Crowley waited a day before heading into the library. It only closed for a couple of days over Christmas, but he was quite sure if he'd gone in the day after Boxing Day, Sandra would have shattered the windows with her scream. He was just as sure that Azariah would definitely not have been able to keep her from noticing something about his mood when they met up after the librarian left his flat, and Crowley had worked out by now that Azariah was no good at keeping anything from her— at least, nothing that had to do with his emotions. Crowley couldn't exactly judge him for that, as he'd never been much good at hiding his feelings. Generally speaking.
When he did go into the library, it was with a spring in his step, and a blue cardigan under his coat. And of course, Sandra was there behind the desk. Crowley had in fact seen her pressing her face to the window beside it upon his approach, but chose not to mention this.
"Oh my God!" She squealed, sotto voce, "You and Azi! Together! For real!" Crowley crossed his arms and leaned them onto the desk, crossing his ankles nonchalantly.
"Sandra," he said laconically, "You should be with MI5."
"I've been watching you two dance around each other for months," Sandra snapped back, jabbing a finger towards Crowley's face, "Don't ruin this for me."
"Fine, fine," Crowley waved her off, smirking, "Is he in?"
"Yep, should be up in lit," Sandra nodded towards the door that led in that direction. As Crowley straightened up, she added, "There's a corner in biography that doesn't have any cameras!" Not dignifying that with a response, Crowley strode away, leaving Sandra to her cackling. He stopped by the members' lounge to leave his coat, for it was a bit warmer today and the library comfortable, at least for now. What with spending so much time there, Crowley had gotten to know a number of the regular members at least in passing, and several of them commented on the color of his cardigan as he passed by on his way to the Literature section. They were all complimentary, but it still made him wonder a bit if it was worth changing up his aesthetic after thousands of years if he was going to attract so much attention for it. Climbing the spiral staircase to the Literature gallery two steps at a time, Crowley reached the top just in time to see the staff only door swing shut.
"Azi!" He hissed, reasonably sure that the reading room below was empty, but not wanting to attract undue attention. The door pushed back open, and Azariah peeked around it.
"Anthony!"
"Hi," Crowley sauntered towards the librarian as he emerged from behind the door, "busy?"
"Nothing that can't wait a moment."
"Well then," Crowley said, leaning slouched against the door as he reached it, "is this among the stacks enough for you?" Azariah's cheeks coloured, but he turned to Crowley and kissed him softly, and it felt as natural as breathing. Crowley couldn't help himself, and grinned a silly grin.
"That's nice."
"I'm glad you approve," Azariah said primly, "Now be off with you before you get me into trouble!"
"Trouble? This was your idea," Crowley scoffed as he straightened. Azariah paused with his hand on the doorknob.
"If we get much more excited in the stacks, we'll both get into trouble," he said with a look that sent a pleasant shiver up Crowley's spine.
"Okay, you win," he rolled his eyes, "Coffee later?"
"Of course."
Crowley swaggered out of Literature and made his way back to Science Fiction & Fantasy, where he had just about finished searching. Finding the place he'd left off in the Ws, he returned to the methodical routine of pulling volumes off the shelves and flipping them open to check for any sign of locked-away angelic presence. But where before his searching had been filled with tension and anticipation with each book, the mounting stress forcing him to take longer and longer breaks inside of books, Crowley now found the routine meditative, even soothing. He was still alert for the object of his design, but all the tension had gone out of his body in its pursuit. It was an odd feeling, and he wasn't sure what to make of it.
In what seemed no time at all he'd finished the section, and moved on to the next room, which happened to be Biography. In a momentary fit of curiosity, he proceeded past the first row of stacks and poked about until he found the corner Sandra had mentioned. At an intersection where the bookcases changed directions in the oddly-shaped old-fashioned room, there was an empty sort of nook next to a window, where one shelf backed up to another, and there was just enough space between them to squeeze through. Crowley slipped into the pocket between the shelves and the window and turned about slowly. True to what Sandra had said, there didn't seem to be any cameras in view of this spot. Filing that bit of information away, Crowley made his way back to the door he'd come from, and resumed his search from the beginning of the section
When Azariah came to find him, he was in the Literature reading room, having retired there to his favorites chair with a copy of a biography of the Borgia pope. Crowley felt a hand drop onto his shoulder, and glanced up from the page, pointing at it accusingly,
"Now this guy had problems." He was of course quite aware of this particular pope's problems, having caused a few of them, but it was entertaining to read about it from a historian's perspective, attempting to sort it all out centuries later. Azariah chuckled.
