up straight and looked at his companion with incredulous, burning golden eyes.

"The way things were?" he growled. "Are you fucking kidding me? The way things were? How could you even… I mean, how could you…"

Aziraphale now sat up straight too. "Not the way things were with us. Not necessarily. I wouldn't want that… not now. No, I mean, I work for Heaven again, and you work for Hell again. We do what they ask. We see each other clandestinely, like we've always done. Very clandestinely. We would have to be incredibly careful to keep up the appearance that I'm just living and working in Soho, minding my own business, and that you're living here, and doing whatever it is you do. Scaring the droop out of your plants and whatnot."

"But all the while we'd be… what? Canoodling each other, somehow out of sight of Michael's surveillance? Like she wouldn't check all the bloody time and what am I talking about anyway? Why would we go back into the fold, Aziraphale? We were slaves for six thousand years, and finally have a bit of freedom! I can't understand you!"

"Listen, if you and I are back in the fold, and working from the inside, we might have a chance at stopping this thing. This... coming war, or whatever it is."

"Why, because it went so smoothly before?"

"Things have changed, haven't they? Heaven can be convinced, and Hell can be manipulated. We know how paranoid they all are now. I think you and I could talk them down from launching a war against the humans!"

"And what if it doesn't work? We find ourselves in line for execution again. Only, as I said before, they'd get it bloody right this time."

Aziraphale exhaled with exasperation. "We have to think of something other than ourselves, and each other."

"Not me. That's not what I'm about, angel. I don't do selfless."

"You're selfless with me."

"That doesn't count."

"Why not?"

"Because doing things for you is actually selfish. It's a pleasure. And it makes you happy, which makes me happy, and on some level, I'm also hoping it makes you, you know… agreeable. And also…" Crowley stopped then, and sort of groaned at what he seemed about to say.

"What?"

"Nothing, angel."

"No, no, you don't get to do that anymore."

Crowley pouted for a few moments, but relented. The words came out stilted, almost as though they didn't belong in the same discourse together. "Doing things for you doesn't count as selfless, because you… you're like, a part of me, aren't you? Aren't we the same self in some ways?"

"Crowley…" Aziraphale breathed, shocked with emotion.

"We occupy the same space, so much of the time," Crowley continued, now muttering, reluctantly. "Sometimes metaphorically, even. If I've done something for you, I've done something for us both."

They sat and stared at each other for what might have been a half-hour, and might have been four seconds – neither of them could really tell – Aziraphale in shock, and Crowley just sort of crippled for the moment. The only thing they knew for sure was that in a set of days full of revelations, this one was no small thing.

After a while, Aziraphale reached over and took Crowley's hand. "Then do this for me, and for yourself."

Crowley flopped back against the pillow. "Ugh! I do things for you like, blessing a bishopric, making people come and see Hamlet, making piles and piles of crêpes that I'll never eat. Things like, being nice to my plants, and delaying my own orgasms. Things that actually feel right in the long run, even though I'm supposed to make everything feel wrong. I don't do things like, let's say, putting myself in Hell's shackles!"

"Not even to save everything?" Aziraphale asked, earnestly softly. He was echoing Crowley's words and manner from months earlier, when he'd tried to tempt the angel into killing an eleven-year-old boy who might bring about the End of the World.

When Crowley didn't answer for a long time, Aziraphale moved close, laid his head on the demon's chest and allowed himself to melt into the embrace. Crowley laid his arm over Aziraphale's back. "I'll think about it, okay?"

"That's all I can ask for at this stage, I suppose. Thank you, Crowley."

"Yeah."


In and out of conversation (and a bit of snogging) over the course of the night, Crowley did think about what Aziraphale had said. He contemplated, more than anything, whether this could continue, if he refused to hand himself back over to the agents of Hell. He wondered whether this idyll with the angel he loved could ever be what he hoped, if he said he was unwilling to return to grovel himself back onto the infernal payroll, in order to help Aziraphale try to save humanity.

His refusal had two practical consequences, as he saw it.

One of them was, Aziraphale decided to return to Heaven's fold, one way or the other. If he did that, then Crowley might as well do likewise. This life, as they now knew it, would be over. They'd have to take their lumps, and take any and every scant opportunity to be together. They'd have to sneak about and lie to Beelzebub, Gabriel, Michael, Hastur, and everyone else… which would be nothing new, but now, would be so much harder. Part of him fancied the clandestineness and secrecy, but mostly, it sounded exhausting. And depressing.

The other consequence was, Aziraphale stayed outside the fray with him, and they go on living in this flat together, go on having untold pleasures together, go on being lovers as they were meant to. But what would the cost be? Would Aziraphale always feel guilty and beaten, anxious about being here, enjoying life, whilst Heaven and Hell brewed up something horrific? Would he grow sullen? Would his feelings about Crowley change, because of it? Would they continue to work on the prophecies, and find other solutions, or would Aziraphale eventually shut him out?

The demon had no illusions about the fact that the angel loved him for his bite, his individual edge, his darkness, roughness, hedonism, which was all somewhat exotic to the angel. But Aziraphale also loved him for that mitigating streak of nice, without which, their friendship would have been intolerable. Or, more accurately, it would not exist. Crowley's core personality was to be mischievous rather than evil, and passionate rather than destructive. If he withdrew his nice, and showed zero passion for humanity, would Aziraphale be able to abide him?

He thought, most likely not.


In the past, at different times, the pair of them had gone decades upon decades without crossing paths. In the very early days, they'd go centuries, even, which now seemed, to Aziraphale, unfathomable. Since 1020 or so, very nearly a full millennium, they had not let this happen, because like it or not, they sought each other out. Things were easier when they were together because they could commiserate, execute their "Arrangement," and talk about the foibles of humanity, philosophise, and the job didn't seem so limiting. Plus, Crowley was someone with whom he could get drunk and be an idiot, without fear of judgement.

