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Crowley had pictured asking Aziraphale to move in together many times over the centuries. He had talked through in his head how he would persuade the angel, plotting out clever arguments and tempting offers. He had imagined so many aspects of their eventual relationship before they actually got together. But, as ever, when the conversation actually happened, it did not go as Crowley had meticulously planned. It wasn't smooth at all.
They were in the bookshop, Crowley sprawled across the sofa in a position that looked uncomfortable but was not, Aziraphale leaning comfortably against him. Aziraphale was reading some unbearably dense book from the late seventeenth century as Crowley scrolled absently on his phone, just for something to do with his hands. Pinterest was one of the demonic time wasters he was most proud of. The silence embraced them like a warm blanket, in the cozy afternoon sun.
He stopped on a picture of a little cottage in the countryside. Without thinking, Crowley blurted, “Our place should be one like this, don’ cha think? When we move in together.” He waved the phone in Aziraphale’s face.
Aziraphale froze and stiffened in surprise, dropping his book. In a snap Crowley’s brain caught up with his arrent mouth. Oh shit. Shitshitshitshit he’d said that out loud. Aziraphale needed time to adapt to change, to work up to it. He took comfort in routine and predictability. And Crowley had just dropped the idea equivalent of a bomb into their peaceful afternoon. He hadn’t even asked . He’d said “when”.
Crowley’s internal beratement of himself spiraled. He had to fix this; he couldn’t damage his relationship with Aziraphale now that he actually had it. He’d promised himself he’d go at Aziraphale’s pace, “not too fast”. He’d tried so hard. But in one moment, when he wasn’t bothering to filter his words, he’d gone from zero to sixty in a single sentence.
Before giving Aziraphale time to respond, to reject him, Crowley backpedaled hard, anxiety clear in his voice. Backpedaled too hard. “That’s not- I didn’t. It’s not like you’d be interested in that idea.”
“Crowley-”
“I wouldn’t want to either, would drive each other crazy. Too many books. Forget I–”
“Crowley-”
“--said anything. Bloody stupid idea. Serpent of Eden, more like idiot of Eden, right?”
“CROWLEY!” Aziraphale twisted and wrapped both arms around him, applying firm pressure to help ground him from his ever-deepening panic and self-depreciation. “Deep breaths love. We talked about not assuming rejection before it comes, remember.”
“You froze,” Crowley muttered, eyes darting about the room, looking at anything besides Aziraphale.
“I did. I admit I was… startled, and I need time to process the idea. But–” he said firmly “That does not mean that I am upset with you. And I certainly don’t want you to talk badly about yourself.” He squeezed him, willing the sensations to pull Crowley back into the present with him. “You didn’t do anything wrong, my dear.”
“Whatever,” Crowley mumbled, curling into Aziraphale and burying his face into his shoulder, blocking out the world. Aziraphale’s scent was familiar and soothing. His presence was solid, dependable in a world full of unknowns.
As if reading his mind, Aziraphale murmured gently “I’m not going anywhere, dear. Whatever you do or say, I’ll be right here. Our side now, remember?”
The panic faded, the calm of the afternoon in the bookshop engulfing them once more.
“Dinner?” Crowley suggested, bringing them back to the safety of their routines. “My treat.”
Aziraphale beamed. “That sounds lovely. But let’s order in tonight. I don’t think either of us feels like dealing with other people right now.”
Crowley kissed his forehead. “Good idea, angel.”
*** (scene break)
It had been a couple of months since Crowley had accidentally broached the subject of living together, and once Aziraphale had managed to calm him down, things had pretty much returned to normal. Crowley was happy to give him all the time he needed to process the idea, and didn’t really expect to hear about it again for another decade or so.
Aziraphale had a tendency to get a bit… single minded when he had something important to consider. Research could become all consuming, as it had before the apacopwasn’t. Reading of Agnus Nutter’s prophecies, he had forgotten to pay attention to anything else. Crowley had seen this happen many times over the centuries, including a five-year period where Aziraphale had been so absorbed in reading in the library of Alexandria that people thought he was a statue.
