Chapter Text
Ding dong ding DONG. Ding dong ding DONG.
Crowley opened his eyes, stretching like a cat in front of the living room fire as the grandfather clock finished striking the half hour. He really should get up and make dinner, but he was so cozy here, curled up under a fleece blanket, his head pillowed on the arm of the overstuffed sofa. Aziraphale would be home any minute, though, and Crowley wanted to be ready for him. It was mid-January, his last night at home before a six-week solo stint through Florida, Louisiana, and Texas, followed by a month in Florida with Aziraphale and another month out on his own. He wouldn’t be back home properly until the last week of April, and at the moment he was rather dreading it.
They had celebrated their first wedding anniversary the previous October, and at almost thirty-nine, Crowley was finding that he very much enjoyed the creature comforts of having a real home, provided Aziraphale was in it. Together with Muriel, they made an odd, comfortable sort of family, rattling around together in their ramshackle old house, keeping odd hours, taking care of the birds, and keeping their various businesses afloat. While Aziraphale handled most of the work for the bird abatement business, Crowley took care of their social media accounts and kept his performing skills sharp when he wasn’t on the road. Muriel, meanwhile, managed their finances along with freelance CPA work for a few local clients. Beez was a frequent visitor, of course, and they also saw Eric and Dagon whenever they were all at home, which admittedly wasn’t all that often.
The house itself had been something of a revelation when Crowley first moved in. It was one of those odd eighteenth-century houses that were a feature in this part of South Jersey, built in several phases, a Frankenstein of architectural styles. The oldest portion was a two-story log house built in the 1720s, with one great room below and two small bedrooms on the second floor. The family who had built it had grown prosperous, and eventually they added a much larger brick section with a Georgian plan, a center hallway with a sweeping staircase flanked on either side by two formal rooms down below, and two generous bedchambers up above. All four rooms had wide fireplaces and built-in cabinetry, stuffed with a mixture of modern and antique furniture, trinkets, and more books than Crowley could count. Finally, in the early nineteenth century, the family’s descendants had expanded one more time, adding a wood frame kitchen ell that jutted off the dining room, with servants’ quarters above. Aziraphale’s grandfather had bought the place for a song when he first arrived in America from England in the early 1950s and had worked hard to preserve its historic features. Crowley knew Aziraphale and Muriel hadn’t always been happy there, but together, the three of them were filling the old place with love and making much better memories.
The first time Crowley had visited the house had been back before they were official, when they were both trying to pretend that the whole thing wasn’t serious and that they weren’t bonded together on some cosmic level. But apparently the universe had other ideas, for when he first saw the gable end of the house, his mouth had fallen open in surprise. The Quaker bricklayer had alternated red stretchers and blue-glazed headers all the way up the side of the building in a striking zigzag pattern. At the top was the date the house was completed, 1742, and on either side, the initials A and C.
“Abraham and Charity Nelson,” Aziraphale had whispered in his ear. “A lot of these old houses have the initials of the married couple who built them.”
Then he’d slid a hand down to grasp Crowley’s ass, and Crowley had turned in his arms to capture his mouth in a desperate kiss. They had barely made it inside the front door before Crowley was on his knees.
Crowley smiled at the memory as he unwound from his blanket cocoon, shoving his bare feet into his Uggs. He shivered as he crossed the hall, heading through the darkened dining room and into the kitchen. He was wearing tight black leggings and Aziraphale’s old Catch-22 T-shirt, which he had bought at one of their concerts after sneaking out with an older boy when he was in high school. Aziraphale was always on him to put on a few more layers, a murmured These are garments, Mr. Cratchit — once purchased, they may be used indefinitely on his lips. But when Crowley crawled into his lap, pleading a chill as he nuzzled Aziraphale’s throat, it usually turned out that they were able to find ways to keep warm.
No, there were definitely benefits to showing a little skin.
Crowley skidded to a halt in front of the refrigerator to gather his ingredients. He was planning to make zucchini bisque using the last of the frozen zucchini they had harvested over the summer. They had planted their garden in early May after Crowley had returned from his spring travels, rows of tomatoes and peppers, cucumbers and squash, corn and beans. Crowley could picture it now: kneeling together along the garden path, shaping the dark earth into hills to create the best possible environment for the young seedlings, brushing a smudge of dirt off of Aziraphale’s cheekbone. A little later in the summer, he’d straddled his husband’s lap under the old oak tree with a basket of cherry tomatoes fresh off the vine, pressing sun-warmed fruits to his lips, sungold and black pearl and supersweet 100, all bursting with flavor. When the basket was empty, Aziraphale had rolled him over and had him right there in the grass, under the shade of the trees.
