After jealousy drove Aziraphale out of the barbershop, Crowley has got some work (and some explaining) to do.

One more chapter with no smut, but the seeds are planted!

I hope you're happy (or at least satisfied) with how this turns out. I really can't see Aziraphale being persistently bitchy about something this brief/benign. We all have our freak-outs, but see, that's why Crowley gives him three hours to cool off...

Enjoy!

PHONE FEELS

Crowley paid for his haircut without looking Vincenzo or Harold in the eye. He had initially chased Aziraphale out the door after ripping off his cape, and he could have caught him. But seeing the briskness of his stride, and the hunching-over of his shoulders inside that fussy Victorian coat, Crowley's heart broke a little, and he couldn't move any further. He stopped in his tracks and went back inside the Tonsorium to settle up.

V. tried apologising once again, claiming he'd "forgot his manners" and "should've been more professional." Both of those things went without saying, but Crowley muttered a barely-audible, "s'all right, wasn't your fault," before leaving, and climbing into the Bentley.

Like himself, when upset, what Aziraphale had always needed was time. Just time. Time to get perspective, time to rationalise, and to think about how to proceed. In the past, the angel had taken decades to get over being angry about something Crowley might have said or done, and vice versa. Now, Crowley hoped a few hours might do the trick – they didn't have decades for this sort of rubbish.

So now that he was in the car, where would he go? Home? To an empty flat? Aziraphale almost certainly hadn't gone back there, and Crowley absolutely did not fancy being there just now on his own.

He set his phone timer for three hours. When it went off, he would phone the bookshop, explain himself, and ask to be forgiven.

Forgiven. That word had always been a prickly one for him, but there was no way around it, under the circumstances, and he accepted that. But how would he kill these hours? He had to remind himself that he couldn't get blind drunk and hope to sober up enough in time to speak any sense to Aziraphale.

He had, on occasion, hung out at a particular billiards hall when he felt in need of a pick-me-up, but that was because the cocktail waitresses there always flirted with him – he didn't need any of that just now.

There were coffee shops, of course, restaurants, pubs, parks, all of which could be excellent for killing a few hours. It all sounded hollow.

For a brief few moments, he thought of sleep. It was the most efficient way to manipulate time, at least in one's own world – it could be made to go faster. But he couldn't just stretch out on a park bench, so it was back to waiting.

But, he reckoned, if he'd survived the fourteenth century, waiting out the Black Death underground, and put up with the utter lack of fun anywhere in the known world, he could wait three hours to speak to Aziraphale.

In the old days, the Bentley would more or less drive itself to the bookshop, drawn there particularly when the demon was despondent. Now the big, old, awesome car needed petrol and steering, and it took a Herculean effort for Crowley not to gravitate to Soho. Nevertheless, he did manage to veer outside of London. He wound up in Brighton, but he had nothing in particular on his agenda, so he wound up getting out of the car just for a kebab, and eating it on the way back to the city.

Though he took almost no pleasure in it.

Aziraphale might have been able to abide the Vincenzo incident a bit better if he hadn't spent such a large chunk of the day contemplating the idea of other people interfering in their relationship. Crowley had talked freely of exploits all over the South of France, and had made a joke about how the summit of Mount Everest was the only place he hadn't had a shag. Then, a man from the fromagerie down the street, who had introduced himself as Craig Huling, appeared in the bookshop to proposition Aziraphale. The experience had been, to him, appalling, as being propositioned was not normal for him, and he hadn't been sure how to handle it. Part of him felt that it was inappropriate for anyone to proposition anyone… but he also knew that was absurd. He was still learning to navigate these waters, and he was clumsy at it, and had no desire to contemplate navigating them with anyone other than Crowley.

And when Huling had left, he hadn't particularly expected Crowley to get all demonic and territorial, but he also hadn't expected to be ribbed about not wanting to say no to Mr. Huling, and perhaps inviting him on a fun holiday as a 'trio,' either. He knew full well that the suggestion had been in jest, but also that Crowley could fully see his angel's discomfort, and should have known that the proposition had caused more than just 'discomfort.'

He'd known it back when Shakespeare had made a pass at Aziraphale during a special performance of 'Hamlet,' how could he not know it now?

But then, there was the enjoyment of a new creature comfort at the barbershop, the Tonsorium, where they both indulged in a bit of pampering. It was rather a boon to discover that they both frequented the same establishment, and both enjoyed the same sorts of sensory experiences there, and it had been restorative to Aziraphale's somewhat troubled spirit. Things were looking up...

Until Vincenzo had asked Crowley if he wanted mousse. It had all been downhill from there.

Aziraphale was currently sitting on the sofa in his bookshop, the one usually occupied by Crowley, just now finishing up a Gyro from the same place where Crowley had picked them up a few days before. It was cosy food to him, as he had been enjoying their fare for over sixty years, since the current owner's grandfather had opened the place, and he did now feel a bit better, with a belly full of melt-in-your-mouth lamb, homemade pita, and extra tzatziki sauce.