Given the nature of this research, he probably should have thought to let Crowley know first. Distantly, he wished the ringing of the phone would stop as he squinted at his computer screen. The sound made it really hard to concentrate and it was getting on his nerves. This old computer shouldn’t be capable of internet connection, of course, but he expected it to, so it did. With a wave, he miracled the pesky phone and its ringing away without thinking about the consequences.
Luckily the phone had the good sense to teleport to the caller. Crowley looked at the old-fashioned phone now lying on his floor and sighed affectionately. Nothing to worry about then, Aziraphale was just too deep in some project to keep track of time, or to remember to give Crowley a heads up.
He’d better head over, warm up the angel’s tea, dust him off, that sort of thing.
When he arrived at the bookshop a quick drive later, Crowley was surprised to discover Aziraphale’s latest project. Surrounding the angel were stacks of books about homeownership, architecture, real estate, and the like. A journal lay open beside his hand, indecipherable notes scrawled on the pages. Despite the lack of a printer in the bookshop, copies of webpages littered the floor. There were checklists, and spreadsheets. Aziraphale was nothing if not thorough when he had the time to properly consider a choice. Before opening the bookshop he must have looked at the blueprints of every building in all of London.
Crowley’s eyes flicked between the stacks of books and paper, trying to make sense of the jumble. Houses. It was all about houses. Oh.
“Angel,” he breathed. Aziraphale took no notice, lost in his thought process. Crowley swallowed hard. He knew there was no rushing this process. Not unless he wanted to risk delaying the angel’s choice by several years, whether from spite or getting stuck. He settled into the sofa to wait.
When Aziraphale’s mind emerged from the process a couple days later, he felt fuzzy and disconnected. He switched off the computer and stared blearily into nothingness. Thoughts were slow and foggy, an after effect of so much cogitation. He felt a hand gently squeeze his shoulder.
“Angel?”
“Mphehhh?”
“Nonverbal?”
“Mmmm” he nodded.
“That’s fine. Let’s get you out of here and reset.”
The hands gently guided him into the dark bedroom and wrapped him in heavy blankets. Aziraphale closed his eyes, leaning into the grounding touch, and let his brain sort out all the new information he’d dumped into it. He matched his breathing with the soothing presence holding him on the bed and drifted through fluffy nonthinking.
Slowly, words came back. “Crowley?”
“That’s right. Anything I can get you?”
“Nnnn,” He shook his head, struggling. “Stay.”
“Of course, angel.” A kiss pressed to his forehead.
Slowly, the world drifted back into place, and with it, thought returned out of emptiness. “What day is it?”
“Been about two weeks since our date to the theatre.”
His muscles stiffened at Crowley’s reply. “Oh dear, you must have been worried.”
“Mmm. I was, until your phone turned up in my flat, and I realized you were just... ” Crowley waved his hands at nothing, hunting for words. “Thinkin’ hard about something, or lost in a book.”
“Well thank you, for coming to keep me company while I was occupied.”
Crowley’s arms around his middle squeezed tighter. “Always.”
“Do you–” Aziraphale’s breath hitched, hesitating, anxiety rushing to the surface again “Do you want to know what I, erm.”
“Only when you’re ready, angel.”
*** (scene break)
After a bath, and a simple (not too sensory) meal Aziraphale felt more collected, more himself. Returning to the backroom of the bookshop, he squinted at the couch. “Crowley, what is that?”
“Hdk. That’s, eh.”
Several of Aziraphale’s discarded “printouts” had been taken and folded into origami and paper airplanes.
“Needed something to do.” Crowley mumbled. “Couldn’t stand just sitting there.”
“My dear, the shop is filled with books. You know you could have read any of them you liked.”
“Nah.” Crowley shook his head. “They’re too long.”
It was nearly impossible to focus, to get through those big blocks of text without having his mind wander and needing to restart each paragraph four or five times. It was frustrating, and he really didn’t see how Aziraphale could get so lost in it without needing to get up and move , pace, do anything.
But Crowley didn’t know how to put all that into words, so Aziraphale merely frowned and moved on, rather than repeat a centuries old squabble.
“Well, they’re very nice dear,” Aziraphale said, picking up an intricate paper star. “Perhaps you can make some to decorate our house.”
Crowley nearly swallowed his tongue. “Ngk. Our whahh?”