Right, the zucchini. They’d had a bumper crop from Crowley’s garden, much more than the three of them could possibly eat fresh. And zucchini had a tendency to swell up into colossal vegetables the size of your forearm nearly overnight, especially when Crowley was away and Aziraphale and Muriel were in charge of keeping an eye on the harvest. So they’d kept the small, tender squashes for fresh eating while shredding and freezing the monstrosities for quickbreads and soups throughout the fall and winter. Now they were down to one last portion, and Crowley was planning on packing up some of the leftovers to heat up on his journey, a little taste of the home he loved to comfort him on the road.
Stalling for time, Crowley reached for the loaf of fresh-baked bread, cutting off a few slices and arranging them on a cheese board. Aziraphale had done most of the work for this one, mixing the ingredients and leaving them to rise overnight, and then kneading the dough when he was home at lunchtime before leaving it for Crowley to bake. Crowley hadn’t been able to help watching him work, sleeves rolled up to his elbows to display his thick forearms, muscles and tendons rippling under his skin. Crowley had looked on hopefully, perched on the counter with his knees spread wide. But Aziraphale had been running late, so he’d left Crowley with a toe-curling kiss, one hand wrapped in his scarlet hair, tugging his head to the side to suck a bruise into his neck and growling Later into his ear.
Well, it was later now.
Alongside the bread, Crowley arranged some aged Vermont cheddar, Sartori Bellavitano, and Humboldt Fog on his cheese board. He added a bit of summer sausage, a few slices of sopressata, and a small dish of olives, and looked at the plate appraisingly. Crowley was well aware of his husband’s discerning palate, and Aziraphale would definitely approve of the variety of flavors and textures.
Setting the cheese board down on the kitchen table, Crowley turned back to the counter and began to chop up an onion. Where was Aziraphale, anyway? He leaned across the sink, squinting out the kitchen window into the dark yard. In this light, he couldn’t even see the aviaries across the way, and there was no way Aziraphale could possibly still be flying his hawk. Gabriel would be a very cranky bird husband by the time Aziraphale returned him to his enclosure.
Crowley glanced at the clock. 5:45. Hmm. He turned on the front burner, heating a large Dutch oven while he made quick work of a stick of butter, cutting it into cubes. He was just tossing the butter cubes into the pot when he heard the crunch of tires on gravel in the driveway, looked up to see the headlights of Aziraphale’s SUV cutting a path of light through the darkness.
“Thank fuck,” Crowley muttered.
He knew that it would take Aziraphale a few minutes to settle Gabriel down for the night, and he had just scraped the chopped onion and shredded zucchini into the pot when he heard the back door opening and closing.
“That smells wonderful, darling!” Aziraphale paused in the vestibule, shrugging off his winter gear and hanging up his oversized puffy coat. When he entered the kitchen, he was apple-cheeked and bright-eyed from the cold, blond curls pointing every which way after spending the afternoon stuffed in a knit hat. Crowley felt a swoop deep in his belly.
Aziraphale crossed the room to the stove, folding Crowley in his arms from behind, one hand sliding up his chest to rest gently around the front of Crowley’s throat. “I do so love to see you wearing my clothes,” he growled, nibbling at Crowley’s earlobe, the soft scratch of his beard sending shivers down Crowley’s spine. Crowley snuggled into his arms, turning to nuzzle him. He craved this, this feeling that he belonged to Aziraphale, that he was cherished.
Aziraphale kissed his forehead. “Is Mimi here?”
“No, they went up to Philly to see Beez a while ago. Fed the birds before they left, too.”
Crowley and Aziraphale had really tried to be considerate housemates. But shortly after Crowley had moved in, Muriel had decided to move out of the main brick section of the house and over into the older log section. They’d also taken to coughing loudly before going around corners, and texting Aziraphale when they needed something rather than going to look for him.
“Wonderful.” Keeping one hand at Crowley’s throat, Aziraphale let the other trail down the front of him, grasping at Crowley’s thigh as he ground into him from behind.
Crowley sighed, leaning against Aziraphale’s bulk as he continued to stir the vegetables in the pot, their buttery aroma making his mouth water. “You’re a little late,” he murmured.
