Chapter Text
Aziraphale
It was about half seven on Friday evening after a long week, and Aziraphale was wrapping things up in his office. He looked around at the mess of invoices on one side of his old, wooden desk, the incomplete bids on the other. He wasn’t in the mood to deal with any of it. All he wanted to do was grab some takeaway, then go home and enjoy his dinner alongside a nice glass of wine while reading the novel he’d picked up at lunch. Yes, his was a life of wild excitement and debauchery. He laughed, not too unkindly.
It was a choice, he told himself.
He stepped into his doorway and looked at the office across the hall. The desk was clear, the papers all tucked away in their boxes and bins. A sleek laptop sat exactly in the middle of the glass-top and chrome desk, the ergonomic chair tucked neatly underneath. A single snake plant sat on the windowsill.
Aziraphale looked behind at the chaos of his own office with its overflowing bookcases and comfy sofa covered in soft pillows and throws, then back again at the neat-as-a-pin version that belonged to Crowley, its seating area consisting of two straight-back chairs and a coffee table, and chuckled. He supposed it didn’t matter that they were such disparate souls. Somehow they still managed to run a thriving business.
Their choice of furniture certainly set them off from one another. Aziraphale preferred antiques and wood and warmth, while Crowley selected modern things in black and chrome, with sleek designs that felt cold to Aziraphale, even if he never touched them.
The way they dressed also set them apart from one another. Aziraphale wore three-piece suits to work every day—pleated trousers, worn waistcoats, and textured jackets, along with crisp button-down shirts and bow ties. His color choices were muted and warm: tan and beige and cream, possibly a touch of pink or blue for his shirts and ties. Crowley, on the other hand, enjoyed tight trousers or denim—sometimes even leather, Aziraphale thought with a blush. If he wore a button-down, it was silk or at least silky. More often than not, he wore something form-fitting: a cashmere turtleneck or an organic cotton Henley that hugged his upper body like a glove. He might wear a waistcoat, but it would always emphasise his slim waist. His colors were monochrome: black and grey, with touches of silver. It worked for him. With his pale skin, amber eyes, and lovely auburn hair, Crowley didn’t need his clothing to draw attention. That came naturally.
Aziraphale sighed. He often sighed when he thought about Crowley. Crowley was everything he wanted, and everything he was not—confident, cool, and, above all, absolutely gorgeous. (Yes, it was the “do you want to be him or do you want to fuck him” dilemma that many a gay man faced.) And you could bet Crowley wasn’t going home with takeaway and a romance novel for his evening’s company. No, Crowley would spend his night doing other things.
At this very minute he was probably out looking for his latest conquest. A groan escaped Aziraphale before he could stop it. That way lies madness, he chided himself. It never did him any good to think about Crowley with someone else. If it really bothered him, he could always go out and find his own bed partner. No one was stopping him.
It was a choice, he reminded himself.
When he’d been in uni, Aziraphale hadn’t dated, and of course he’d never had sex. After graduation, he didn't have to do much to find men like himself. Whether he was at a library or café, bookshop or coffeeshop, he easily drew someone’s attention. It was natural, then, that he would start to have sex. For a time he’d gone on dates, and he’d even had a handful of short-term boyfriends. But it all felt rather superficial. Nothing special. Two bodies doing what he could do more efficiently alone with his one body. He wasn’t sure what he had expected, but it certainly wasn’t that. He supposed he’d expected, well, other things.
After a while, he’d stopped dating. To his way of thinking, it was too much effort for too little payoff. These days he’d take himself in hand or, when desperate times called for desperate measures (because he did, on occasion, enjoy the press of another body against his own) use one of the apps he’d downloaded on his phone. He was only human, after all. But no, he didn’t date, not anymore.
It was a choice, he reminded himself.
It wasn’t as if he lacked company, after all. He had a few friends, but mostly he worked long hours, and at work he spent his time with Crowley. They often had lunch, and saw one another once or twice a week for dinner. But he never ventured to spend time with him on the weekend. No, he didn’t want to know what Crowley got up to on the weekend, or who he spent his time with. That was personal. He didn’t snoop into those… other things.
