A Nightingale Sang In Berkeley Square - A Good Omens Fanfiction (One Shot)
Notes: This short story is inspired by what I saw lately on instagram and other social media related to Good Omens' season 3 and its BTS, particularly, my creative flair was stimulated by the page @tennantism on instagram (love that page with both my body and soul I swear-)
In this one shot, Crowley's still dealing with the sense of emptiness that seems to be haunting him ever since Aziraphale left him for Heaven.
While he tries to handle his contrasting feelings, something unexpected happens.
Someone, a familiar face enters the bookshop, and meets his gaze.
And perhaps, this time a nightingale might be singing in Berkley Square.
—————————————————————————————————————
Crowley doesn’t count the days. He doesn’t need to. Time moves differently when you’re immortal, but absence has a way of carving each second into your bones. So much time had passed… So much time had passed that even the library went through the effects of the cruel, incessant passage of time.
He didn't even notice the gray at first. The first strand, then the second. He only did when he caught his reflection in a shop window—tilting his sunglasses down just enough to see—that he realized. His hair had gone gray. Not all of it, not yet. Just a few strands threading through the red like silver filigree.
It made him laugh—sharp, bitter. Angels go up, demons go down, and time wears on.
The ineffable plan, the ineffable joke. London feels different. It had always felt odd, ever since the angel had left; too bright without Aziraphale’s quiet glow beside him, too loud in the wrong ways and too silent in all the places that used to hum with laughter and soft conversation.
He doesn’t go back to the bookshop. Not at first. His heart felt too heavy to do so. He felt like he would have bursted into tears if he were to just touch that golden door knob. He never got used to that void. He knew what it felt like being rejected- when you pass from being God's favorite angel to just one of the demons of hell, it isn't exactly the loveliest experience-. But Aziraphale? His angel, abandoning him? The mere thought of being separated from him sounded like a foreign, completely unknown concept to him. After all, they were inseparable, they had known each other for so long, they assisted to thousands of empires rise and fall, together. From the age of time. They were colleagues, partners in crime, the bestest of friends, even almost lovers!- Or at least, that's what Crowley initially thought. He deluded himself. How foolish of him, thinking an angel would really reciprocate a demon's deep feelings.
Had he really become a love-sick fool for an angel's sake?
The mere memory of that moment, on that damned day... The desperate attempt to keep him with him, in his bookshop, caused further wounds to his heart, if he ever still had one. A cruel entity continually stabbed him whenever the demon's thoughts drifted to the, now archangel, who hurt him so deeply.
One night, the weight of empty space was too much to bear, he found himself standing in front of the familiar door, hands in his pockets.
The bell doesn’t chime. The shop is cold, still, untouched since Aziraphale left. Dust settles where once there was movement, books resting in their places like they’re waiting. Waiting for his return.
He exhales, slowly. He then walks through the aisles. Stops where Aziraphale used to stand, where he used to fuss and sigh and beam in that infuriatingly angelic way. Crowley can almost hear him.
"Ow, there's always such a mess in here! With the room full of clutter, we certainly can't enjoy a proper cup of tea!- Well, I won't be able to enjoy my tea, and so do you with your glass of whiskey, Crowley."
Aziraphale’s voice, not a memory, but something softer. Something that lingers. Crowley closed his eyes. He can see him there, hands clasped together, the way he always looked at the world like it was something worth saving. Worth loving. And maybe it still is. He doesn’t know when the anger faded. It was sharp at first, unbearable. He hated Heaven, hated the choice, hated Aziraphale for making it. But hatred is a heavy thing to carry for someone you love. And oh, how he loves him.
"Hello ange-..." Crowley murmurs to the empty shop. To the space Aziraphale left behind. To the universe that refuses to stop spinning even when it should. There’s peace in the quiet. Not acceptance, not yet. But something close, perhaps bairganing.
Crowley lingers in the bookshop, though he doesn’t know why. Maybe because it still smells faintly of old paper, of dust and vanilla and something warm he can’t quite name. Maybe because this is the only place that still feels like home.