“I’m so sorry, darling,” Aziraphale purred, pressing his lips to Crowley’s shoulder. “I got talking to Joshua after our flying session and we lost track of time.”
Because Aziraphale was one of the few master falconers in the state, he was sometimes approached by would-be apprentices looking to earn their falconry licenses, and he tried to accommodate these requests when he could. His latest apprentice was Joshua Haddad, a preschool teacher who had fallen in love with falcons after volunteering at a wildlife rehab facility. He had just taken on his first red-tailed hawk, a juvenile named Lazarus that he had nursed back to health after the bird’s mother had died and left him alone. Aziraphale met Joshua after school a few times a week to take advantage of the remaining hours of winter sunlight, and they would fly their hawks until dusk. Joshua was thirty-three, with large brown eyes set off by his golden skin, wavy brown hair that tumbled past his shoulders, and a neatly trimmed beard. He was perfectly pleasant to be around, kind and gentle and easy to talk to.
Crowley hated him.
“So how is Saint Joshua?” he growled, letting a hint of petulance creep into his voice.
“Darling.” The fingers around Crowley’s throat tightened slightly, and with the other hand, Aziraphale reached down to palm his cock through his leggings. Crowley yelped. “I am not interested in talking about Joshua.”
Oh, so that was how Aziraphale wanted to play it. Crowley felt a thrum of anticipation deep within him. “Then what are you interested in — sir?” He turned his head, casting Aziraphale a demure look from beneath his lashes.
“Eyes on your work, please.” Aziraphale cupped a hand under Crowley’s chin and turned his face back toward the stove. “Those vegetables look ready to me. What do you need to do next?”
“The — the broth. I need to add it, and wait for it to boil. And in the meantime, I need to chop up some basil.”
“Do it, then.” Aziraphale gave Crowley just enough leeway to grab the carton of chicken broth and pour it into the Dutch oven. When Crowley turned back to his cutting board, Aziraphale followed, hooking his chin over Crowley’s shoulder and bracing his broad hands on either side of Crowley’s hips, boxing him up against the counter.
Crowley picked up his knife and began to chop the basil leaves. He could feel Aziraphale’s hot breath on his neck, and it made his cock twitch.
“Do you know what I think of when I smell basil?” Aziraphale’s voice was thick with intention.
“What?”
“Do you remember that day last summer, when you went out into the garden to clip basil for pesto?”
“Shit, Az.” Crowley remembered, and he trembled as he kept the knife moving. Not much more to do until he was free.
“There you were, kneeling with your basket in those sinfully tiny shorts you wear. And what did I do?” His hands were under Crowley’s shirt now, a thumb reaching up to tease at Crowley’s nipple ring, just a ghost of a touch.
Crowley whimpered. “You pinned me up against the shed.”
“And I pulled those shorts down just enough so that I could fuck you, the scent of basil all around us.”
“Fuuuuuck.” The basil was chopped enough. Crowley threw down his knife and spun around in his husband’s arms, crushing their mouths together. Aziraphale met him in intensity, wrapping strong arms around his back and pulling him close, grabbing a handful of his ass so they could grind together. It was utterly perfect. Crowley buried one hand in Aziraphale’s curls, hooking an ankle around the back of his knee to pull him in closer, to —
“Darling.” Aziraphale was pulling back a little, looking at him with mock sternness. “I do believe your soup has come to a boil.”
“Fuck the soup.” But Crowley wiggled out of Aziraphale’s arms, turning the heat down to a simmer and slamming the lid down on top of the Dutch oven. He grabbed his phone to set a timer for fifteen minutes, then threw himself at Aziraphale. “Oh god, Angel, you have to fuck me.”
“Exactly my intention, pet.” Aziraphale’s kiss was filthy, his hand wrapped in Crowley’s hair, yanking him back into a deep bend over the counter, his other hand coming between them to palm over Crowley’s cock. In one smooth motion, he dragged Crowley over to the sink and spun him around, slamming Crowley’s hands down on the counter in an obvious direction not to move. Crowley could see Aziraphale behind him in the reflection of the darkened window, eyes wild and chest heaving. It was probably for the best that their kitchen overlooked the rear yard and did not face any neighbors.
Aziraphale caught the tail of Crowley’s shirt and dragged it up to tuck it through the back of his collar, exposing his lean torso, the elegant sweep of his spine. Then he grabbed the waistband of Crowley’s leggings and dragged them down to his knees, giving him some room to spread his legs, but keeping them close together enough that the breach would be a challenge. Crowley writhed in anticipation, his cock aching. This was going to be good.