"Shall we?"
"Yeah, sure." Crowley got up and closed the book after quickly memorizing his page number, then stepped over to the nearest shelf and hid it behind a bust of some Greek or other.
"Anthony," Azariah chided, but Crowley shrugged, retrieving his glasses from the table beside his chair with an impish grin.
"What? I'm coming back for it. Besides, you know where I live if anything happens to it." Azariah rolled his eyes, but merely turned to lead the way back towards reception, and Crowley threaded his sunglasses on smugly.
At the coffeeshop, Charlene placed two forks next to Azariah's cake, a gleam of triumph in her eye. Before the librarian could open his mouth to say anything, Crowley took one of them and speared a bite of cake, shoving it in his mouth and chewing while raising one scarlet brow at the barista over his glasses. Charlene giggled in a slightly unsettled fashion, and went back to the bar.
"So," Crowley said around his mouthful of cloyingly sweet cake and frosting, "How many people do you think Sandra's told?" Azariah groaned and buried his face in his hands.
"Everyone, I suspect."
"Cheer up, have some cake."
"I'm sorry about her."
"'S not your fault. Besides, wasn't there something in there about for all the world to see?"
"Yes, but on our terms."
Our terms. It had the ring of our side to Crowley's ears. He sipped his coffee. Azariah lifted his fork and started on the cake. They sat in silence for a moment, then Crowley said,
"I don't mind."
"What?"
"I don't mind that people know. It's nobody's business but ours, but who cares if they know? All that matters is—" he almost said us, then gestured between them, "this. Whatever it is, it's ours."
"Yes," Azariah said, then with more conviction, "yes. You're right." His hand sought out Crowley's on the bench between them, and Crowley curled his fingers through Azariah's lifting their hands to rest on his leg.
When they returned to the library, Crowley halted at the bottom of the steps.
"I'm off home," he said, turning to face Azariah. He glanced up at the doors, then reached up and pulled the sunglasses from his face. "For all the world to see?" He asked, looking back to Azariah. The librarian beamed.
"Yes." Crowley seized the knot of Azariah's scarf and pulled him gently forward, their lips connecting beneath the sparkling winter sun. As Crowley walked away, Azariah called from the steps,
"I'm going to reshelve that book, you know!"
The final day of the year was one of those days in the week on which the library was open late. Azariah had pulled the short straw of closing the place up, and Crowley was camped out in the Literature reading room again. He'd already offered to give Azariah a lift home that night so he could avoid the bus during the chaos that was New Year's Eve, and meandered his way down to reception just as the clock struck nine. Leaning against the front desk, Crowley loitered, scrolling his phone, until Azariah reappeared.
"No stragglers?" Crowley drawled, looking up from a TikTok about cryptids.
"Not tonight!" Azariah slipped behind the desk to retrieve his coat, "All out carousing, I imagine." Crowley snorted.
"Oh yeah, especially old Lady Whotsit who always steals the best chair in World History, definitely out howling tonight."
"You never know!"
"Shall we?"
Azariah shut off the last of the lights, and they left the library together, pausing on the top step for him to turn the heavy old key in its lock, shutting the doors for the night with a satisfying thunk. They hurried through the cold across to the Bentley, and its headlamps blazed across the dark square as they set off into the night, away from the celebratory debauchery of central London. Both of them shivered quietly until the heating really kicked in, and with the relaxation that came with warmth also came conversation. While still in the dense metropolis, they exclaimed over the various wild outfits on display for the night's shenanigans, and commented on the various levels of freezing those wearing them must be experiencing. Once the bright lights dimmed and the traffic eased on the road to Woodford, they talked of what they'd been reading lately, of Tug's latest antics, of the remedy Azariah had suggested for one of Crowley's spotty plants and how it was getting on (he had shown in mercy in order to trial the remedy), whether Sandra and her no-good boyfriend were among the crowds in ridiculous clothing tonight, and how it was a good thing the library would be close the next day. Eventually, the gravel of Azariah's drive crackled frozenly under the Bentley's wheels, and Crowley pulled up in front of the cottage.
"Thanks for the lift," Azariah said, then paused with his hand on the door. "Would you, er, like to come in?"
"Oh," Crowley had not necessarily been expecting an invitation, and couldn't entirely keep the surprise from his voice, "Sure, great." He shut off the Bentley and they climbed out together, Azariah digging in his coat pocket for his keys. He unlocked the door and they entered the dark cottage. An affronted MROOOW greeted them, and a pair of green-glowing eyes from the stairs as Azariah flicked the power switch to turn the still-hung fairy lights on.