He drops onto the old armchair Aziraphale loved, the one he used to complain was too worn but never actually replaced. The cushions are stiff with disuse. They always used to be soft and warm, Aziraphale used to spend entire afternoons sitting on that armchair, while devouring tons of books. He leans back anyway, tipping his head against the high back, sunglasses slipping down his nose. His eyes sting, but he doesn’t let himself think about why.
London keeps moving with its typical, frenetic rythm. The world keeps spinning. People go about their days, laughing, arguing, falling in love. They don’t notice that something is missing, that a bookshop stands too still, too silent, waiting for an angel who won’t return.
The anger isn’t as sharp anymore. He thought it would be, that it would dig in and root itself in his chest like a thorned vine. But anger is exhausting. It keeps you tethered to the past, and Aziraphale is somewhere in the future now. Somewhere above, looking down. Why would he cling desperately to the past if Aziraphale had already moved on?
Crowley doesn’t pray—he’s never been the type. Of course he doesn't, he's a demon after all. But if he were, maybe he’d say something now. Maybe he’d whisper, Come back, angel, into the hush of the shop. Maybe he’d beg. Perhaps he would get down on his knees and miserably beg the Lord to give him his angel back, that he would do anything to repair that awful crack between. He even would have given his damned soul away if it meant seeing his angel again, and wage with him that little precious existence that Crowley himself carved out for both of them.
After all, no one up there listened to him.
If anyone had ever done that, maybe they would have felt even the tiniest, little twinge of sympathy towards a demon whom every night, after drinking down at least three bottles of whisky, would cry his shattered heart out.
Then suddenly, a sound. The doorbell chimes.
Soft, familiar, utterly impossible. He grew accustomed to not hearing that ringing bell anymore.
Crowley jerks upright in the armchair, breath caught in his throat. No one comes here anymore. Not since Aziraphale—No. No, he won’t finish that thought. He won’t. He turns his head slowly, almost afraid to look. The door creaks as it closes, and there, standing in the dim light of the bookshop, is—
He's wearing a gray suit, like the one Gabriel used to wear before running away with Beelzebub. Deep in his heart, Crowley felt envious of them. It was a shade darker than the soft creams and beiges he used to wear. His face is the same, still round and gentle, but there’s something in his eyes—something heavy. Tiredness? Sadness? Or perhaps, regret?
Unfurled, just slightly, trembling at his back. But they were still white. Purely white, just like how he remembered them.
The silence stretches between them, thick and unyielding. They stare at each other, unmoving, as if any sudden motion might break whatever fragile thing this moment is. Crowley doesn’t know how long it lasts before his body catches up with his mind. And when it does— It all explodes.
His chair scrapes against the floor as he stands so fast he nearly knocks it over.
“You—” His voice cracks. He swallows, clenches his fists, tries again. “You have got to be joking.”
Aziraphale flinches, just barely.
And that makes it worse. That makes Crowley snap.
“Are you kidding me?” His voice rises, shaking. “You come back now? Just waltz in like—like nothing happened? Like you didn’t just—” He chokes on the words, on the memories, on the hurt. “You left, Aziraphale! You left!”
Aziraphale opens his mouth, trying to justify himself and his actions, but Crowley doesn’t let him speak. He can’t.
“You chose them over me!” His voice is raw now, breaking apart. He steps forward, jabbing a finger toward Aziraphale’s chest. “You chose Heaven. You chose the place that’s been trying to control you since the beginning of time. And for what? For a bloody title?” Crowley starts to mock him. "Oh, come with me Crowley, to Heaven! We can be angels, doing good!- My bloody fuck!" Crowley snapped.
“No!” Crowley’s hands shake as he pushes them through his hair, pacing now, his coat whipping behind him. “You don’t get to ‘Crowley, please’ me, angel. Not this time. You don’t get to—” He laughs, sharp and humorless, eyes wild behind his sunglasses. “You don’t get to break my heart and then come back like it’s fine.”