Aziraphale shook himself out of his thoughts and made his way up front to the reception area. Of course all of the office equipment was turned off and everything was put away. Adam was a great assistant, and the best hire they had made in the ten years they had owned the business. He was young—a student working part time—but he was organised and efficient, and he certainly made their lives easier.
With one last look, Aziraphale took his overcoat off the hook near the door and slipped out, locking the office up for the weekend. Time to find some dinner and get started on that novel.
The rain had made for a chaotic commute, with everyone ducking into the Tube to get out of the deluge, but Aziraphale finally made it home. Now all he wanted to do was plate his dinner, pour his wine, and sit down to enjoy both while he began the novel he had tucked into his coat pocket. As he hung his coat on the hook, his phone rang.
“Oh, bother,” he grumbled. No one he cared to talk to would be calling him on a Friday evening. Everyone he knew was out doing something interesting. He fumbled around in his pocket and dug out his phone. He didn’t recognise the number, but answered it on the principle that it seemed rude not to.
“Hello?”
“Is this Aziraphale East?”
“May I ask who’s calling?
“This is St. Thomas’s A&E,” said a tired, professional voice. “We’re calling because you are listed as the emergency contact for Anthony Crowley. Are you able to verify this information?”
“Yes, of course,” Aziraphale said, his heart in his throat. “What’s happened to Crowley, erm, Anthony? Is he all right?” He began wringing his hands as he started imagining all sorts of gruesome accidents, each one worse than the last. He needed information before he spiraled into an incoherent mess.
“Mr. Crowley has been in an accident,” the voice said. “He’s conscious, and asking for you. The doctor has assured him you are on your way. Is this true? Can you come to the hospital?”
“Yes, yes,” Aziraphale said. “Please let him know that I’m on my way.”
He sat down hard in a kitchen chair and stared at his phone as if it held answers to the questions spinning in his head, then realised he needed to order an Uber and get to the hospital. Once there, he would find out more.
“I’m looking for Anthony Crowley. I’m his emergency contact.”
The woman at the desk looked up at Aziraphale, blinked, then looked back down at her computer, poked around a bit, then looked back up at him, slow as a sloth. She rather reminded him of one, with her large, round, wide-set eyes. Finally, a minute or an eternity later, she lifted a hand and pointed to his left.
“Down the hall, last door on the right,” she said slowly. “The doctor is with him now.”
Aziraphale hurried down the hall. When he reached the door, he carefully pushed it open, hoping not to disturb Crowley.
“Angel!” Crowley nearly shouted from his hospital bed. “See, I told you he would come. He always comes. He’s lovely that way.” Crowley was waving Aziraphale over, a smile on his face. He’d never looked more beautiful.
Except. Crowley never smiled. Not ever.
And he’d called him “angel.” He hadn’t called him that since uni.
What the hell? Was he on drugs?
He must be on drugs.
“Mr. East, I’m Dr. Fairchild,” said a man in scrubs, intercepting him as he made his way to Crowley. “Anthony was brought in after an accident. He was hit by a car—”
“Oh my god! Crowley, are you alright?” Aziraphale rushed to his side, and when he did, Crowley wrapped his arms around his waist.
“Yes, angel,” Crowley purred. “I’m fine, now that you’re here.” He ran his hands up and down Aziraphale’s back, then pulled him close.
What the devil?
The doctor was talking and Aziraphale was missing most of what he was saying because, what the fuck? Was Crowley nuzzling him?
“. . . and so, as Anthony’s partner, I feel you will be beneficial in his recovery. I would like you to stay with him overnight. Most cases resolve within twenty-four hours.”
“Wait, doctor,” Aziraphale said. “I think I’ve missed something. What’s wrong with Crowley?”
