Where the Mountains Meet the Heavens

7. Aziraphale Takes His Outer Layers Off (2019 CE, London)

"Stay with me," Crowley said. Meaning now, forever.

"All right, dear. I'll keep you safe tonight."

That really wasn't what he had meant, but they would be safest together, wouldn't they? Crowley tried to regain his mental and emotional feet, his sharp edges. "Take off that blessed jacket and waistcoat, then. Your watch chain is not very comfortable to—" He shut his eyes, screwed them against the undemonicness of what he was about to say, but after all, it was what he wanted, wasn't it, and wasn't it demonic to chase his desires? "Not very comfortable to cuddle up to. I would have arranged for pyjamas if I'd known we were having a sleepover."

Aziraphale laughed, bless or curse him, a sweet titter that wasn't really mocking, or at least not in an unkind way. He pulled away and unhitched his watch chain, and the sight of that in Crowley's own flat was somehow so provocative that Crowley had to turn away.

"My dear, really. I have no false modesty. We never ate the apple."

"Hrrngh," said Crowley, remembering for some reason Atarneus, Aziraphale acting like nakedness was no problem at all. "I will just, just make some tea."

When he came back, not only the jacket and waistcoat and bow tie were gone. The shirt was folded up nicely. Shoes and socks were off. Aziraphale accepted the cup of tea wearing a round-necked cotton t-shirt[^2] which clung to the curves of his chest and exposed his arms from just above his elbow, no braces, no belt, so his trousers were sagging down under the curve of his belly. Crowley considered saying something, but after all, he had asked Aziraphale to wear less.

He decided not to mention it, especially not the urge to just dip his fingers into that soft overhang of flesh over the trouser tops and sink his grip in a little, and instead handed Aziraphale tea. Crowley went to gulp his own into his dry throat, legs casually carefully sprawled over the edges of his chair.

That meant got to see that when Aziraphale breathed in the fragrance of the tea, his bare toes actually wriggled. Crowley praised any powers still on their side for the gift and shifted his own position. The tea was the best silver needle white tea he had been able to source, partly because he liked the best of everything himself and partly because — oh, all right. He had hidden cupboards full of teas and chocolate and soft blankets and books in case the angel ever came to visit, which he wouldn't because Crowley would never invite him to this unangelic miserable dark place, except here he was, drinking his tea and lit up with pleasure from it.

"Perfect," Aziraphale murmured, and then suddenly shot him a dark look.

"What?" Crowley fanned himself, looking innocent, hoping his change in position was enough to keep him safe from accusations of leering.

"You've put sugar in yours, haven't you?"

"Just a little." Crowley guiltily swallowed his tea down. "Only four spoons."

"Monster," Aziraphale reproached.

"Yep. Demon." Crowley grinned at him. He was exhausted and scared and filled with yearning and — oh, so happy. So ridiculously happy that he couldn't help grinning. My darling, my darling, did you even realise you called me that? Twice? Do you know what I call you in my head? My angel, my friend, my love, my own Aziraphale, my everything, sitting there and drinking tea in my flat shining with your own light. "I'm crazy about sweet things. That's why I'm here with you. Look, I'm not all bad, I didn't add milk."

"Only because you were afraid I'd smite you."

"I've been smitten since Eden." It came out easily and naturally, as if he was a human flirting in a bar and not a demon to admitting to eternal love for an angel. Again.

"Hmmph." Aziraphale wrinkled his nose and gave him a dubious look, just as if he'd tried out a cheesy pass in a bar. "You need to give me more than just tea before trying lines like that."

Crowley laughed, feeling light and full of joy at the way they understood each other, that Aziraphale was implicitly accepting that things had changed. My darling. It sang in his ears more perfectly than the choral music still pouring out of the speakers and he had never felt less like a demon.