Aziraphale takes a breath, and Crowley hates that he recognizes the way his lips tremble, the way his hands shake at his sides. He always hated to see his lips tremble, as if the very thought of him being scared shattered his heart in thousands of pieces.
“I—” Aziraphale starts, but his voice wavers. He swallows. Tries again. “I know.”
He blinks, breath heavy, fists still clenched at his sides. “What?”
“I know,” Aziraphale repeats, voice so quiet it barely reaches. “I know I hurt you.”
Crowley scoffs, sharp and bitter. “Oh, you know? Well, that makes everything better, doesn’t it?”
But Aziraphale doesn’t rise to it. Doesn’t fight back. He just looks at him, steady, unreadable, those wings still trembling at his back.
Crowley breathes hard through his nose, heat still thrumming beneath his skin, but the silence that follows is thick and awful and real.
But it doesn’t change the fact that he left.
Crowley’s voice drops, low and wrecked.
“Why are you here, Aziraphale?”
Aziraphale looks at him, hands twisting together in front of his stomach like he doesn’t know what to do with them. Crowley recognizes that nervous habit, the way Aziraphale fidgets when he’s trying to find the right words.
But there aren’t any right words for this.
“Crowley,” Aziraphale finally says, soft and pleading. “I—”
Crowley shakes his head, sharp and immediate. “No.”
His voice is hoarse from all the shouting, from all the words he’s let spill out like blood from open wounds. He turns away, pressing his hands into his face, then drags them down, exhaling a shaking breath. His whole body is trembling, like if he doesn’t keep moving, he’ll collapse. He feels dizzy, still, he tries to maintain control.
“I don’t want to hear it,” Crowley mutters. “I don’t want to hear whatever excuse you came up with after all this time.”
Aziraphale takes a hesitant step forward.
“It’s not an excuse.” His voice is gentle, like he’s speaking to something fragile, something breakable. Crowley hates it. Hates that Aziraphale thinks he needs to be handled delicately when it’s Aziraphale who shattered everything between them.
Crowley turns back, eyes burning behind his sunglasses. “Then what is it?” he spits. “You chose them, Aziraphale! You chose Heaven over me—over us!” His voice cracks at the last word, and he hates it, hates how much of himself he’s giving away.
Aziraphale flinches like he’s been struck.
“I thought—” Aziraphale swallows, eyes glistening. “I thought I could fix it, Crowley. From the inside. I thought—” His hands tighten into fists, frustration warring with regret on his face. “I thought if I had the authority, I could change things. I could make the system better.”
Crowley barks out a sharp, bitter laugh. “Right. Because that’s worked so well for every other angel that’s tried, hasn’t it?”
Aziraphale looks down, lips pressing together.
Crowley exhales hard through his nose. He feels like he’s burning from the inside out, every emotion roaring through him all at once. The anger, the betrayal, the sadness, the goddamn relief of seeing Aziraphale standing there. He hated how much he loved to see his once angel back, safe and sound.
“I couldn’t stay,” Aziraphale murmurs. “Not when they gave me the chance to—”
“To what?” Crowley interrupts, stepping forward until there’s barely space between them. “To be their puppet? To be their good little angel again?”
Aziraphale looks up at him then, eyes wide, stricken. “To try, Crowley.” His voice cracks. “To try to make it better.”
Crowley lets out a shaking breath. “And did you?”
Crowley stares at him, his throat tight, the silence stretching between them. He already knows the answer.
Aziraphale didn’t make it better. He couldn’t. Because Heaven isn’t a place that changes. It’s a place that takes. And now, standing here, stripped down, with his new gray suit and his trembling wings— Aziraphale looks like he knows that now.
Crowley presses his lips together, trying to swallow the ache in his chest.
“You still chose them over me,” he whispers.
Aziraphale’s breath hitches. “Crowley—”
Crowley steps back, shaking his head. He runs a hand through his crimson red hair, letting out a broken laugh. “I waited, you know.”
