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A. J. Crowley’s Handbook on Flirtation at Height

good omens // aziraphale/crowley // a human AU meet-cute with construction worker!Aziraphale // rated T // 6.7k words The 5 times Aziraphale got away with breaking work policy and the 1 time he got fired for it. read on AO3 here!

As stated in clause 3.4 of the Heaven Construction employee handbook:

“During active construction work, employees on site should take care not to invade on the privacy of the residents of nearby buildings. As to avoid causing any discomfort, employees are strictly prohibited from engaging with the residents unless strictly necessary (as such as in case of an accident).”

Today, in so far as Crowley is aware, is a Good day. So good, in fact, that he’s up at the whopping hour of five thirty in the morning - and no, for once it’s not because he hasn’t slept at night - and when he moves through his flat, it’s with a certain swagger in his hips that only happens when he’s in a particularly good mood. On a more average day, he prefers lurking and slithering and sauntering - certainly not pirouetting, dancing almost, as he slides in his socks on the slippery tiles.

It’s dark outside, but still, he pulls the blinds open. Then, he cracks open the window and inhales deeply, taking a whiff of London and its rather questionable quality of air. There's scaffolding, right outside his window. It’s been there for a few days, but so far there’s been no sight of any construction work happening, fortunately for him. He isn’t even sure what the work is gonna be nor does he care to find out - there’s always some bloody construction or other going on in Mayfair. As long as there’s no one glaring into his window, he’s fine.

He puts on music - Queen, of course. He’s fairly certain all his files turn into Queen somehow because last he checked, there were not this many Queen MP3s on his phone. Well, at least it’s Queen. Could’ve been worse; as it is, he’s always up to listen to Queen.

When he gets into the shower, it’s to the tune of Good Old-Fashioned Lover Boy; as he washes his hair, he listens to It’s A Hard Life; and, by the time he steps out from under the stream, he’s accompanied by Fat Bottomed Girls. It’s still a Good day and so he wraps a towel around his hips and then more or less dances his way out of the bathroom, all while loudly belting out the familiar lyrics

“Across the wire, across the land,” he and Freddie sing at once, one of them (Crowley, it’s definitely Crowley) louder than the other. The bathroom door slams shut behind him and he moves further into the flat. “I seen every blue-eyed floozy on the way,” the song continues as Crowley throws his head back, eyes closed, and then - oh.

He blinks them open and stops directly in front of the open window. The bloody scaffolding, he remembers as he stares right into a pair of bluest, prettiest eyes he has ever seen on a guy dressed in an ugly hi-vis vest. The construction, he thinks desperately.

He must be a sight. He’s still dripping wet, naked save for the towel covering his most private bits. His mouth hangs open.

At least the other party involved, the construction worker standing on the other side of the glass, seems to also be in quite a state. He’s staring, wide-eyed and completely frozen. Pretty really does seem like a fitting word to describe him - there’s white, curly hair poking out from underneath his hard hat; a softness to his cheeks and laugh lines clearly etched into his skin. Looking closely, Crowley can also spot a hint of muscle, toned arms peeking out from underneath the neon vest and the white t-shirt. So not only pretty, the guy’s clearly strong as well. For Heaven’s sake, it truly is Crowley’s luck that he happens to be exactly his type. To top it all off, he’s blushing, furiously so, even as his gaze never strays from Crowley.

As if the universe was mocking him, Crowley hears Freddie continue from the bathroom, “Oh, won’t you take me home tonight?” How fitting.

It’s at that same time that the construction worker is brought out of his stupor as well. There’s a noise, outside, a clank and a bang and then a distant voice yelling, “Oi! You, up there! Fell! Watch what the bloody hell you’re doing!”

The guy - the angel, Crowley can’t help but think - jumps a little, startled, and twists his head to look over the railing and down. It’s only a few seconds at best, but it’s still enough time for Crowley to finally shut his stupid mouth and compose himself. Right, he can still salvage this one, certainly. He might be - well, he might still be naked, technically, and he might have just been caught belting out Queen lyrics by the most gorgeously angelic construction worker he has ever seen, but… he’s nothing if not transcendentally confident, even at the most absurd of times.

The moment the worker turns back towards the window, Crowley gives him a rakish smile and blows a kiss in his direction. Somehow, the angel manages to blush even harder, smiling sheepishly as he waves at Crowley. See, situation salvaged. Crowley’s still managed to come out of this looking smooth as hell, if he does say so himself.

All in all, today is not just a Good day, but a Spectacular one. After all, Crowley has learned at last that outside his window there’s an angel.

As stated in clause 1.2 of the Heaven Construction employee handbook:

“During active construction work, employees on site are required to be in appropriate personal protective equipment at all times. The type of equipment required will depend on the type of construction work currently being performed and includes, but is not limited to, items such as: high visibility clothing, hard hats and helmets, ear defenders, goggles [...]”

Today is the day Crowley will, for the first time in his life, commit actual bloody murder. He’s certain of it.

The drilling began at a little past six in the morning. While it’s been unpleasant from the very start, it was at least bearable initially. But now, three hours in and with no end in sight? Well, Crowley truly is ready to kill someone, consequences be damned. