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The relief Aziraphale feels at the first sight of the ranch is palpable. It’s been a long round-up and he is sore all over. He’s tempted to push Moiselle into a trot, just to get there a little faster. Wouldn’t do any good, he muses, there’s still plenty of work to do before he can rest.
The cattle seem to sense the change, perking up their ears and throwing their heads as they amble along. Perhaps they are just as anxious to rest.
Hearing hoofbeats approaching from behind, Aziraphale turns in his saddle to see the dark form of The Bentley. Her rider, Crowley, pulls her up to fall into step beside Moiselle and Aziraphale.
“Boss wants us to go on ahead and check the fences,” Crowley says simply.
“Right,” Aziraphale responds, feeling the same mild discomfort he’s felt every time Crowley is near him. None of the men are particularly talkative, but for some reason, it only feels personal with Crowley.
They move away from the column of cattle before nudging their mounts into an easy canter, quickly overtaking the head of the herd. Having spent a few days repairing the fences before making their way out to the grazing pastures, Aziraphale knows exactly where to go. Crowley gives a nod to indicate which direction they should each take before peeling off at a gallop, The Bentley’s hooves kicking up thick clouds of dust in her wake.
Aziraphale watches for slightly longer than he should, mesmerised by the way Crowley’s red braid seems to glow golden in the late afternoon light. Shaking himself out of his thoughts, Aziraphale twitches the reins to send Moiselle the opposite way around the enormous enclosure. With close to one thousand head of cattle to hold, at least temporarily, it encompasses as much land as possible. He doesn’t expect to find any problems with the fences, but he can’t fault the reasoning behind checking.
Passing Crowley at the top of the pasture, Aziraphale gives a nod of acknowledgement which isn’t returned. He isn’t bothered by that, he tells himself as he canters around the paddock keeping a keen eye on the fence, he doesn’t mind being ignored and excluded. It’s not like he got into this work because of his need for endless social interaction, after all.
When they meet again, having both completed full cycles of the enclosure, Crowley halts The Bentley a few feet short of where Moiselle stands.
“Seems sound to me,” Aziraphale offers.
Crowley merely grunts in what appears to be agreement. Aziraphale dismounts to hide his reaction, hitching Moiselle’s reins to a fence post, and busies himself with opening the wide gates. Crowley must hop down as well because Aziraphale collides with him whilst swinging the second gate to its new position.
“Oof,” Crowley says, stepping back and rubbing his sternum.
Aziraphale is sure that he hadn’t made that much of an impact, but a quick glance over shows that Crowley’s cheeks are pink and his breath a little heavy.
“Y’alright?” Aziraphale asks, wondering how concerned he should be.
“Yeah, fine,” Crowley says, stepping back towards his mount.
Aziraphale watches Crowley tug The Bentley’s reins free and swing himself into the saddle before urging her into a rapid trot, clearly eager to get away. He secures the gates and strokes Moiselle’s soft neck.
“Odd,” he says to her, “very odd.”
He doesn’t see Crowley when he rejoins the column, just in time to start the work of funnelling the cattle into the paddock. The animals rush forward into the promise of rest, water, and good grazing, Aziraphale can empathise with that.
The sun is low by the time they close the gates. Everything is covered in dust, including the inside of Aziraphale’s mouth. He pulls a canteen from his saddlebag and washes the grit from his tongue, spitting it onto the ground before taking a long swallow of the tepid water. Using the last splash to wet his bandana, he wipes it over his face and the back of his neck. He’s sure it’s just moving the dirt around, but at least it feels cool on his skin.
The boss hollers for them to get their horses seen to, although most of the men are already heading for the smaller horse pasture. It’s at least a sign that the day will be over soon enough. Aziraphale gives Moiselle a squeeze, urging her on once more. He takes off her saddle and brushes the dirt from her coat before turning her loose in the paddock.