Aziraphale tried to pull away from Crowley, who was playing with his hair. It felt wonderful, and was deadly distracting. Finally, he was able to extricate himself from Crowley’s grasp, allowing him to hold his hand instead. Not a big inconvenience, considering he’d only been dreaming of that exact thing for about twenty years.
“You call your partner by his surname?”
“Yes?”
“I see,” the doctor said, his face quizzical, making it clear he did not see at all. “No matter. Anthony struck his head when he fell. I believe he has post-traumatic amnesia. Most cases resolve within a day or two. If not, then there is typically more extensive brain injury. We’ve run the standard tests, and I don’t believe that is the case here.”
“Does he know who he is? Does he remember anything at all?” Aziraphale asked with concern, patting Crowley’s hand.
“Oh, yes,” the doctor said. “He remembers most things, although he might be confused about the details. He might not place things in the right context or timeline, for instance. Some things are a bit slippery, you might say. We hope having his partner here with him will ease his anxiety and help him relax enough to grab hold of his memories and recover.”
Crowley pulled on Aziraphale’s hand, and when he turned, Crowley crooked his finger playfully. As he leaned down, Crowley kissed him on the cheek.
“Thanks for coming,” he said. “Feel better with you here.”
Aziraphale pressed his hand to his cheek where Crowley had kissed him, stunned by this overt display of affection.
Yes, something was seriously wrong with Crowley.
“Doctor, may I ask… what drugs is he on?”
“Drugs?” Dr. Fairchild repeated. “No drugs. He’s said he’s not in much pain, so beyond paracetamol, he’s not had any medication.”
No drugs? But… he’d just kissed him! He was holding his hand!
At the moment, Crowley wasn’t simply holding Aziraphale’s hand, he was kissing each of his fingers, making it very difficult to listen as the doctor continued discussing how Aziraphale’s presence would speed his recovery.
“. . .would encourage you to sit with him and talk, reminisce even. In fact, seeing as he hasn’t sustained any serious physical injuries, I would go so far as to encourage you to stay overnight. We can bring in a cot, or you can climb in bed with him, if he’s comfortable with you doing so.”
Sleep with him? In this small bed? Why on earth would the doctor suggest…
Oh.
Aziraphale suddenly understood why the doctor had questioned his use of Crowley’s surname when he addressed him. The word “partner” could be a tricky one.
“I think there’s been a mistake, Dr. Fairchild,” Aziraphale said. “I realise I’m Crowley’s emergency contact. He’s mine, as well. But we’re not… that is to say, we aren’t. Oh, bother. We’re partners. We’re not married.”
Dr. Fairchild looked at Aziraphale, his face hard, his lips thin.
“Mr. East, at St. Thomas’s, we do not discriminate,” he said. “Whether you are domestic partners or married, straight or gay, if you are together in any capacity, we allow you to stay with your loved one during times of injury or illness.”
“But, but… I’m his partner, you see…” Aziraphale said. “We own a business together. Landscape design. We met in uni…”
“That’s lovely,” the doctor said. “And together all these years. Wonderful…” he drifted off as he tapped something on his tablet. “Please ring for a nurse if you need anything at all tonight. Otherwise, my colleague will be by in the morning to check on Mr. Crowley. The best thing for him now is time. And you.”
And with that, he was out the door.
They were alone, and Aziraphale began fretting about how he was going to deal with Crowley in this state. He was afraid Crowley was under the same assumption the doctor was—that they were romantic partners, not simply friends and business partners. It was something he had dreamed of, something he had hoped for, but after twenty years, he had all but given up that hope. Now, he was getting a taste of what could have been.
“How are we doing, gentleman?” A bouncy blonde nurse entered the room carrying a tray. She walked over to a table by the window and set it down, then turned around. “Are you hungry, Mr. Crowley? I imagine you’ve missed dinner. I’ve brought you a snack.” She looked dramatically around the room, then said in a stage whisper,” Don’t tell anyone, but I brought enough for both of you.”