In the twentieth century, the longest they'd gone without seeing each other was fifteen years, between 1947 and 1962. That period had been excruciating for Aziraphale (it was during this time when he'd purchased the charcoal-coloured cashmere robe, something dark and lovely to wrap around himself, on a cold night). He didn't know exactly at what point he began to ache to be with Crowley... He'd been in denial off and on so much, especially since 1941, it was impossible to pinpoint.

And he knew with absolute certainty now, he could never be away from his demon for long, ever again. And yes, that meant, Crowley's corporeal form at his side, his actual voice, life force, soul, and love. More than ever, Aziraphale craved Crowley's particular physicality.

But it also meant Crowley's brain and absurd sense of humour, problem-solving style, and personality. Life as an agent of Heaven would be insufferable (as it would have been for the first six thousand years) if he didn't have Crowley's support. He'd need someone to debrief with, someone who could relate, and not just in past tense. He'd grown accustomed to Crowley's brand of no-bullshit wisdom, as well as his brand of bullshit. He'd miss it all so much if ever he had to give it up, it didn't even bear thinking about. More importantly, he'd need an "in" on the other side of things. He wouldn't be able to convince or manipulate Heaven without knowing what Hell was up to.

But oddly, he didn't have contingencies in place. What might Crowley decide, and what would he, Aziraphale, do, either way? If the demon said "no," could Aziraphale give up "this" life, in exchange for groveling to Gabriel, and possibly saving humanity again? No way. But could he simply abandon the idea of doing the ultimate good as a full-time angel again, in order to be with Crowley?

Aziraphale had always felt a little bit caught between Crowley and his duty, but this hurt. A lot. He had put himself in a position to choose between love, or the world.


Neither of them ended up falling properly asleep… although one of them managed a kip.

They talked through other solutions to the Third Domain problem, with a healthy dollop of if only.

"If only there were away for Gabriel to spend a millennium or two on Earth," Aziraphale sighed. "He might understand a bit better."

"All angels and all demons, regardless of rank, should have to do a tour of duty down here," Crowley agreed. "It's humbling. And equalising."

"Amen," said the angel, swigging deeply on wine.

"If only they'd accept that the three domains need each other. Good, evil, humanity. It's all a big, muddled-up colour wheel."

"Indeed. And the vast majority of all things are at the centre of the wheel, in the space that ought to be sort of… brown. A lot of other things are in the orange, green and purple spaces. Very few things are pure red, pure blue, or pure yellow. You know what I mean?" Aziraphale said, slurring his speech.

"Bizarrely, yes, I do. And I agree. Though I'm tempted to cut you off from alcohol."

They talked prophecy, history, men's fashion, and cinema…

Crowley eventually nodded off with his head in Aziraphale's lap, a little after five in the morning. The angel spied a book from across the room, lying incongruously on an armchair in the corner. He retrieved it via magic, and found that it was a French cookbook. He decided to read through it and choose a few recipes to try, as he did not want to change positions, or stir in any way, lest his companion be roused. It was unguarded, un-self-conscious closeness that he could not take for granted. This was contentment, this, and he reckoned Heaven should have a lot more moments like this in its programme.

Unfortunately, though, whenever Big Ben reached the top of the hour, its bong was hearty, and loud in this flat. Ordinarily, when the noise began, Crowley would just block it out with a wave of his hand. This morning, however, it caught them both off-guard, and was loud enough to wake the demon from his nap, at precisely six a.m.

Aziraphale silenced the noise in the bedroom, but it had already startled the demon awake.

"Whoa, how long was I out?"

"Forty-five minutes, give or take," Aziraphale answered, closing his reading material and setting it aside.

"I see you found my cheat sheet," Crowley smirked, indicating the book.

"Yes," Aziraphale said, smiling. "I hope you don't mind – I dog-eared a few of the pages so we could revisit them."

"I don't mind," Crowley told him. "Ready for coffee, or shall we lounge a bit longer?"

"I'm ready to begin a new day."

"And so we shall. Kitchen, or Kiptyn's coffee house down the street? Pastries and/or bacon sammies."

"Well, I'm sold. Ah, you always know precisely the right thing to say," Aziraphale mused.

Crowley smirked again. "Almost as though it was once my job."

"Let's get dressed – see you at the front door in ten minutes."

Aziraphale took Crowley's jowls in both hands, and planted a joyful kiss on the demon's lips, before standing up from the bed. He crossed the hall to his own room and closed the door.

And Crowley couldn't stop smiling, even though he tried. He walked into the closet and put on a pair of black jeans, a charcoal grey v-neck tee-shirt, and fitted black and white pinstriped jacket. He located one of the twenty-or-so pairs of sunglasses laying around the flat, and threw them onto his face, then dug his black boots out of the pile of clothing discarded in a fit of educational passion the night before. He put them on, then snapped his fingers. With that, every garment discarded in the room, including Aziraphale's, found its way onto a hanger and into the appropriate closet, clean, and pressed.

He walked out into the foyer where Aziraphale was standing, already dressed and ready to go.

"So, I was thinking, after Kiptyn's we'll go and open up the shop, and do the next few prophecies," the angel offered.

Crowley sighed. "Yeah, I reckon that's what we ought to do. I'm going to need more alcohol, then."

"And speaking of prophecies, I thought we'd discuss again that idea that we had about…"

"Crowley!" a voice sounded from somewhere in the flat.

"Shit!" Crowley spat. "Bloody Hastur!"

"Oh good grief, what do they want now?" Aziraphale whispered.


Awww, but ugggh! Right?

Anyway, please leave a review because I can't go on without your love! Honestly. :-)

Thank you for reading!