With Moiselle taken care of, Aziraphale hefts her tack and carries it to the barn to stow. His saddlebags get slung over his shoulder and carried to the bunkhouse. He’s got nothing of value in them so he’s not worried about the other hands getting into his things. He can see most of the others sitting out by the fire, a pot of something steaming just off the flames, and a glass bottle being passed around, glinting in the firelight as they take turns pouring measures into tin cups. He joins them and is wordlessly dealt a hand in the next round of cards. There isn’t need for much conversation out here, but the companionship, the understanding of each other, is worth more than words.
Aziraphale wakes before dawn, the distant clouds just beginning to glow with the promise of sunlight. At least one of the other men is already up, moving around the bunkhouse with unusual stealth. As Aziraphale’s eyes adjust to the gloom at the far end of the room, he recognises that it’s Crowley pulling on his boots.
Some prickling at the back of his mind tells Aziraphale to follow when Crowley leaves the bunkhouse. He slips out of bed and tugs on his clothes, trying to be as quiet as he can whilst moving quickly. Stepping out of the building and into the pale light, Aziraphale sees Crowley leaning against a fence post, nose to nose with his horse.
It feels like he’s intruding now, witnessing some secret moment between the man and his animal. He’s about to turn on his heel and find some other activity to busy himself, but Crowley sees him and lifts a hand in greeting. It’s such an unexpected gesture from the tight-lipped cowhand that Aziraphale finds himself returning it and walking over before realising what he’s doing.
Crowley seems just as surprised by the turn of events, but not unwelcoming as Aziraphale approaches the fence. Crowley’s gorgeous blood bay tosses her head and pushes her nose into Crowley’s chest. He laughs and reaches up to stroke her ears, apparently under no illusions about what she’s demanding. Aziraphale has never seen him looking so relaxed and happy, it’s a striking difference.
“She’s a fine beast,” says Aziraphale, unsure if conversation will be welcomed.
Crowley grunts and nods and for a moment it seems like that will be that.
“Temperament of a mule, this one,” Crowley says, “some days I reckon I’d be better off ridin’ a steer.”
Aziraphale laughs and puts out his hand, palm flat, for The Bentley to sniff. She makes a soft wuffling sound of approval and graciously allows him to pet her muzzle.
“Don’t tell Moiselle, don’t want her to sulk all day,” he says, mostly to the horse. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Crowley smile.
“Mine’ll be in enough of a state today as it is. She never been good around branding.”
Aziraphale hums in acknowledgement, he can sympathise with the horse on that front. The three of them stand in a companionable silence for a while, the two men idly petting The Bentley as the sun rises and the ranch starts to come to life.
They are eating breakfast when the boss approaches a while later. Aziraphale has found himself caught in an unintentional orbit around Crowley as their routines take them to the same places.
“Had word from the Johnson place over yonder,” the boss says without preamble, jerking one thumb over his shoulder, “seems they’ve got a few dogies lost in the canyon, could use some help rounding ‘em up.” He juts his chin towards Crowley. “Recall your mare don’t much like the branding work. Pick a buddy and get packed up for a few days of roughing it. Janey’ll sort your provisions.”
“Aziraphale,” Crowley says quickly, “I’ve seen him rope a calf quicker’n anyone.”
Boss nods and doesn’t question the decision any further.
“Get movin’ then, times’a wastin’,” he says, dismissing them with a wave of his hand.
As grateful as Aziraphale is to be away from the cattle branding, he can’t understand why Crowley picked him, nor why he answered so quickly. He’s good with a rope, and the animals seem to respond well to him, but until this morning Crowley had seemed to barely tolerate him. There are several men that Crowley is friendly with, who he often joins for cards or dice. Men with whom he is more likely to share supplies. It doesn’t make sense that he would choose Aziraphale over someone he might could actually enjoy spending a few days with.
Aziraphale puzzles over these thoughts as he stuffs supplies into his pack and readies Moiselle for the journey. Just as the boss had said, Janey sorts them out with enough bacon, hard tack, beans, and coffee to last them several days. Crowley draws fresh water from the well and they fill their canteens before finally mounting and heading out towards the Johnson land.
It’s agonisingly silent for hours, just the steady sound of The Bentley and Moiselle’s hooves picking over the hard ground. Aziraphale finds that he can’t just relax into the saddle and let Moiselle’s gait soothe him, not with these questions pecking at his brain.
“Why’d you pick me?” he asks at last.
Crowley looks over at him in surprise, apparently content with the silence and his own thoughts.
“Like I said back at the ranch-” he starts, Aziraphale cuts him off.
“I’m not any better with a rope than half the guys back there, don’t give me that.”
His mouth opens and closes a few times, Aziraphale waits rather than filling the pause with his own conjecture. After a moment, Crowley seems to come to a decision.
“Looked like you’d appreciate bein’ away from the ranch for a while, ‘reckon I could stand to spend a few days with you without wantin’ to strangle you.”
Aziraphale mulls this over, weighing it in his mind before responding.
“That was mighty kind, thank you,” he says, nodding his gratitude.
Crowley looks away with a grimace, his hand tightening on the reins.
“Don’t say that, don’t need it,” he says just before urging The Bentley ahead a few yards so the horses are walking in single file. The trail hadn’t narrowed enough to make that a necessity yet.
For the next few hours, as they descend into the canyon and begin to sweep up towards the Johnson place, Aziraphale often finds his eyes drawn to Crowley. He catches himself admiring the crimson braid that swings across Crowley’s back, his sure seat in the saddle, and the broadness of his shoulders.
Perhaps he shouldn’t be indulging himself so openly, enjoying the appearance of a man this brazenly, but Crowley hasn’t so much as looked over his shoulder since going on ahead. Aziraphale is in no danger of being caught or of letting his aesthetic appreciation blossom into anything more dangerous. Crowley is far too prickly and distant for Aziraphale to begin fooling himself into anything more than that.
Up ahead, The Bentley comes to a sudden halt, Crowley’s head tipping as he cups his ear and listens. Pulling Moiselle up, Aziraphale strains to hear for whatever has alerted Crowley. Faintly, just over the sound of the river at the bottom of the canyon, he can hear the crying of a calf.
“Didn’t think we’d find one this far out,” Crowley says over his shoulder.
They follow the sound, pausing often to double check the direction, until they come to the mouth of a small ravine. The calf is halfway up a scree slope and panicking, kicking down little showers of mud and pebbles.
Before Aziraphale can think, Crowley leaps off The Bentley and scrambles into the ravine, half climbing until he’s just a few feet shy of the calf. Aziraphale sees the exact moment that Crowley realises that he’s just as stuck as the calf.
Dismounting slowly, he leads Moiselle to a sturdy looking tree and hitches her reins before catching hold of The Bentley and securing her nearby. Once the horses are taken care of, Aziraphale grabs his lasso and walks back to the mouth of the ravine, his arms crossed over his chest.
“What was the rest of the plan there, Crowley?” he calls, taunting him playfully.
“Shut up,” Crowley yells back, laughing at himself.
Aziraphale assesses their predicament for longer than necessary, enjoying Crowley’s flustered embarrassment far too much to rush into helping him. He’s never seen the other man so animated. Eventually, it’s the distress of the calf that has him moving a little further into the ravine.
“Here, catch!” he calls, throwing out the coils of his lasso.
Crowley catches the loop with one hand and drops it over the calf’s head before reaching down to help the calf step over it, fitting the cord around its shoulders. With Aziraphale gently tugging the animal forward, and Crowley both nudging it from behind and using it for balance, they slowly encourage the calf out of the ravine.
The poor creature is distressed and dehydrated, but otherwise healthy. Aziraphale points out an easy route down to the river and helps Crowley lift the calf onto Moiselle’s back, having tied its feet together to secure it. He walks beside Moiselle, leading her down the rocky path to the river that carved this canyon and the narrow strip of greenery that it supports.
A short way along the river bank, the men find the remains of an old campsite. Aziraphale hoists the calf off Moiselle as Crowley ties a simple halter, slipping it over the calf’s ears and nose as soon as its feet hit the ground. The river is slow and accessible here, so the calf can dip its head to the cool water to drink its fill with Crowley holding on to one end of the rope.
There’s a small grazing patch, a bounty of dry firewood marking the height of the river in flood, and a couple of leafy trees for shade.
“Might as well stop here for the night,” Crowley says, immediately shucking off his jacket, switching the rope between his hands to keep hold of the calf.
Aziraphale nods. No point in pressing on now; with the shadows getting long, it won’t be too long before the light fades completely. He sets about relieving Moiselle of her saddle and his pack, rubbing over her sweat-damp coat with a rag. He gives her some feed from his pack and secures her bridle to a length of rope, tying the other end to a branch with enough slack for her to be able to graze. Filling a pan with water from the river, he sets it down beside her and strokes her neck a few times until he’s content that she’s happy and relaxed.
By the time he’s finished with Moiselle, Crowley has pounded a stake into the ground and tied the calf’s halter rope to it, giving the animal some room to move but far enough away from the horses and the river. The Bentley has only just started getting Crowley’s attention, so Aziraphale takes it upon himself to build a campfire.
The kindling catches a spark from the third strike of Aziraphale’s flint, dry grass quickly smoking and blossoming into flame. He feeds it twigs until it’s hungry for bigger fuel, snapping at the sticks he offers.
Crowley’s feet appear beside him, his black boots turned an ashen grey by the dust. Waiting for him to do or say something, anything, Aziraphale stays hunkered down, feeding the fire bigger and bigger sticks.
“I’m filthy and the river’s calm enough,” Crowley says, pausing as if those two facts can only present one possible scenario. “I’m gonna take a swim.”
Aziraphale thinks he can hear the unspoken query in the statement, the lift of Crowley’s voice that suggests he won’t move if Aziraphale doesn’t want him to.
“All right,” he says, not looking up from his growing fire.
Crowley steps away and Aziraphale hears him undressing, tugging off his boots, hanging his shirt over a branch, wriggling out of his pants. It takes an immense amount of willpower to keep his eyes focused on the fire, his whole body wants to turn and watch Crowley.
There’s a moment where Aziraphale can’t hear anything but the crackling of his fire and the gentle chewing of two horses and a cow. A gentle touch traces across his shoulders, as light as a whisper, deniable as an act of imagination, but he sees Crowley’s bare feet from under the brim of his hat, walking past close enough for a touch.
He tilts his head, lifting his hat enough to see Crowley on the riverbank, completely nude, utterly beautiful, and looking back at him. They both glance away at the same time, aware of having been caught. Aziraphale doesn’t look up again until his knees really begin to protest the crouched position.
When Aziraphale stands, Crowley is submerged up to his waist, his back turned to their campsite as he splashes water onto his upper body and scrubs at himself with his hands. Unable to look away, Aziraphale watches Crowley shake out his long braid and dunk his head under the surface. He comes up dripping and gasping, a laughing breathlessness that intoxicates Aziraphale.
He’s walking closer before he realises what’s happening, his feet moving of their own accord. He can’t have what he wants, he knows that, he knows Crowley isn’t interested in anything about him.
“Is it cold?” he asks, needing Crowley to know that he’s close by.
Crowley turns quickly, his wet hair whipping around his face and a wide smile offered up without hesitancy.
“A little, but in a good way,” he says, still grinning. “Join me?”
It’s an offer and an invitation, Aziraphale’s just not sure exactly what’s being offered. Things he knew seconds ago suddenly don’t seem so certain. He doesn’t trust his voice to answer, so he uses his actions. His boots, hat, shirt, and pants are all hastily shed, piled up together a few yards back from the river. At last, his hands are on his underwear, unsure of which decision to make. Crowley lifts one eyebrow in question and Aziraphale shoves them down his thighs, tossing them onto the pile of his clothes as he wades into the water.
For the first time, Aziraphale realises just how much Crowley keeps hidden under his hat because if this is the way that Crowley always looks at him, Aziraphale knows he would have noticed before now.
There’s a hunger and an appreciation in Crowley’s eyes, something raw and a little bit unsettling as he surveys Aziraphale from his face down to his cock and back again. It’s so entrancing that Aziraphale barely feels the chill of the water, warmed as he is by the trails that Crowley’s gaze burns into his body.
His foot finds a rock slick with algae and he slips, flailing gracelessly. Crowley’s beside him instantly, his hands firm on Aziraphale’s arms.
“Careful there,” Crowley says gently.
The moment stretches between them like salt-water taffy, pulled beyond what should be possible until it’s tissue thin and as fragile as a dew drop.
“What you asked me before, on the trail,” Crowley says, still holding Aziraphale, “you could ask me again if you want.”
Aziraphale knows that he can say no, he can shake his head, move away, and nothing will happen. They can both keep this veil of deniability and safety over them, but now that Aziraphale has seen that there’s something behind this careful indifference, he finds that his curiosity is insatiable. He makes no move to break away from Crowley’s grasp.
“Why’d you pick me?”
For a second, Crowley looks like he’s trying to speak, like he’s got words that he wants to get out. Sighing, he pulls Aziraphale forward and kisses him gracelessly. It’s quick and bruisingly rough, but it says more than Aziraphale had hoped.
“That’s why,” Crowley says, finally dropping his hands from Aziraphale’s arms. “Wanted to know what that was like.”
Aziraphale’s hand rises to his lips of its own accord, river water trickling from his fingertips as he touches where Crowley has just been.
“And?” he asks stupidly.
Crowley smirks, but his eyes are vulnerable.
“Worth it,” he says with a shrug that falls wide of nonchalance.
This time it’s Aziraphale closing the distance between them, Aziraphale’s hands lifting to Crowley’s shoulders, Aziraphale’s lips pressing against Crowley’s unresisting mouth. He kisses Crowley with more softness than their first, moving slowly so Crowley can make his desires known.
Arms wind around his neck, drawing him closer still. The heat of the kiss explodes as their bodies collide. Crowley’s lips part and Aziraphale’s tongue presses forward, getting his first taste of Crowley. He moans at the velvet feel of Crowley’s tongue against his, pushing his hips forward to find more contact.
Against him, Crowley seems to be struggling in much the same way, whimpering into Aziraphale’s mouth and continually switching his hold as he tries to get closer, get more, get everything.
“Perhaps,” Aziraphale says breathlessly, “the river is not the best place for this.”
Crowley is grinning, a wild energy in his golden-brown eyes. He sweeps Aziraphale’s feet out from under him and dunks him fully into the water.
“Wash the day off you first,” Crowley says when Aziraphale resurfaces, spluttering and spitting, “you’ll feel better for it.”
He does feel better after simply scrubbing his hands over his body in the flowing water. He feels refreshed and invigorated after a hard day in the saddle, due, in no small part, to the promise of further kissing with Crowley.
A short distance away, Crowley combs his fingers through the length of his hair, smoothing out tangles until it hangs in tidy, wet waves. Eventually, Aziraphale realises that he’s just been staring at Crowley, his hands holding the back of his neck.
Crowley smiles when he notices, a bashful little thing that tugs at every part of Aziraphale.
“Like what you see?” Crowley asks, half teasing, half nervously sincere.
“Very much,” Aziraphale answers and he reaches out a hand towards Crowley.
He catches one of Crowley’s hands and brings it to his lips, kissing the back of his weather-beaten knuckles. When Crowley twists his wrist and cups Aziraphale’s cheek, he can feel all the callouses of Crowley’s fingers, softened by the water but still a testament to his hard work and lifestyle. It feels real.
“What can I give you tonight?” Crowley asks after a moment. Aziraphale shakes his head.
“I don’t want you to give me anything,” he says honestly, “I want to share this with you.”
That must be the right answer because Crowley is kissing him again, urging him out of the river and up the grass-covered bank. Their nakedness seems so much more notable now, more intense once they are out of the water and pressing against each other.
Aziraphale was half hard in the river with the chill of the water tempering his arousal. Now he’s practically aching with how much he wants. Crowley backs him into a tree and drops to his knees on the soft grass.
“Oh!” Aziraphale exclaims as he strokes Crowley’s hair, “You really don’t have to, if you don’t want.”
Crowley looks up at him in the fading light, flickers of firelight just beginning to dance over his skin, and he looks so hungry that Aziraphale almost gasps.
“I want to, wanted to for so long,” he responds, sounding certain.
Aziraphale only manages a choked moan in response as Crowley’s hand curls around the base of Aziraphale’s cock and guides the head into his mouth.
It feels so incredible: the warmth and wetness of Crowley’s mouth, the pull as he sucks deeper, the pressure of his fingers around the base. Aziraphale feels like he could explode at any moment, he’s so keyed up and on edge already.
“Lord, you’re a devil at this,” Aziraphale gasps out.
His hand is still on Crowley’s head, just resting gently with his fingers tangling in wet hair until Crowley does something with his tongue that makes Aziraphale’s spine arch and his fingers curl into a fist.
Crowley moans, the filthiest sound that Aziraphale has ever heard, and lifts his free hand to squeeze encouragingly at Aziraphale’s grip. Unsure if he’s understood Crowley’s intent, Aziraphale slowly lifts his other hand to Crowley’s head and cups it gently. The noise that Crowley makes in response is so unmistakeably aroused and positive that Aziraphale has to laugh, even as the vibrations of Crowley’s throat travel right to the core of his arousal.
“You’re so good, so beautiful, Crowley,” says Aziraphale, his voice strained.
The encouragement must affect Crowley because he’s suddenly pushing forward, forcing the head of Aziraphale’s cock to the back of his throat until he’s gagging and swallowing around it, rushing Aziraphale towards his climax.
“Christ, Crowley, you’re gonna make me come!”
Crowley pulls off suddenly, his grip almost painfully tight around the base of Aziraphale’s cock, holding him back from the edge.
“Don’t!” he gasps, his lips and chin shiny with saliva. “I want you to fuck me, I mean, Jesus, would you?”
Aziraphale leans down to kiss Crowley soundly, surprised but not upset to find the taste of himself on Crowley’s tongue.
“Of course, you beauty, anything you want.”
It’s difficult to be certain in the low light, but Aziraphale thinks he can see a blush rising over Crowley’s cheeks, a response to the compliment, perhaps.
Aziraphale grabs his sleeping roll, spreading it out on the ground before offering his hand to Crowley and drawing him down so they are lying on the blankets together.
“I had no idea you felt this way,” Aziraphale says between kisses, stroking his hand up and down Crowley’s body.
“Really? I thought I was so obvious,” Crowley admits, pressing his hips closer to Aziraphale, showing the strength of his arousal. “I couldn’t be near you without wanting to grab you and kiss you.”
Aziraphale laughs, allowing his fingers to graze the length of Crowley’s cock and then kissing away the resulting moan.
“To me it seemed like you just didn’t ever want to be near me, I wanted to know you so very badly.” Crowley hides his face in the crook of Aziraphale’s neck, making a sound that is alarmingly close to a whimper. “Oh, bless your heart, I’m being so cruel,” Aziraphale says soothingly.
After one more, deep, searching kiss, Aziraphale urges Crowley onto his front. When he strokes his fingers down the cleft of Crowley’s ass, pressing between the cheeks slightly, Crowley scrambles to get his knees tucked up under his body.