“Oh,” Aziraphale looked at him sheepishly. “Oh dear, and now I’ve gone and done the same thing, didn’t I? Dropped it on you indelicately.”
“You. We. House?!”
Aziraphale walked over and stroked his hair soothingly. “Yes. If you’re amenable.”
“Amenable.” Crowley laughed despite himself. “House….”
“Quite so my dear.” Aziraphale smiled fondly. “I found a few with open houses later this week if you’d like to join me. We can look at some and discuss what we’d like.”
The “ we” struck Crowley in the chest and made his legs wobble like jelly. “Yeah. Yeah, soun’s good,” he mumbled.
“Alright dear, let’s sit down now.” It was Aziraphale’s turn to gently guide an overwhelmed sputtering Crowley to safety, where they could relax and process.
*** scene break
Open houses were crowded and overwhelming, it turned out. Both Aziraphale and Crowley quickly found that it suited them far more to miraculously find the houses empty when they wanted to visit. It wasn’t actually doing anyone any harm after all, as Crowley kept insisting. They also decided they’d rather do without a realtor.
Finding a place that was just right for both of them was a challenge. Crowley needed a garden, of course, and somewhere with open spaces so that he didn’t feel trapped. There needed to be new things to experience, but not too much so as to overwhelm. Aziraphale on the other hand needed somewhere which felt snug and cozy, full of love and familiarity. Somewhere he could build a routine.
About halfway through Aziraphale’s list of potential options, they came upon a cottage on the South Downs. It had a lovely view overlooking a cliff-side and the ocean, wide and open. Surrounding the house was a large plot of land, currently empty. Tasting the air with his tongue as they approached the front-drive, Crowley hummed to himself. Little was growing there now but he could smell the rich soil ripe with possibilities. Aziraphale patted his arm, smiling to himself. The building itself was old, which was comforting. The place had personality. It wasn’t austere and blank like the newer, minimalist homes they had toured had been. It was nothing like heaven and its emptiness, and yet with the bright sunlight and rich warm wood, it was also nothing like the gloomy crowdedness of hell. This was a place which had withstood the test of time, just like themselves. Perhaps they could both build a space here, and find a sense of belonging.
“Shall we go in, my dear?” Aziraphale asked, absentmindedly linking their arms together.
Crowley’s eyes were darting around behind his sunglasses, trying to take it all in. “Sssure” he hissed, too distracted by all there was to see to control his snake tongue and its sibilants.
Like the exterior, the inside of the cottage was full of warm tones and wood. Aziraphale smiled approvingly around. “The bookshelves would match these floors nicely, don’t you think?”
“What, already planning to move the whole bookshop in here?” Crowley teased.
“You have been saying I should turn my collection into a private library practically since the shop opened.”
“Course, you don’t want to sell any of it.”
“But that’s all part of the fun!”
“Fun,” Crowley mimicked, rolling his eyes dramatically. Returning to the previous topic with little indication, “Yeah, the shelves from the bookshop would look good here.”
They explored the other rooms and liked what they found. Crowley was particularly impressed with the bedroom’s blackout curtains and heated floors. He could just see himself curled up as a snake, hibernating away the cold British winter snugly.
The kitchen also made his heart flutter, as the idea of cooking for Aziraphale first occurred to him. The angel loved food but had particular likes and dislikes when it came to texture and flavor. Learning to cook for him could be an expression of love, for when words failed Crowley.
He'd have to study before they moved in together, of course. The precision and focus needed for baking would be a challenge, but Crowley was fairly sure he could manage the kind of cooking that involved throwing a bunch of things in a pot and seeing what happened. It was a bit like making stars in a sense.
Aziraphale beamed, seeing Crowley’s genuine interest as they discussed the cottage and interior design. It would be good for him to have a creative outlet like this. He hadn’t seen the demon this engrossed in a project since the M25.
After they finished touring the house, they went to take a closer look at the neighborhood nearby.
There was a little town with all the modern conveniences nearby, but not too close.
Driving back to London in the Bentley, Crowley drummed his fingers on the steering wheel. “Whatcha think? That was a good option, but we can keep going down your list if you want, for completeness’ sake.”