“Oh, that’s kind of you,” Aziraphale said. “Crowley, would you like to eat?”
“Not hungry, angel, but you go ahead.”
“Now, Mr. Crowley,” the nurse said. “You have to eat something. How about you start with…” She looked under the dome. “The crisps?”
“Yeah, I could eat some crisps,” Crowley said excitedly. “Help me down, angel.”
“Oh, no, I don’t think that’s a good idea, Mr. Crowley,” the nurse said. “You’ve had quite a knock to the head tonight. I’d like you to stay in bed for another hour or so at least.” She brought the tray over and pulled a table across Crowley’s bed. “Here you go.”
“Thanks,” Crowley grumbled. “Stuck in bed like an invalid when I’m fine.”
He opened the bag of crisps and popped one in his mouth. He looked under the dome and grinned. “There’s apple crumble, Angel. You can have mine, if you like.”
Aziraphale heard a happy hum come from the nurse, who was marking on a whiteboard nearby. There was a smile on her face as she looked between the two of them.
“That’s so sweet,” she said. “He calls you ‘angel’.”
Azriraphale ducked his head and smiled. “He does,” he said.
“It’s obvious you two are…”
“Hey, angel, are you going to eat your crisps?” Crowley asked.
“No, dear. You go ahead,” Aziraphale said. He didn’t want to hear what the nurse had to say was so obvious about the two of them, so he quickly changed the subject. “How rude I’ve been. My name is Aziraphale. And you are?”
“Oh, I’m Maggie. Yes, I know your name, Mr. East,” she said as she stuck out her hand. They shook hands, and then Maggie asked, “Are you spending the night?”
Azirphale knew the doctor had suggested he do so to help with Crowley’s recovery, and god knew he would love to hold Crowley in his arms while he slept. But should he? It was all under false pretences.
“Do you think it would help his recovery?”
“Yes, I do,” she said. “I’ve seen these cases before, and the patients recover so much more quickly when they feel safe and secure.”
That settled it. He would do whatever it took to help Crowley get better.
“Yes, I’ll be staying then.”
“Great! I’ll get you something to sleep in. You can hang your things in here,” she said as she opened a closet. “I’ll leave you alone for now, but I’ll be back in a few minutes with some scrubs for you, and a last check before you settle in for the night.”
“Thank you, my dear.”
Aziraphale walked over to where Crowley was finishing up the last of the crisps and licking his fingers. “Good stuff, angel,” he said with a grin. “Cheese and onion.” Aziraphale smiled at him, pulled the tray to himself, and took a bite of the crumble. It was very good, and he looked up at Crowley to say so. When he did, he was startled to see Crowley’s open mouth and wide eyes.
“Crowley? Are you quite alright?”
Crowley audibly swallowed. “You like that, yeah?”
“I do, thank you.”
Crowley placed his elbow on the table and his chin on his fist. He leaned his entire body towards Aziraphale to watch him eat. Somehow it was fine, being watched like that. It was comfortable.
When Aziraphale finished, he dabbed at his mouth with the serviette, took the tray over to the table by the window, then came back to sit by Crowley’s bed.
“Angel?” Crowley asked. “Why am I in hospital? I feel fine. Earlier, before you came, the doctor said you would explain everything.”
“Oh he did, did he?” Aziraphale huffed. Arsehole. “I’m sorry, but I don’t know much. You were hit by a speeding motorist in a crosswalk, and have a type of amnesia. Do you know what that means?”
“Yeah, I think so. Means I forgot some stuff?”
“Just so,” Aziraphale said “But it should all come back very soon, as long as you stay calm and do as the doctors suggest.” He reached out a tentative hand and rubbed it up and down Crowley’s arm.
“What do they suggest?”
“Well, for now, they suggest I sit with you. Keep you company. And tonight I could, erm. Well. I could sleep with you. If that’s something you would want.”
“Sleep in the same bed?”
“Yes, if you like.”
“Oh, I think I’d like that very much,” Crowley said with a sly grin. Then he sobered. “But why are you so sad?”