“Please,” he begs.
Aziraphale kisses down his back before answering.
“Patience, I’m going to take my time with you. Just look at you, pretty as a goddamn picture.”
Crowley makes a mortified squeak and presses his face into the blankets, a reaction that Aziraphale makes note of with interest.
Aziraphale sucks on his fingers, wetting them thoroughly before pressing one to Crowley’s tight hole. He massages around it, kissing Crowley’s back and murmuring encouragement until he feels the muscle relax enough to ease his fingertip inside.
Crowley cries out so wantonly, his hips kicking back with such raw need, that all of Aziraphale’s gentle plans are forgotten. He spits just above Crowley’s asshole, using his thumb to spread it around whilst fucking Crowley with his finger.
His cock is still slick with Crowley’s saliva when he kneels between Crowley’s thighs, but he still spits into his palm and strokes his length a couple of times to spread the wetness. Beneath him, Crowley is begging and pleading to be filled, the blanket clutched in his fists as his hips rock. Aziraphale can’t deny him anything.
Stroking the wet tip of his cock against Crowley hole, Aziraphale is rewarded with a whimpering cry that makes him feel needed completely and viscerally. He presses forward, watching Crowley’s hole stretch around him until the resistance gives and the head is surrounded by heat and pressure.
Groaning deep in his chest, Aziraphale forces himself to hold back from taking everything he wants. He waits until Crowley’s breathing calms and the pleading to be filled starts up again, urging him on.
“Sonuva- Crowley, you’re incredible,” gasps Aziraphale as he sheaths himself fully in Crowley’s welcoming heat.
“Don’t move,” Crowley begs, his voice tight, “not yet, just stay there for a bit.”
“Of course,” answers Aziraphale. He holds still, allowing Crowley to adjust to the feeling. Indulging himself only in gentle touches along Crowley’s back and thighs.
“All right, I’m good.”
Aziraphale is struck by the urge to fuck hard into Crowley, to give him the full force of Aziraphale’s lust in punishing thrusts. Only by sheer force of will does he temper that into smooth strokes, filling Crowley with a restrained rhythm that still seems to punch moans and expletives from Crowley’s mouth.
“More,” Crowley says at last. “Harder.”
Aziraphale gladly obeys, giving Crowley the benefit of his strong thighs whilst gripping his hips and pulling him back onto his cock with each stroke. Neither of them seem capable of speech for a while, only the animal grunting and moaning that punctuated each thrust. Aziraphale feels his pleasure building gradually, a tight knot that grows until he’s not sure how much longer he can hold back.
“Crowley, I’m close,” he growls in warning.
“Yessss,” Crowley answers, slipping one hand between his legs, “give it to me.”
Aziraphale lasts three more thrusts after that insanely arousing command, finally sinking home and stilling as his climax punches out. His head drops forward to rest between Crowley’s shoulder blades. He can feel the strokes of Crowley’s hand rocking his body and then the deep, gasping breath that he takes when he joins Aziraphale in bliss.
Aziraphale slips out of Crowley a few moments later, still panting from the exertion of his orgasm, and drops down beside Crowley, drawing him into an embrace. His kisses Crowley’s hair and face until the last shivers of pleasure leave them content and relaxed against each other.
“I’m filthy,” Crowley says at last.
“No, you’re wonderful, there’s nothing wrong with what we just did,” Aziraphale says, trying to reassure him.
Crowley laughs and reaches up to kiss Aziraphale on the mouth.
“I know, I meant that I’m covered in sweat, dirt, and come. I’m actually filthy.”
“Oh!” Aziraphale chuckles at his misunderstanding before scooping Crowley into his arms and standing. “Let’s get you all clean again, then.”
He carries a protesting and wriggling Crowley down to the river, only letting him down when they reach the water.