Three hours he'd sat in his old, musty, homey bookshop, contemplating all of this (minus the time he'd spent picking up dinner), and he hadn't been able to get the sound of Crowley's groan out of his mind. That throaty moan/laugh, coupled with a low, growled 'fuck!' Aziraphale had been experiencing a dichotomy of sensation, as the memory was both arousing and crushing. Hearing that sound, recalling it, was titillating. But knowing how it was induced made his stomach hit the floor.

When the phone rang, it interrupted an uneasy idyll, and Aziraphale jumped, making an involuntary, frightened grunt.

Clutching at his chest, and murmuring "Good Heavens!" he stood up, crossed to his desk, sat down again, and picked up the phone.

"Hello, A.Z. Fell and Company Bookseller, I'm afraid we are closed."

"Angel, it's me."

"Oh. Hello, Crowley," Aziraphale said curtly. "I trust you've been having a pleasant evening."

"Fuck, no," Crowley spat. "It's been Hell. Figuratively speaking, of course, but you know, coming from me, it's still saying something."

"I'm sorry to hear it."

"No, don't you dare say you're sorry. If my evening was Hell, I bloody well deserved it."

"Crowley…"

"I deserve Hell," Crowley said, flatly, and with some finality. "I suppose that's no surprise, eh?"

"Crowley, stop it. I can't bear the melodrama. It's been a whole blasted day of it, and that's what's brought us here! Can you please just…" Aziraphale tutted after trailing off.

"Just what?"

"Actually, Crowley, I do have some things to say, but before I do, I'd like to concede that I might have overreacted a bit."

"Excuse me?"

Aziraphale sighed. "I know it was a misstep. A slip. I know you love me, and I should've handled myself with more decorum."

There was a pause. "Do you also know that I've never loved anyone else? Ever? Nor could I ever?"

"Yes. And I feel the same. I'm in love with you, and I have been for centuries – helplessly so. And you are the only… my only."

He said these words quite sweetly, and Aziraphale was fairly certain then that he heard the distinctly short breath of a former demon unable to hold back tears.

"Oh, it's so good to hear you say that," Crowley managed to croak. "It also hurts just a little. Fine line, they say."

"This is a bump in the road, my love, that's all. We're far more solid than some stupid expletive coming out of your mouth, when a good-looking man pulls your hair. Even if it gave you a twinge…"

"I don't even think he is that good-looking."

"Oh hush, of course he is. But here it is, Crowley. This is what I would like to say. Are you ready to hear it?"

"Absolutely. Lay it on me."

"All right. Now, think of how much I love you. And think of how much you love me."

"I can't think of anything else, angel."

Aziraphale's voice turned, almost involuntarily, hard. "Now think about how it would feel to hear that I'd shagged may way up and down the French coast, not to mention the testosterone-soaked Roman occupation of Provence, with all those sweaty officers travelling without their women, and building arenas and whatnot. And think about knowing that THAT is just a blip in my history! Think about the legions of faceless people to whom I might have given eye-crossing orgasms. Picture me on my knees with someone else's phallus in my mouth. Or mine in theirs. Think of me moaning a name you've never heard whilst shuddering in a paroxysm of pleasure… even if it's a ruse, and even if you know it's you I've wanted all along."

"Shit," Crowley hissed.

"And think how it would feel to know that it's all real. And to hear me talk about it with a big, indulgent smile on my face, and hear jokes about it, and suggestions of adding more flesh to the mix."

"I think that might turn me inside out," Crowley admitted. "And not in the good way."

Aziraphale sighed heavily. "I know who and what you are, Crowley – or at least, what you were. I know your erstwhile purpose and vocation in this funny old life we've led. I know your personality, and your proclivities – I've known all of that for ages. So, of course you've got quite a long history of this sort of thing. But being confronted with the truth of it can sometimes be difficult."

"I understand."

"So, I'm not going to tell you how sickly I've been feeling for the past three hours. I'm not going to tell you specifically how it made me feel hearing you give that unmistakable indicator of arousal to Vincenzo. But I will say, I reacted the way I did because you compounded upon me quite a number of things that tested my patience today, and pushed past the limit my ability to be a bigger man than the jealousy that had begun to consume me."

"I did. I see it. I did that to you."

"And if we wish for things like this not to happen in the future, I would ask you to be mindful of that."

"I will, angel. I absolutely will."

"Having said that, I would rather sheepishly admit that I enjoy your depth of experience, as it has served me very well."

"Yeah?"

"Mm. The other night when we were making a mess of the kitchen, and you said we had achieved perfection because it wasn't your first rodeo… well, indeed. And I'd hate to think of what our sex life would be like if we were both fumbling in the dark. But benefitting from your years of experience, and being asked to hear about them and laugh them off whimsically…"

"…two different kettles of fish?"

"Quite."

Crowley sniffed again. "I can't believe I've fucked this up so royally already."

"Haven't you been listening? You haven't fucked it up!" Aziraphale insisted. "I just need you to be more impeccable with your words and behaviours, keeping in mind that I'm a bit of a prude, and yet I love you with my whole body. And it is startlingly easy to hurt me."

