aziraphale first becomes aware of it when he says to crowley, here, look at this, and crowley not only looks up from the sofa, but slinks all the way across to the desk and perches himself on the edge. he does it in that quick, snapping way he has of moving, and he curls his hand around that edge like he’s staking a claim, planting a flag: mine.
there are lots of little places in the shop that crowley has planted flags. a fern next to the register; an armchair by the windows that’s angled perfectly to catch the midafternoon sun; a space heater by the sofa; a collection of albums by the gramophone that filter bass guitars and drums and overexcited vocals into the evening’s quiet. there are two wine glasses on the table; there is a box of pg tips next to aziraphale’s earl grey in the cabinet. crowley’s presence in the shop is heavy and obvious, and the more aziraphale notices it, the more there seems to be to notice.
at first, he thinks that crowley is simply spreading himself out, making himself comfortable, and aziraphale lets him. more than lets him: encourages him.
but then aziraphale begins to realize that there’s a method in crowley’s madness, and that this slow takeover has direction. having started in the outskirts of the shop, it’s making its way in. it’s tightening - no, coiling - around something in the centre. waiting for its chance to strike and claim whatever it is crowley’s after.
the desk’s been claimed. shortly after that, it’s the desk chair - crowley slings himself down into it and props up his feet, leaving an inch of space between his heels and the desktop just to appease aziraphale’s suddenly stern look. he starts rifling through the books on the little table next to aziraphale’s armchair, asking about this and that, tossing one or two aside and replacing them with his own recommendations, which he claims, somewhat unconvincingly, to have gotten from oprah’s book club.
“you could just make your own stack of books,” aziraphale says to him one night, awfully prim, when he finds that crowley has shelved his copy of paradise lost in favour of victorian fairy tales - crowley always did like stories about myth and magic, as if he were looking for himself in them - “instead of mussing up mine.”
“not as fun,” crowley grins back. he slinks around to lean over the back of aziraphale’s chair and snap a finger against the book in aziraphale’s hand. mine, aziraphale thinks for him. “besides, you’ve got terrible taste in books. do you good to read something a little less serious once in a while.”
“everything’s serious,” aziraphale answers, “or nothing is,” and he tilts his head back to look up at crowley.
they both breath in. the moment stops.
crowley’s right there, still leaning half over the back of aziraphale’s chair, looking back at him. his eyes are bright in the half-light of the evening, and they meet aziraphale’s without blinking, without flinching away. it’s me, aziraphale thinks suddenly. i’m what he’s circling. i’m what he’s waiting for.
it should, perhaps, feel like being prey, but it doesn’t. crowley’s eyes are hungry, but not with starvation. with want, maybe. with desire, even, and something that looks like a little like resignation turned to hope: a spark being fanned into a flame.
he looks at aziraphale with love.
aziraphale’s reaching before he even realises it, reaching back over his shoulder for one of crowley’s hands without breaking their gaze. can crowley see the answer in his own eyes? does crowley see the wish, the acceptance, the need? the hope, so newly born into flight - the love, so ancient and deep its roots: does crowley see it in aziraphale the way aziraphale sees it in him?
he takes crowley’s hand, and places it slowly, carefully, over his own heart: not a claiming, but a giving.
“you can muss with my books,” aziraphale tells him. “and move my furniture. you can bring all the plants in london into this shop. you can move my chairs, and sit on my desk, play your bebop, drink your terrible tea. you can stay, crowley. i want you to stay.”
crowley’s hand spasms against aziraphale’s chest. “angel,” he says, half-choked and uncertain.
“you don’t have to claim it,” aziraphale goes on, and he covers crowley’s hand with his own. “it’s already yours, crowley. i’m yours.”
“aziraphale,” crowley says, gasping, and it’s like unclicking a lock and letting a door swing open. his hand grasps a handful of aziraphale’s shirt, and he’s leaning down - still over the back of the chair, at an angle so awkward he must be half off his feet to be crossing the distance - but it doesn’t matter because aziraphale is reaching up, reaching for him, hands and cheeks and breath and it takes forever, it seems, to cross the distance of six thousand years, and only half an instant to cross the distance of six inches.
crowley’s mouth is soft with surprise, and he tastes desert-hot and salt-warm, and he makes a noise in the back of his throat that sounds like please and sounds like what else would i be, an aardvark, sounds like oh, all right, that one’s on me and like what’s for lunch, sounds like stopping you from getting into trouble and like let me give you a lift, anywhere you want to go and we’d be godfathers, sort of, and you can stay at my place, if you like. it sounds like mine, and it sounds like yours. aziraphale chases after it, and crowley lets him, invites him, gives him his depths and his hands and his mouth and his heart.
when they part, there’s a sound like crowley’s two feet finding the floor behind the chair again, and aziraphale breaks into giggles as crowley blushes.
“i love you,” crowley says loudly, to shut him up. it works, rather splendidly, and aziraphale doesn’t even mind. “even if you do fuss at me about your books.”
aziraphale laughs again, and tugs him out from behind the chair - finally - and into his lap, a haphazard mess of limbs that don’t really fit until there’s a snap, and suddenly the space is much larger. “i’ll love you whether you fuss with them or don’t,” he promises. “though do stay out of them, dear boy, it’s such an inconvenience when i can’t find the text i’m looking for–”
“don’t ruin the moment by bringing up bloody milton again–”
aziraphale doesn’t. instead he kisses crowley again, deeper and slower, and finds something else entirely for them each to lay claim to.