Aziraphale hummed, thinking about it. He did like to be thorough and leaving things half-finished made him anxious. Still, the cottage had called to part of him, and losing it to another buyer while they continued looking would be a crushing disappointment. It felt like home already. The conflict, between the impulsive part of himself and the part that wanted to make sure things were done properly, was exhausting.
“Let me think about that.”
“Take as long as you need, angel.” Crowley smiled indulgently, before speeding around a corner in the road as Aziraphale yelped and cursed at him.
*** Scene break
It was two weeks before their move-in day, and Aziraphale was slowly, meticulously packing up the shop.
In some ways, it was the easiest decision Aziraphale had ever made. He loved Crowley, and he loved that dear little cottage they had toured already. He could picture where everything might go, and how they could create a home there together.
It was, equally, the hardest decision. Moving in together with Crowley was a big step in their futures together, an important step. He hated the idea of somehow getting it wrong, of messing it up with unforeseen consequences of some small oversight. And that led to second guessing, and overthinking, and repeating the same arguments in his mind in a constant loop. What if he got it wrong, and that messed everything up?
But in the end, with Crowley’s steady support backing him up, they agreed to purchase the house.
Moving his stuff out of the bookshop was bittersweet. It had been a safe haven, a weighted security blanket of sorts. While he wasn’t selling the shop yet, leaving it was still a big change, and even good changes were hard sometimes. There were so many memories here, he had to keep reminding himself that he wasn’t losing them.
Packing up his things by hand helped. The repeated physical processes, the comforting touch of old leather covers against his hands, was grounding. It reminded him that he had the power to organize the chaos, put everything in its place. He had power now, over his life and his future, and with that free will he was finally allowed to choose Crowley, with his whole heart.
He taped the box in front of him shut, and in neat clear handwriting labeled its contents. With a smile, he wondered how his darling demon was getting on.
*** scene break
It was two days before their move in date, and Crowley’s flat was utter chaos. He stared around with wide yellow eyes. Several boxes lay on the floor in front of him, some half full, some so full they couldn’t be closed, with no rhyme or reason to their contents. There was still so much stuff, and he had no clue where to put it. He had designed stars for somebody’s sake, how could he be so bad at spatial reasoning?
Crowley felt panicked and overwhelmed. He couldn’t just pull everything out and start over, that would take ages. Why hadn’t he started packing when Aziraphale had? He’d wanted to but had felt stuck in a sort of limbo until the moving date loomed in front of him.
The plants watched in bemused concern as Crowley dashed from the current room with no visible cause, some thought flying though his head as two neurons suddenly connected. Carefully, he pulled down a box tied with a silver ribbon from a top closet shelf. This box he laid gently among the others, taking the utmost care with it.
“I’d never forgive myself if I lost you,” he said to the box.
Another thought connected, and he sprinted across the flat, returning with an armload of junk to dump into one of the partially filled boxes. Crowley collected significantly less stuff than Aziraphale, but with various projects started and abandoned halfway through, and with the way he kept getting distracted to go pack something else up, he already had the same number of packed boxes as the angel. His flat looked like it had been recently ransacked by an easily distractible tornado. Outside the window, the sun began to rise.
*** scene break
The Bentley pulled up in front of the cottage filled with more boxes and plants than the space should allow for. Crowley leaned against the car, looking at their new home. Aziraphale came round the front and took his hand. A wordless squeeze brought Crowley back to the moment, and he smiled down at Aziraphale. “Best to get unpacking, eh angel?”
“When you’re ready.”
Soon, the boxes were out of the car and into the front hall of the cottage. With that job done, Crowley stood in the middle of them, paralyzed by how much needed to be done, and not knowing where to start. Aziraphale had bustled off with a stack of boxes and purpose. Shakily, Crowley opened one box, then shut it again. He turned to another box and repeated the process but found no answers within it. He covered his eyes with his hands and took a deep breath, feeling overwhelmed.
So overwhelmed, in fact, that he didn’t realize Aziraphale had returned until he heard, “Is touch ok right now?”
“Yeah, yeah ‘s fine,” he muttered, letting his arms drop to his sides but keeping his eyes closed. Crowley felt strong arms wrap around his waist.
“Too much?” Crowley nodded. “The bed isn’t made yet, but you could go lie down in the dark if that’d help while I start unpacking.”