Aziraphale’s face crumples. “I know.”
“I waited for you,” Crowley continues, voice thick. “And every day you didn’t come back, I had to live with it. Had to live with knowing that you picked them.” His voice shakes, anger and grief and exhaustion twisting together until he can’t tell them apart.
“I thought I was doing the right thing,” Aziraphale whispers.
Crowley squeezes his eyes shut behind his sunglasses, pressing his fingers to the bridge of his nose. He exhales hard.
Then, so quiet it barely carries between them—
“Why are you here, angel?”
Aziraphale doesn’t answer right away. He just looks at him, his lips parted, something wrecked in his expression.
Then, his voice barely more than a breath—
"Because..." Aziraphale exhales "You were right, Crowley."
The moment Aziraphale says it—I was wrong—something inside Crowley breaks.
For so long, he’s held onto the anger, the betrayal, the unbearable ache of losing Aziraphale to something he couldn’t fight. He’s carried it in his chest like a storm that never passed, a wound that never healed. But now, hearing those words—seeing the way Aziraphale’s face crumples, the way his hands tremble—
The first tear slips down Crowley’s cheek before he even realizes he’s crying. He stiffens, sucks in a sharp breath, and presses the heel of his hand against his eyes, but it’s no use. The dam has broken.
“Dammit,” he chokes out, his voice wrecked.
Aziraphale steps forward, and for once, Crowley doesn’t move away. He longed for this, he craved this so much. He dreamed of this moment for so long, that now it doesn't even seem real. He wanted someone to pinch his cheek, to check if he was just sleeping after one of his drunk ramblings, all alone, by himself. That dream was more than just a dream. It was a wish that his heart made, he just wasn't asleep at all.
“I was wrong,” Aziraphale repeats, voice thick and shaking. “I was so wrong, Crowley.”
Crowley lets out a broken sound, half a laugh, half a sob. “Yeah,” he breathes. “Yeah, you were. Idiot.”
Aziraphale lifts a hand as if he wants to reach for him but hesitates. His breath is uneven, his own tears spilling over his angelic features now.
“I thought—” He stops, swallowing hard. “I thought if I just…if I tried hard enough, if I believed in it, I could fix things. That Heaven could be good.” His voice cracks. “But it’s not. It never was. And I—” His face twists with regret, and his hands clutch at the fabric over his chest like he’s trying to hold himself together. “I left you.”
Crowley exhales shakily, tilting his head back like it might stop the tears, but it doesn’t. They keep falling, silent and relentless. He bites his lip, shoulders trembling.
Aziraphale makes a small, broken sound, his own tears falling freely now. “I never meant to—”
“But you did,” Crowley interrupts, voice hoarse. “You did.” His hands are shaking. He clenches them into fists, trying to breathe.
Aziraphale nods, his whole body shaking now, tears slipping down his cheeks. “I know,” he whispers. “I know. And I’m so sorry.”
Crowley squeezes his eyes shut, pressing his fingers against them like it might make this hurt less. It doesn’t.
“I missed you,” Aziraphale continues, voice barely more than a breath. “Every single day. I thought—I hoped I was doing the right thing, but all I could think about was you.” He lets out a trembling exhale. “I—I was miserable without you.”
Crowley lets out a sound that’s not quite a sob, not quite a laugh. “Yeah, well,” he says, his voice cracking. “Join the club.”
Aziraphale laughs, wet and broken. Then, before he can stop himself, he reaches out—gently, hesitantly—and touches Crowley’s hand.
"Crowley, I've finally realised that my Heaven is down here, on Earth, in this bookshop," he sniffles "With you, my dear."
Crowley stiffens. His breath catches. He looks down at their hands, then up at Aziraphale.
The anger, the sadness, the sheer grief of losing Aziraphale—of waiting, of being left behind—it all comes crashing down, and Crowley sobs.