"What have I done to deserve you?" Crowley practically whimpered.

"Plenty. Now, can you cease any contemplation of self-flagellation and just apologise, clean and clear?"

There was an uncomfortable pause, and then Crowley cleared his throat. Cleanly, evenly, he spoke the words, "Angel, I am so sorry. Nothing like that will ever, ever happen again. I swear it."

"Accepted, my love. Thank you," Aziraphale said with some measure of relief. There was another silence, and then Aziraphale asked, "But I still have to ask: what the Hell was that today, Crowley?"

"The thing with V?"

"Yes!"

"I guess I just… forgot. Not about you, but about V. Daft, I know."

"I don't follow."

"I was kind of ecstatic to find that you and I had both been going to Cédric's all these years. But it had inconveniently slipped my mind that one of the reasons I enjoy that particular creature comfort is that V. does an amazing job styling my hair, but he's also a little… you know, rough."

"Rough."

"He twists and pulls harder than other barbers or stylists I've had. I noticed it straight away, and… well, you know what it does to me. And by the time V. started working there, I'd been keeping myself on a shelf out of the reach of others for sixty-some years. It felt good. So I kept going back. I liked the stimulation. And technically, nothing ever happened…"

"But he always knew he was arousing you?"

"Oh, yes. He knows."

There was a pause, and Aziraphale sighed. "He's propositioned you, hasn't he?"

"Quite a few times."

"You've always declined?"

"Yes! What kind of a question is that?"

"Even though he's gorgeous?"

"Honestly not my type, Aziraphale."

"And yet, you kept going back?"

Crowley stammered a bit. "It… it… er, well, seemed harmless enough."

Aziraphale sighed again. "I suppose that's true. At the end of the day it is, basically harmless."

"But I won't go back. I'll ask for someone else next time – V. will understand."

"If you switched to a woman, would that help?" Aziraphale asked.

"Ehhh, probably not. I'm an equal-opportunity sort of demon. At least, I used to be."

"Oh, Crowley."

"What? You know who I was, how I was made. I've always loved you, but I don't necessarily prefer men, or male angels or whatever, it's about YOU. I prefer you. Everyone else is just… you know, temptation fodder." There was a contemplative pause between the two of them, and then Crowley asked, genuinely curious, "Why, do you prefer men?"

"I have no idea," Aziraphale chuckled. "As you said, it's about loving you, and no one else."

"Okay, actually, you know what? Maybe I do like men a bit better, but only because they're stronger and, well, rougher. Which… actually, now I think of it, women don't pull as hard when they're coiffing me, so maybe it would work with a female stylist."

"Crowley, just tell me: are there other people you go to because they're… rough? Massage therapists? Dentists? Cashiers at Tesco?"

"Just V.," said Crowley. "He's a tiny indulgence in a seventy-eight-year absence of sex. That's it."

"I see. Are there others you go to because they… say things to you? Talk dirty, or whatnot? Vincenzo asked you if you like it rough…"

"No," Crowley said with finality. "I mean, no, there are no others I go to for that reason."

"All right. I accept that."

Then there was a pause, and Crowley could be heard to breathe in and breathe out. Then, he asked evenly, "Angel, are we okay? Because I just thought of something."

"Are we okay? I suppose. What are you thinking?"

"Are you sure? Because this is the sort of thing I really need you to invest in."

"We're okay. I understand about the barbershop, and your past. What's on your mind, Crowley?"

Crowley's voice dropped to something secretive, seductive. "Well, you brought up the dirty talk. And forgive me, angel, but I know you're an avid fan."

"We have learnt that, haven't we?"

"And this whole thing got dialled up to eleven because you were feeling lost in a long series of my, erm, exploits."

"Yes, and?"

"I reckon that you worry about there being nothing I haven't done. No fleshly activity I haven't tried. There's nothing new for the two of us… other than Mallorca, for example. Am I right?"

"Er… yes, I suppose I do worry about that."

"Yes, granted, a couple of weeks ago I told you that I'd never made love to anyone but you."

"I did adore hearing that."

"It's very, very true. But you must have realised that the acts themselves were things I'd done before."

"I suppose I did."

"Which doesn't take away the depth of feeling that we experience, of course. Making love is a whole different ballgame to anything I'd ever done before being with you."

"Crowley, what are you getting at?"

Crowley chuckled wickedly. "You see, there is one area of sex I have never explored. A limited category of acts and concepts I haven't tried."

"Really?" Aziraphale asked, genuinely surprised.

"Mm-hm," Crowley lilted. "Fancy a bit of experimentation? Nowish?"

"Now? How now?"

"Yes, now. What's in your hand, angel?"

"Erm… the telephone receiver."

"Indeed. Let the games begin. That is, if you want them to."

"I don't even know what you're talking about."

I have to beg, borrow, cheat, and steal in order to get the down-time I need to write, during the quarantine. Can I hear from you, so I know that the effort is not in vain? Reviews are love - never doubt that!

Thank you for reading!