"Yes, I know I'm late," he called, but Tug had already decided to be offended, and stomped quickly back upstairs in the manner of cats. Crowley snorted. "He's got an automatic feeder," Azariah muttered, rolling his eyes, "So I don't know what he's so angry about."
"He missed you, obviously." As Crowley kicked off his boots and slid the coat from his arms, he realized that although the cottage was warmer than outside, it didn't feel like much. He couldn't suppress a hard shiver, and Azariah turned to him with concern.
"Oh of course, I'm sorry, it's freezing in her after being empty all day. I'll get the heat going, you bundle up." He pointed at a large basket at the end of the couch. As Azariah went about scraping the fireplace and building up a new one, Crowley pulled the top off the basket, revealing the pile of blankets inside. He pulled out a couple and threw them onto the sofa, one on top of the other, so that they covered the cushion, arm, and back of one end. Then he climbed into the middle, legs tucked up against his chest, and wrapped both blankets around himself, so that only his head poked out of the top of the little nest. Meanwhile Azariah had disappeared somewhere, and Crowley watched the infant flames he had lit begin to crackle and take hold in the fire, emitting first their flickering light, and then a faint breath of heat.
"There," Azariah said, reappearing from upstairs, "I've got the radiators turned up as well, so it should be more livable soon. Oh," Crowley twisted his head to look at the librarian, and saw him standing with a hand over his mouth, clearly trying not to laugh at the sight of the person on his couch. Azariah mastered himself and moved over to stand in front of Crowley. Gently he put his hands on both sides of Crowley's face, and Crowley sighed at their heat against his chilled skin. "Oh, my dear," Azariah said softly, "you look so cold."
The words my dear sank into Crowley like a balm; like a warm wind, like the brush of an angel's wing he'd thought he would never feel again. They made him feel bare and sheltered at once, and he looked up at Azariah with unshaded and unguarded eyes, his voice barely louder than the sound of the fire as he said,
"Come and warm me then?"
Azariah needed no second bidding. Hands still on Crowley's face, he bent down to lay a long kiss on his mouth, renewing it more than once by shifts of lips and tongue before breaking away so botch could catch their breath. Azariah pressed his lips against Crowley's forehead softly, then dotted hisses down his face; temple, lightly upon a closed eyelid; bridge of nose, hollow of cheek, corner of mouth, just missing the lips. Azariah's hand slid to the back of Crowley's head as one knee moved up to the couch, and he sank closer. His fingers tightened in Crowley's hair and pulled gently. Crowley obliged, tilting his head back and to the side, And Azariah's mouth came down at the angle of his jaw, kissing its way along the sharp bone before dropping to Crowley's neck, where the blood raced. Azariah shifted his body, and Crowley shifted his to accommodate, turning within the blankets to face the length of the couch as Azariah moved up onto it.
Crowley spread his arms, opening the front of his blanket-nest as he leaned back against the arm of the sofa, and Azariah lowered himself to take their place, pressing his body to Crowley's their legs entangled. Crowley reached his head up to capture Azariah's lips as they came back within reach, and it was his turn to tangle his fingers in the blond curls at the back of Azariah's head, holding him close as their lips parted in the kiss, tongues exploring first tentatively, then with a curious hunger, until Crowley nipped lightly at Azariah's lip. This drew a soft and unexpected growl from the librarian, who pulled back and returned to Crowley's jawline. There was no longer any question of being cold as Azariah's lips seared a trail of kissed down Crowley's neck, soft, firm lips intermixed with the light pull of teeth as he tasted Crowley's skin. Crowley's head tossed back with the sensations, and his hand returned to Azariah's curls, the other gripping back back of the sofa hard.
When Azariah sucked lightly at the hollow Crowley's throat a low groan escaped him, and his back arched. In doing so Crowley shifted beneath Azariah, and he could feel the hot, hard length of him against his leg beneath the trousers that separated them. The contact made Azariah gasp, and he pulled up abruptly, throwing a hand against the arm of the sofa besides Crowley's head to prop himself up. He took a panting moment to collect himself, then spoke breathily.
"Is this okay? If you—"
Azariah's face was flushed and his eyes were hazy with desire, but looking up at him Crowley knew that one word from him would stop everything. He knew this night could end the same as Christmas Eve, or with him driving home alone. He knew Azariah would care for him the same regardless, and that made him want him all the more. This wasn't why he'd come here, but now that the moment had arrived, there was no decision to be made. Crowley gripped the back of Azariah's neck and pulled him back down with a hissed,
"Yes."