Not just tears slipping down his cheeks, not just a quiet breakdown. No—this is something raw and painful and real. His whole body shakes, and suddenly, it doesn’t matter that he’s spent thousands of years pretending to be untouchable. It doesn’t matter that he’s supposed to be a demon, supposed to be cool and collected and fine.
He’s never been fine without Aziraphale. How could he possibly be fine without his angel?
Aziraphale gasps, his own tears falling faster. And then, without hesitation, he pulls Crowley into his arms.
Crowley doesn’t fight it.
He grips the fabric of Aziraphale’s coat like it’s the only thing keeping him from falling apart entirely. Aziraphale’s hands clutch at his back, holding on just as tightly. They shake against each other, bodies trembling with the weight of everything unsaid, everything lost, everything found again.
“I’m so sorry,” Aziraphale whispers into his hair. “I’m so, so sorry.”
Crowley just clings to him harder.
They stand there, wrapped around each other, shaking with the weight of everything that’s happened. The bookshop is silent except for their breathing—uneven, wrecked. Crowley feels Aziraphale’s fingers dig into the fabric of his coat, clinging to him like he’s afraid Crowley will slip away.
For a moment, Crowley considers it. Considers stepping back, pushing Aziraphale away, telling him it’s too late.
But it isn’t too late, is it?
Because Aziraphale came back.
The realization crashes over him, leaving him breathless. Aziraphale isn’t up there anymore. He isn’t standing in Heaven’s light, wrapped in the lie that he can fix something that was never meant to be fixed.
In the bookshop. In Crowley’s arms.
Crowley pulls back just enough to see his face. Aziraphale’s eyes are still wet, his lips trembling. There’s so much sorrow there, so much regret, but beneath it—beneath all of it—there’s something else, too.
Crowley exhales shakily, letting his hands slip from Aziraphale’s back to his shoulders, grounding himself. He searches Aziraphale’s face, needing to know—really know—that this isn’t some cruel trick, some fleeting moment that will be ripped away.
Aziraphale, as if sensing his thoughts, reaches up. His fingers brush over Crowley’s cheek, tentative and soft, like he’s memorizing the shape of him. Like he can’t quite believe he’s here.
“I should have chosen you,” Aziraphale whispers. His voice cracks on the words, but he doesn’t look away. “I should have always chosen you.”
Crowley’s throat tightens. His fingers curl into the fabric of Aziraphale’s coat.
He could say something sharp, something snarky. He could make a joke, lighten the weight of it all. That’s always been his way, hasn’t it?
Instead, he lets himself feel it.
“You should have,” Crowley whispers back. It’s not cruel, not meant to wound—just the truth.
Aziraphale nods, a tear slipping down his cheek. “And I will,” he breathes. “From now on. I—I don’t care about Heaven, Crowley. Not anymore. Not if it means losing you.”
Crowley swallows hard. “You sure about that, angel?”
Aziraphale lets out a wet, trembling laugh. He missed hearing Crowley call him angel. “Yes,” he whispers. “Yes, my dear. I’m sure.”
Crowley stares at him, his own breath catching. His heart—if he even has one anymore—feels like it might break open. He doesn’t know what to do with this. With Aziraphale choosing him after all this time.
Then, as if it’s the most natural thing in the world, Aziraphale cups his face.
Crowley barely has a second to react before Aziraphale is kissing him.
Soft. Tentative. Like he’s afraid Crowley might vanish if he isn’t careful.
Crowley melts. It feels different from the first time. It feels like a warm hug, the gentle, melodious humming from the birds during the morning. Like a dream neither of them want to wake up from.
A broken sound escapes him, and then he’s kissing Aziraphale back, gripping his coat, pressing closer like he’ll never let go.
Maybe—after everything, after all the heartbreak, all the waiting—he doesn’t have to let go.
Maybe Aziraphale is finally home.
The kiss is everything Crowley has ever wanted and everything he thought he’d never have. It’s warmth and desperation, years—centuries—of longing poured into a single moment. Aziraphale is holding onto him like he’s something precious, something irreplaceable, and Crowley—hell—Crowley has no idea what to do with that.
