A/N: Title from Queen's 'Good Old Fashioned Lover Boy'

Crowley didn't brood. He wasn't a brooding sort of demon. The most he would indulge himself in is a well-deserved time to think things over. But he didn't brood.

Laying in bed at two in the morning, staring up at the ceiling, however, would be a time to brood if there ever was one. Crowley hissed in annoyance and turned over onto his stomach. It was patently ridiculous and there was no need to worry about it but apparently this is what his mind decided to fixate on tonight. Without his permission, mind.

Does Aziraphale love me?

It wasn't a question of reciprocation – Crowley would be perfectly content if the answer was no. They had fantastic conversations about philosophy and ducks and wine and all sorts of things, and they'd spent eleven years in each other's back pockets raising Warlock. What they had went deeper than just being each other's nemesis or acquaintance. Crowley would be fine if the answer was no – he just wanted an answer.

When Aziraphale called him "my dear" was that just a verbal tic the angel had picked up from Satan knew where or did it mean something else? When Crowley complimented him, and the angel blushed what did it mean? Had he ever really caught Aziraphale sneaking appraising looks at his wardrobe or was that just in his head? Was it all in his head? Maybe he was just projecting?

Crowley snarled into his pillow. If his mind could just shut up and let him sleep that would be great. Unfortunately, his mind was not his plants and he utterly failed to intimidate himself into settling down and letting him sleep.

"Dammit," he groaned, getting a mouthful of cotton. The way Aziraphale had laughed at his joke, the way he'd complimented his voice and called it soothing, how much time they could spend in each other's presence and just exist. "What the heaven does it mean?"

Despite Crowley's non-brooding nature, he ended up thinking about the same things every night for a week.

"This is ridiculous," he muttered to himself. "I'm a demon. I don't worry about whether or not Aziraphale wants to date me."

Except for when he did. Would Aziraphale consider it a date if Crowley suggested a new café that he thought the angel would like? Would he be wrong? If both of them wanted it to be a date, would that be something they could just agree on?

Crowley stood up and stalked around his apartment. "There should not be," he snarled in the general direction of his plants, "this much drama!" Even the understated quivering of their leaves failed to make him feel better so he went back to bed and stared at the ceiling until the sun rose, trying desperately to shut off his mind.

"Do you mean to tell me," Crowley asked, "that you don't know how to cook?"

Aziraphale shrugged. "I like eating food," he explained. "That doesn't mean I know how to cook it."

Crowley scoffed, leaning back against the sofa. "Next time we get together, angel, remind me to teach you how." He couldn't be sure but in the lamplight it looked like Aziraphale blushed.

"Would you really?" he asked.

"'Course," Crowley said. "There's really not much to it, after all." He took a sip of wine and hummed thoughtfully. "We could make a day of it," he mused quietly. "Go for a walk in the park, come back home for dinner, I'll teach you how to cook."

Aziraphale nodded. "And then curl up back here for a nice bottle of wine," he agreed.

It was only thanks to his demonic reflexes that Crowley didn't choke, or sputter, or do anything else undignified. "What?" he asked instead after a short pause.

"Well," Aziraphale explained, now definitely blushing, "I've heard it's something humans do after a nice day out."

Something couples do, Crowley corrected silently. Out loud he simply said. "That would be nice."

"Does he think we're dating?" Crowley snapped at his plants. "Is that what it is? Have I been the blind one this whole time?!"

His plants merely sat there, leaves trembling as through a small breeze had gone by.

Crowley hissed loudly. "It's not weird if I don't make it weird," he mused, walking around the room. "So I won't make it weird." He licked his lips, tongue more snake then human. "It'll just be a normal day out. That's all."

He strode out of the room, leaving the susurrus of the plants behind him.

The weather ended up being horrid the next day, but Crowley went over to the bookshop anyway. "No good for a walk in the park, I'm afraid," he said as he stepped through the door.

"I should think not," Aziraphale said, taking in the demon standing in front of him. "Crowley, you're absolutely soaked." Ignoring Crowley's shrug, he miracled up a towel. "Here, use this on your hair and you'd better take off that jacket immediately."

"Bit of an overreaction," Crowley mumbled, obediently peeling off his wet clothes.