“Oh god, darling, look at you. You’re so perfect, so ready to take me.” The window-Aziraphale was frozen for a moment, just a single finger tracing reverently down Crowley’s back and over the curve of his ass. Crowley grinned, arching his back at the praise, knowing the picture he made.
Then Aziraphale was on him with a growl, sinking teeth into his shoulder, hands raking insistently down Crowley’s ribcage, then forward to tease at his nipples until he sobbed, then down again, one hand wrapping around his cock as Aziraphale undid his own trousers with the other. Then there was the click of a bottle cap and a quick application of lube, and the thick head of his cock was budging up against Crowley’s entrance.
“Do it, Angel, I’m so ready for you — fuck!”
With one smooth motion, Aziraphale was seated inside him, and Crowley breathed into the stretch, adjusting to that delicious burn. God, it was amazing.
“All right, my love?”
“Just pound me, Angel. I fucking need it!”
Aziraphale clearly wasn’t going to turn down that invitation. He set to work immediately, taking Crowley apart, bottoming out with each bruising thrust, until Crowley felt as if he were being split in two. He looked up at the window and met Aziraphale’s eyes, saw that his husband was watching the waves of pleasure breaking across his face. Aziraphale gave him a mischievous smile before wrapping his thick fingers firmly in Crowley’s hair, pulling it tight as he licked a stripe up the side of Crowley’s throat.
“Fuck, Angel, fuck!”
Aziraphale was all business now, putting his entire weight into the motion of his hips, hitting Crowley right where he needed it as he wrapped a hand around Crowley’s cock, pumping in time with his movements. Crowley wasn’t going to last — it was too good — colors exploding in his mind as his thighs shook, as his toes curled in his boots —
“Angel, I’m so close — I’m —”
And then Crowley was shaking apart, painting the edge of the sink with his come as Aziraphale fucked him through the aftershocks, his whole body shuddering as wave after wave of pleasure crashed over him. He was just at the edge of oversensitivity when Aziraphale pulled out, knowing exactly how far to push him. With a few quick tugs at his own cock, Aziraphale was reaching his peak, painting Crowley’s hole, the cleft of his ass, his lower back with hot stripes, marking and claiming him before leaning forward to rest his forehead between Crowley’s shoulder blades, breathing hard.
Just then, the timer on Crowley’s phone went off.
“Fuck.” Crowley’s legs were barely keeping him upright, but he pushed up on his forearms to reach over and silence his phone.
Aziraphale grabbed a tea towel to clean them both up. “I got a little carried away there.”
“No, it was perfect. You’re perfect.” Crowley turned around and wrapped his arms around Aziraphale’s shoulders, melting into a kiss. The soup could simmer for another minute or two.
Later that night, Aziraphale sat cross-legged on their bed, his cock buried deep in Crowley as Crowley straddled his lap, legs wrapped tightly around Aziraphale’s waist. Crowley’s arms were draped around Aziraphale’s shoulders, one hand wrapped in his blond curls, and Aziraphale had both hands spread wide across Crowley’s lower back, supporting him as they rocked gently together. It wasn’t a position that allowed for dramatic thrusting or deep pounding, but it was heartbreakingly intimate, everything that Aziraphale had ever wanted wrapped up in his arms.
It had been a lovely evening. Once Crowley had sufficiently recovered from their tryst in the kitchen, he had finished blending the soup, stirring in heavy cream, basil, and nutmeg. The silky bisque, with its creamy fats and spices, was exactly what they needed on that cold night, but at the same time it held all the memories of summer, a season of togetherness on the tip of his tongue. They had tried to sit across from each other at the table, to talk about Aziraphale’s day and Crowley’s preparations for his departure, but they both craved closeness too much, and soon Crowley was in his lap, feeding him morsels of cheese and fresh bread as he nuzzled against Aziraphale’s temple.
After dinner was over, they had made their way upstairs, had built a fire in their bedroom fireplace and curled up on the sofa together, cuddling and talking and making out like teenagers for hours. They were both a little sad, dreading the eternity they would be apart before they met up again in Florida. Aziraphale wanted to fold Crowley into his heart, to tell him that it would all be okay and that the six weeks would pass in no time, even as he felt that he would be walking around without some essential part of himself. Instead he had poured it all into his kisses, pressing Crowley into the sofa until the fire burned down, until they’d stumbled from the couch to the bed, shedding clothing as they went.