So he doesn’t think. He just feels.
Aziraphale tastes like salt from their shared tears, like something familiar and safe, and Crowley feels himself breaking apart under it. His hands, once clenched with anger and grief, soften as they slide up to cradle Aziraphale’s face, his thumbs brushing over tear-stained cheeks. Aziraphale makes a soft, broken noise into his mouth, pressing closer, tilting his head as if he’s trying to memorize the shape of Crowley’s lips against his own.
Crowley wants to stay here forever.
But forever isn’t kind to them, and the world always comes creeping back in.
Aziraphale pulls away first, but only just—his lips hover near Crowley’s, his breath warm and unsteady. When Crowley dares to open his eyes, he finds Aziraphale looking at him, wide-eyed, like he can’t quite believe what just happened.
Crowley smirks—or tries to, but it wobbles. “So,” he rasps. “This new job of yours come with kissing privileges, or am I just lucky?”
Aziraphale chuckles lightly. "You mean returning to be a bookshop owner, my dear? Then yes, choosing you comes with lots of privileges indeed."
Crowley’s knees almost give out.
Aziraphale looks up at him, and there’s something nervous in his expression, like he’s waiting for Crowley to reject him, to push him away, to tell him it’s too late. His lips part, as if he’s about to say something, maybe explain himself, maybe apologize again—
But Crowley doesn’t let him.
His hands slide from Aziraphale’s face down to his waist, pulling him in, holding him tight, solid, real. Aziraphale lets out a soft noise of surprise, then melts into him, arms curling around Crowley’s back.
“You idiot,” Crowley chokes out, pressing his face into the crook of Aziraphale’s neck. He’s shaking, trembling with too many emotions to name. “You ridiculous, beautiful idiot.”
Aziraphale makes a soft, breathy laugh that sounds suspiciously like a sob. “I know,” he whispers. “I know, my dear.”
Crowley exhales sharply, then pulls back just enough to look at him. “You left Heaven?” he asks again, like he needs to hear it one more time.
Aziraphale nods, eyes wet but determined. “Yes.”
Crowley swallows. “For me?”
Aziraphale smiles—small, soft, certain.
All the grief, all the longing, all the goddamn waiting—it all crashes down at once, and suddenly, he’s kissing Aziraphale again. It’s messy, desperate, real. Aziraphale gasps against his lips but doesn’t pull away. Instead, he kisses back with equal urgency, hands tangling in Crowley’s hair, gripping tight.
Crowley makes a noise low in his throat, and for the first time in centuries, he feels like he can breathe.
He pulls back only when they’re both dizzy, foreheads pressed together, breaths mingling. He reaches up, cupping Aziraphale’s face, tracing the shape of him like he’s afraid he’ll disappear.
“So what now, angel?” Crowley asks, voice rough.
Aziraphale smiles, bright despite the tears still in his eyes. “Now,” he says softly, “we start over.”
Crowley lets out a breathless laugh. He glances around the bookshop—their bookshop now, their sanctuary. He looks back at Aziraphale, at his storm-touched wings, at the way he chooses Crowley without hesitation.
And for the first time in a long, long while—
Crowley thinks maybe they have a chance.
In the midst of that reunion, inside that bookshop, something was happening. They couldn't hear that of course, too invested in each other and focused on how much their hearts were going crazy at the mere sight of one another. In the midst of the noise of typical London traffic, right next door, finally a Nightingale sang.
Some time later; Summer...
The bookshop is still theirs, still a sanctuary, but in the summer—when the air in London gets heavy and the city hums with too much noise—they slip away.
It’s small, nestled in the English countryside, hidden among rolling green hills and wildflowers that bloom in soft, golden light. There’s a garden out front, overgrown and chaotic, much like the two of them, and a wooden porch where Aziraphale likes to sit with a book and a cup of tea.
Crowley pretends he hates it.