“I’m not a dogie that needs wranglin’, Aziraphale!” Crowley huffs as he wades into the water.
Aziraphale watches him wash the evidence of their passion from his skin with something like regret. Fearing that it may overwhelm him, he quickly cleans himself and grabs his clothes where they were abandoned earlier.
When Crowley returns a few minutes later, Aziraphale is sitting on a log, cooking beans and bacon over the fire. He’s put his pants back on and has a blanket draped over his bare shoulders.
“Figured we should get something to eat before turning in,” he says, explaining unnecessarily.
Crowley just nods and stands by the fire, letting it dry his naked body before pulling on his underpants.
“I’ll water the animals and see them right for the night,” he says before walking off again.
Aziraphale watches him go, wondering what he did to break the connection they’d had. Crowley seems so distant all of a sudden, unemotional and unaffected. He mulls it over as he cooks their food, growing introspective and maudlin.
He’s just about convinced himself that this was a one time thing, scratching an itch together rather than anything longer lasting, and that this is something he can live with when Crowley drops onto the log beside him.
“Your mare is real sweet,” he says, stretching his legs out to one side. “Must have got it from you.”
Aziraphale’s brain does an abrupt about-turn, struggling to put all these pieces together in a way that makes sense.
“I doubt it, I can be a bit of a bastard at times,” he says, just to say something.
Crowley makes a soft noise of disbelief and nudges Aziraphale’s side with his shoulder, seeking entrance under the blanket. When he kisses Aziraphale’s cheek, stroking the other side of his face with a thumb, Aziraphale knows that he jumped to some very foolish conclusions. He’s going to have to actually talk to Crowley about what this thing is going to be. Soon, probably.
They eat, tucked together under the same blanket, without saying anything. Crowley takes the pot and the plates down to the river to rinse them out and Aziraphale braces himself for the conversation he needs to have.
Once Crowley is beside him again, his arm around Aziraphale’s back, the courage seems to flee. He just wants to sit with Crowley like this forever.
“What do you want out of this life, Aziraphale?” Crowley asks, apparently far more brave than Aziraphale.
“Security,” he answers after a moment, “not to have to worry about where my next meal is coming from. Maybe, one day, a place of my own. Nothing grand, just a few acres I could work. Be nice, I think, to have somewhere that’s really home.”
“I like the sound of that. Never stayed too long in one place before, never had reason to,” Crowley says, not looking at Aziraphale. “Always been a bit like a — a — you know.”
“Like a leaf on the wind?” Aziraphale offers when Crowley’s words fail, remembering how he would watch golden leaves dance during fall when he lived back east.
“Yeah, just like that.”
Aziraphale sits and thinks on that for a minute. There’s so much meaning in what Crowley is saying, but also ambiguity.
“I’ve got a bit saved up now,” he says carefully, “not enough on my own, but getting there.”
Crowley hums and holds him tighter.
“I got a bit saved too. Wasn’t sure what I was savin’ for, but maybe that’s the sorta venture two fellas could go in on together. More hands to work the land.”
Hope burns bright and hot in Aziraphale’s chest.
“Yeah, I reckon so.”
The weight of what they’ve just agreed to feels less like dread and more like a blanket of fresh snow, clear and crisp, covering them with fresh possibilities.
“We should turn in,” Crowley says at last, dropping a kiss on Aziraphale’s shoulder. “Be warmer if we share.”
“What a thing to get coy about, Crowley!” Aziraphale laughs, but he’s too happy to tease much more.
Crowley banks the fire as Aziraphale spreads out their blankets, making up a cosy little bed for two. Who knows when they’ll be able to lie like this again, nose to nose, kissing whenever the need strikes, so they make the most of it. In the morning, they’ll start walking the calf back to the Johnson ranch and the chance of running into other men rounding up dogies will be too high.
They know now that the future looks like a simple farmhouse with a few acres of land, just enough for two to live off, somewhere that they can find some peace and comfort together. A small dream come true.