Now Crowley was in his arms, foreheads pressed together, breathing in time as they moved, a slow heat building between them, the rest of the world a distant murmur. Aziraphale was lost in the pleasure of the moment, eyes closed, letting his nerves light up along every point of contact, every brush of bare skin, every caress.
“Angel —” Crowley whispered, and Aziraphale opened his eyes to gaze into his husband’s golden ones, two deep wells of emotion. Crowley brought his hands to cup the sides of Aziraphale’s face, and Aziraphale opened to him, their lips meeting in a searching kiss.
“You’re everything, darling,” Aziraphale purred, and Crowley moaned, tilting his head backward to give Aziraphale access to the long column of his throat. As he mouthed the tender skin, Aziraphale glanced over Crowley’s shoulder, catching a glimpse of the two of them in the large mirror over the bureau next to their bed. Pale and elegant, Crowley nearly glowed in the dim light, his crimson waves tumbling over his shoulders, his lean muscles rippling as he undulated in Aziraphale’s lap. Aziraphale shivered, letting one hand drift down Crowley’s spine and underneath him, fingers splayed on either side of the place where Aziraphale was splitting him in two. Crowley keened under his touch and began to move faster, bringing a hand between them to pump his cock.
“Angel — fuck, hold me — goddamn, I fucking love you —”
“Darling — oh darling, I love you so much —”
They went over the precipice together, Aziraphale spilling deep within Crowley, filling him with his spend, and Crowley spurting over his fist, his free hand clawing across Aziraphale’s shoulders, his face buried in Aziraphale’s neck. As they came back to earth, Aziraphale could feel the dampness on his collarbone, and he wrapped both arms tightly around Crowley’s back, holding him through the shudders wracking his body, rocking them both back and forth.
“Shhh, my love, it’s alright,” he murmured, lips buried in Crowley’s hair. “It’s alright.”
Later, after they had cleaned up and tucked themselves into bed, Aziraphale lay on his back, gazing up at his reflection in the mirrored canopy over their bed. Crowley was fast asleep, his head pillowed on Aziraphale’s chest, long hair streaming behind him, an arm and a leg thrown over Aziraphale’s torso. He was a vision in the dim light, supple and peaceful and wonderfully warm. It made Aziraphale’s heart ache to look at him, to trace the contours of his body, to imagine how cold their bed would be when he was gone.
Aziraphale didn’t want to sleep, didn’t want to dream away these last hours with Crowley in his arms. He had been working hard with his therapist, learning to recognize what he could control in his life, and what he needed to let go. He loved Crowley deeply, wanted him to thrive, loved everything about Crowley’s talent and all the joy it brought them. He knew he had to share Crowley with the world, and he wanted Crowley to have the freedom to go anywhere he needed to go, to climb the highest mountains. There was plenty for him to do at home, plenty of ways for him to count down the days until they could be together again. But oh, how hard it was to let it happen, to watch Crowley leave again and again.
He must have fallen asleep, because the next thing he knew, the bed was cold beside him in the pale morning light, and Crowley was leaning over him, a pained smile on his face, his hair damp from the shower.
“It’s time for me to go, Angel.” Crowley’s voice was soft, cracking on the term of endearment.
Aziraphale threw on the first clothes he could find and followed Crowley out to the yard, the van packed with everything he needed for three and a half months on the road.
Aziraphale smoothed a hand down the front of Crowley’s jacket. “Call me when you get there! And please, any time you get tired on the road. I don’t care what I’m doing, I want to be there for you.”
“I will. Angel —”
“And pictures! Send me pictures of your lunch. Or, I don’t know, cute dogs you see. Or you, always you — of course. And memes.”
“Every single meme, I swear.” Crowley’s eyes were bright.
“You can tell Eric and Dagon I said hi. And your mom, of course. It won’t be long until I can be there with you! We’ll be okay.”
“Fuck, Angel —” Crowley threw his arms around Aziraphale’s shoulders, his sob muffled by Aziraphale’s collar. “I’m gonna miss you so fucking much.”
“Me too, darling. Shhh, me too.”
As Crowley finally pulled away, Aziraphale followed the van out of the driveway to the main road, straining his eyes to watch him go, until he could no longer see its taillights, until no sign of Crowley remained. Then he turned on his heel and went back to the house. There were birds to feed, and many things to do.