“Too quiet,” he mutters every time they arrive, shoving his sunglasses up his nose and scowling at the lack of traffic, of people, of anything resembling civilization. “Too many trees. And the birds—ugh.”
But then he stretches out on the sun-warmed grass, his shirt undone, sunglasses abandoned, letting the warmth sink into his bones. And when Aziraphale brings him a glass of lemonade, presses a kiss to his temple before settling beside him with a book—
Crowley doesn’t complain.
The days are slow, unhurried. Aziraphale bakes, filling the cottage with the scent of cinnamon and butter, while Crowley tends to the garden—miracle-free, because fine, maybe he does like getting his hands in the dirt. In the evenings, they sit outside, watching the sky bleed into pink and orange, listening to the wind rustle through the trees.
Aziraphale leans into Crowley’s side, and Crowley—grumbling, always grumbling—drapes an arm around him.
“This isn’t so bad,” he admits one night, voice low, content.
Aziraphale hums. “No, my dear,” he agrees, lacing their fingers together. “It really isn’t.”
Crowley wakes late most mornings, tangled in linen sheets, with Aziraphale already up, humming softly as he bustles about in the kitchen. The scent of freshly baked bread drifts through the open windows, mingling with the crisp summer air.
Crowley groans, rolling onto his stomach, burying his face in the pillow. “You’re insufferably domestic,” he mutters into the fabric, voice muffled.
Aziraphale laughs, bright and warm. “And yet you refuse to sleep in.”
Crowley peeks out with one eye, scowling. “Because you’re loud.”
Aziraphale appears in the doorway, holding a cup of tea in one hand and a plate of scones in the other. His hair is a mess of soft curls, his white linen shirt slightly wrinkled, and there’s a smudge of flour on his cheek.
Crowley wants to kiss him stupid.
He doesn’t, though—not yet. Instead, he props himself up on one elbow, raising a brow. “Did you miracle those scones, or did you actually make them?”
Aziraphale sniffs. “I baked them, thank you very much.” He places the plate on the bedside table and nudges Crowley’s leg with his knee. “Now, are you getting up, or am I eating these alone?”
Crowley grins lazily. “Tempting,” he says. “But if you wanted me awake, angel, you could’ve just kissed me.”
Aziraphale’s face turns delightfully pink.
“Well,” he huffs, attempting dignity. “If you insist.”
And he leans down, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to Crowley’s lips.
Crowley hums against his mouth, reaching up to tangle his fingers in Aziraphale’s curls, deepening the kiss. Aziraphale makes a surprised noise before melting into him, the tea forgotten, the scones abandoned.
When they finally pull apart, Aziraphale is breathless, lips flushed, and Crowley grins, smug and satisfied.
Aziraphale huffs but doesn’t pull away. “Good morning, my dear.”
And just like that, their day begins.
Afternoons are lazy, filled with warm breezes and dappled sunlight filtering through the trees. Aziraphale reads on the porch, glasses perched on his nose, while Crowley lounges in a hammock nearby, one arm thrown over his eyes.
Sometimes, they go for walks through the countryside, Crowley grumbling about the heat while Aziraphale cheerfully lists the names of wildflowers they pass. Sometimes, Crowley steals strawberries from the garden, popping them into his mouth before Aziraphale can scold him.
Sometimes, Aziraphale kisses him under the shade of an old oak tree, slow and soft, the summer air thick with warmth and something unspoken between them.
And sometimes—on nights when the sky is clear, when the world feels quiet—Crowley takes Aziraphale’s hand, pulls him outside, and tips his head toward the stars.
“Look around, angel,” he whispers.
Aziraphale does, with a childlike glee crossing his features.
And Crowley watches as the reflection of a thousand constellations flickers in Aziraphale’s eyes, the universe stretching wide before them, infinite and endless.
Aziraphale squeezes his hand, smiling.
“It’s beautiful,” he murmurs.
Crowley doesn’t look at the sky. He doesn’t need to.
He just watches Aziraphale and whispers, “Yeah. It is.”
https://archiveofourown.org/works/62995957
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