Crowley shook his head “No! I wanna help, I need to do something. I just. I don’t know how. There’s too much.”
Aziraphale considered this. “Would it help if you had a job to do? Something concrete to focus on?”
“Yes please,” Crowley muttered into his embrace, intentionally letting himself be vulnerable, rather than tensing up after the long drive from London.
Aziraphale hummed, thinking, while soothingly Crowley’s hair. “Something straightforward with no decisions. I labeled my boxes by room. Can you take them each where they belong? Except for the ones with books, I want to organize them myself.”
Slowly, Crowley nodded, and Aziraphale let him go with another reassuring protective squeeze.
“If you get stuck, just call me and I’ll be right with you, okay?”
“Okay,” Crowley said, still looking a bit overwhelmed and detached.
“Repeat what you’ll do if you feel stuck, dear.”
“Hmmm?” Crowley blinked and focused on him. “Call you.”
“Good,” Aziraphale said, before bustling on.
By nightfall, they had made a good start. There were still packed-up boxes in every room, but the essentials were where they needed to be, and the space was livable. Crowley found Aziraphale and gently touched his shoulder. “You should take a break, angel.”
Aziraphale blinked up from the stack of books he knelt in front of. “Dear?”
“It’s been a long day, and we don’t want to get too burned out. Come relax with me.”
Aziraphale frowned at the unfinished job in front of him, but he knew Crowley was right, and was just looking out for him the same way he had looked out for Crowley earlier. Still, he let out a slightly annoyed huff before joining Crowley for a hot bath and some sleep.
*** scene break.
Over the next couple of few months, boxes were emptied and everything found its rightful place.
Aziraphale picked up the last of the boxes. It wasn’t one of his. Aziraphale sighed fondly, wondering what bizarre mix of items he’d find stashed in here.
“Crowley, dear” He called up the stairs. Unpacking the last box of the move seemed like something they ought to do together.
“Angel?” Crowley emerged splattered in paint from his latest project, a mural of the stars he was painting on their bedroom ceiling.
Aziraphale lifted the small box to show Crowley. “This is the last one. I thought we ought to unpack it together.”
Crowley recognized the box as the one from his closet he’d been so careful handling and blushed slightly. “Er, right. That box.”
“Oh?” Aziraphale smiled mischievously, bastard. “Is there something I’m not supposed to know about in here?”
Crowley scratched the back of his neck. He didn’t wear his sunglasses in their home, but right now he wished he had their protective barrier. Aziraphale wouldn’t open the box without his permission, but he certainly would tease him about it.
“Nah it’s fine. Don’t really know where to put them though.” He walked over to Aziraphale and took the box from his hands.
Aziraphale peered in as Crowley removed the lid, and gasped. He recognized his own handwriting, letters he’d written to Crowley over the centuries, all stored neatly with the utmost care. “ Oh, my darling.”
“Shattup,” Crowley grumbled, going even redder. “Just had to take good care of ‘em, that’s all. You’d never let me hear the end of it if I let words get damaged or whatever.”
Aziraphale shook his head knowingly. “Of course dear, you kept every letter I sent you over 6,000 years so that I wouldn’t nag you about it.”
Crowley pretended to glare. “And now you’re being sarcastic about it.”
Aziraphale kissed his forehead. “I’ve got something to show you.” He led Crowley into the library and opened a drawer of the filing cabinet.
Inside, Crowley saw his own handwriting. “You kept them all too?”
“Of course I did.”
“That’s awfully soppy of you,” Crowley teased, grinning and wiping the mist from his eyes.
“It is, rather. Soppy of you too, then”
*** scene break
One Year Later
Aziraphale was curled up on the couch in front of the fireplace, snuggling into Crowley’s arms as the two of them lay under a weighted blanket. Aziraphale was rereading an old favorite, while Crowley knitted for something to do with his hands.
The easy silence was broken by a timer beeping in the kitchen. Crowley set aside his project and kissed Aziraphale’s cheek. “Dinner, angel?”
“Mmm,” Aziraphale smiled, “Alright, as long as it’s not too far from here.’
“I know this charming little place I know you’ll love. It’s called home,” Crowley said, getting up to get the table ready.
“Mmm. I’ve heard they have the best cooking in town,” Aziraphale replied, following him.