“Do I look sad? I’m really not. I’m just concerned.”
“But, angel, I feel fine!”
“I realise that, dear. But Crowley, something is very wrong with you. For one thing, you haven’t called me ‘angel’ since we were in uni.”
“What do I call you, then?”
“My name. Aziraphale.”
Crowley shook his head. “That seems strange. If I do that, how will anyone know that you’re mine?”
His? Aziraphale had never been his. They hadn’t even dated. They had been friends. Best friends. And once, when they were in school, Crowley had asked him out, and that had not gone well at all.
Crowley had been asking him to go out with his group of friends for months, and Aziraphale always said no. He preferred quieter nights at home, alone with Crowley. Then Crowley started going out on actual dates, and he went out with a different person every weekend. When Crowley finally asked him out, Aziraphale had been so angry! How dare he put him on par with his legion of one-night-stands! He’d thought that what they had was special, but when Crowley asked him to be one of his string of dates, his heart broke.
He’d been so hurt that Crowley could do something so cruel that he’d shoved him out the door and told him to never come back. Eventually, Crowley had come back, but it was weeks later, and they never talked about what had happened. Now that he thought about it, Aziraphale remembered that Crowley seemed more reserved around him after that. More cautious with his words, less affectionate in his actions. And he’d never called him ‘angel’ again. Not until tonight.
“Am I yours, Crowley?” Aziraphale asked, clearly fishing. Why not? Chances were Crowley would never remember this conversation. It was worth the risk.
“I should hope so!” Crowley said. “Loved you since the first day I saw you.”
Aziraphale’s heart was suddenly in his throat; there wasn’t enough air in the room. He pressed the heels of his hands to his eye sockets. He could hear the blood pounding in his ears.
“. . . looking so sweet, reading a book at a mixer,” Crowley was saying. “What was I supposed to do, leave you alone? Couldn’t do that, could I? Had to try and get you to, you know, actually mix. But you know why I noticed you in the first place? And then came over and started teasing you straight away?”
Aziraphale looked up at Crowley then. He worked at making a serious face, but the upturn of his lips gave him away.
“Because you’re a menace?”
“No, silly, because you were so pretty, with your halo of blond hair and your blue eyes and those long eyelashes,” Crowley laughed, his voice sweet and joyous. “Aziraphale, haven’t you ever wondered why I call you angel?”
Aziraphale had always thought Crowley had given him the nickname because he was no fun. He thought it was a way to tease him for not drinking or smoking or having sex or whatever it was he and his cool friends were getting up to.
He’d never even once thought that Crowley might honestly fancy him.
“I didn’t realise,” Aziraphale breathed.
There was a quiet knock, and Maggie peeked around the door. “I’ve got your scrubs, Mr. East.” She walked in and placed them on the worktop. “I’ve placed toothbrushes and toothpaste in the bath. Do either of you need anything else?”
“No, I think we’re fine,” Aziraphale said as she took the dinner trays from the table.
“If you do, just press the call button. I’m leaving, but someone will come,” she said with a smile. “Have a nice night.” She left with a little wave.
“Crowley?” Aziraphale said. “Do you want to get washed up? And maybe get back into bed?”
“Only if you come to bed with me,” he said. “Doctor’s orders.” And he winked.
Aziraphale’s heart leapt. How would he be able to handle it when Crowley got his memory back and all of this went away?
“Yes, dear,” he said with a shaking voice. “Here, let me help you to the loo. You wash up and brush your teeth, then I’ll do the same and come to bed with you.” He couldn’t believe he was saying those words, not after all this time. Even if it was under false pretenses, even if it were in a hospital.
Crowley carefully climbed out of bed, and Aziraphale walked him to the door. He waited for him, hoping he wouldn’t hear a fall and a thud, but no, Crowley came out and they made the return trip without incident. To look at him, one would never know he had been in an accident.