Aziraphale didn't seem to hear, directing him to sit down on the sofa. "Crowley, you're cold."

"Well, I did get caught in a surprise rainstorm on the way over, angel."

"I just don't know if corporations are supposed to get this cold," Aziraphale mused, putting a hand on Crowley's shoulder.

Intensely grateful for the towel covering his face, Crowley continued to dry his hair. He knew he was cold and wet, but was Aziraphale's touch supposed to be this warm? He resolutely ignored the suggestions in the back of his mind to just lean into him, put your head on his shoulder, if he's this warm it would feel nice to cudd – "It might be the snake thing," Crowley said, miracling the towel away with a snap.

Aziraphale removed his hand from Crowley's shoulder and turned to look at him. "What?" he asked.

Ignoring the fact that he didn't really know how much time had passed since Aziraphale had commented, and tamping down his embarrassment at that fact, Crowley shrugged. "You know, the whole snake thing," he repeated. "Probably why I'm cold."

"Oh! Oh, yes!" Aziraphale nodded. "Either way, we should probably warm you up." He looked around thoughtfully for a moment before snapping his fingers. A tartan blanket appeared in his outstretched hand. "Here."

Crowley took the blanket and wrapped it around his shoulders. He could feel his hands shaking, but he didn't know if it was because of the cold or because he was sitting so close to Aziraphale. "Thanks," he muttered.

Aziraphale might have said something else, but Crowley was warming up and his clothes were already dry, so he couldn't reasonably be expected to focus on so many things at once. He suspected Aziraphale may have used a small miracle to dry him off, but it felt so nice that he couldn't complain. Aziraphale won't mind if I have a short nap, he figured, curling into the corner of the sofa.

When Crowley opened his eyes, his face was no longer pressed up against the arm of the sofa. Instead, there was tartan filling his view and a hand in his hair and oh that felt nice. He made a small noise in the back of his throat and pushed his head into the hand.

"Oh, you're awake," a voice said. It was Aziraphale – of course it's Aziraphale – and he kept running his hand through Crowley's hair. "You were asleep for a while, my dear," he chuckled. "Almost two hours."

Crowley opened his mouth to protest that two hours was nothing, and, really angel a good night's sleep is at least four times longer than that. Somewhere in the labyrinthine path between his newly-awake brain and his mouth he lost most of the words. "Angel," he mumbled.

"Yes?" Aziraphale asked.

Crowley yawned, sitting up. "I would date you," he mumbled.

There was a split-second of realization and another second of Crowley's mind forcing his body to wake all the way up all at once. A second and a half later, Crowley had summoned his sunglasses – when had they come off – and was ready to leave the shop.

Somewhere in those two-and-a-half seconds, Aziraphale had come to another, completely different, realization. "I would take you up on that," he said, face red in a way that couldn't be explained away by lighting.

Crowley froze. "You…would?"

Aziraphale nodded. "I've been hoping you'd ask for a while now," he confessed.

Crowley laughed, both out of relief and frustration at himself. "I didn't mean to say it," he admitted. "Not that I don't mean it!" he hurriedly followed up. "I just – it sort of slipped out."

Aziraphale laughed, reaching out to take Crowley's hand. "Well, I don't know what a relationship is supposed to look like," he said, "but I think this is a pretty good place to start."

Crowley twined his fingers around Aziraphale's. "Can I – " he cleared his throat. "Can I cuddle you?"

Aziraphale looked equal parts confused and happy at the question. "Yes, of course you can," he said.

If Aziraphale's hand on his shoulder had felt warm, holding Aziraphale in his arms was positively radiant. Crowley hadn't been a poetic person since the 1500's, but he tamped down a sudden urge to start quoting Shakespeare and buried his head in Aziraphale's shoulder instead. "This is nice," he murmured.

He could feel the angel's laughter. "This is amazing," Aziraphale sighed, "but I must confess, I was expecting something a bit more climactic."

"Doesn't have to be climactic if it's genuine," Crowley pointed out. The adrenaline was wearing off and he found himself getting tired again.

Falling asleep in Aziraphale's arms was much nicer than falling asleep anywhere else. Crowley decided he was going to make a habit of it.