Aziraphale tucked him in, then went to the loo and looked in the mirror. He didn’t look too much worse for wear, although he felt like he was the one who had been hit by a car, what with his emotions being dashed back and forth. He washed his hands and face, brushed his teeth, then stepped out to change his clothes.
He took off his jacket and bow tie, then removed his waistcoat and button-up. He didn’t take off his vest; he wasn’t prepared to get naked in front of Crowley. Leaving the closet door open between them, he removed his shoes and his trousers, then he slipped on the scrub bottoms. His own socks would have to do.
As he switched off the overhead lights, the room was left in the dim glow of a few random machines. The bed was soft and warm, and Crowley was nearly asleep. Aziraphale gently put his arm around his friend and drew him close. If he were going to play the part of his partner, he was going to do it right. He placed a chaste kiss at Crowley’s temple, inhaling the scent of his shampoo.
“Goodnight, my dear,” he whispered.
Crowley laughed softly. “Not asleep.”
“Oh? Do you want to talk?”
“Yeah.” There was a long pause before Crowley started talking again. “Did you know that when we were in school I followed you around mooning after you?” Crowley admitted with a sigh. “All those times I just happened to bump into you? Totally planned. All those extra biscuits I would have with me? Bought them for you.” He sighed again, then looked up at Aziraphale. “I was so gone for you, angel. Everyone knew it.”
Everyone except me, Aziraphale thought.
He’d never considered Crowley anything more than a friend. Not because of anything Crowley said or did, but because of his own self-doubt, his own fear of rejection.
“But you were… you never…” Aziraphale tried. “You had plenty of dates,” he finally huffed.
“Well, yeah, seeing as how you would never go on a date with me,” Crowley pouted. “I asked you to go out with me and my friends every weekend for months. And the one time I asked you out properly—brought you roses and chocolates and tried to get down on one knee—you tossed me out. I never really wanted to be with anyone else. Not ever. But I couldn’t sit around and wait for you forever.”
Aziraphale was beginning to see things different to how he ever had before. Now he understood the distance Crowley had put between them since uni, for one thing. Yes, they were still friends. Best friends. But that initial closeness they’d shared, all of the casual affection Crowley had once showered upon him, was missing. And now he knew why.
Crowley was afraid of getting hurt.
He didn’t want to be arrogant, but was he why Crowley had never had a real relationship? Yes, he’d slept his way through half of London, but he’d never been in love.
Unless he had been. All this time.
“Aziraphale?” Crowley asked, looking at him with confusion. “If we never went out, why are you here? The doctor said my partner was coming. Are you? My partner, I mean?”
He didn’t want to lie. He needed to be here for Crowley, and Crowley needed to believe they were together in order to get better. It was only for a little while, so Aziraphale wasn’t going to shatter his illusion. And, to be honest, it was quite lovely. He only wished it were real.
“Yes, darling,” he said. “Of course I’m your partner. Why else would I be here?”
With that confirmation, Crowley smiled and relaxed into his arms. Aziraphale played with his hair. He’d started wearing it long again, like he had years ago, and it was beautiful. As Aziraphale wrapped a curl around his finger, he remembered nights where they had laid on the sofa and watched telly, Crowley sprawled across Aziraphale’s lap, Aziraphale’s fingers tangled in his hair.
Just friends. How ridiculous.
Why hadn’t he seen it? Why had he been so sure he wasn’t enough for Crowley? Was it possible there might be another chance for them when Crowley got his memory back? Or had Aziraphale ruined that when he turned him down twenty years ago?
“Angel?”
“Yes, love.”
“I’m really tired. Can you stay with me? In the bed, I mean.”
“Yes, darling. I’ll be here when you wake up.”
I can’t imagine being anywhere else, Aziraphale thought.
They snuggled down and pulled the blanket up to their chins, still lying in one another’s arms, a tangle of limbs. They’d never slept together before, and they were two grown men sharing a narrow hospital bed, but if you’d asked them, they would say it was the best night’s sleep they’d ever had.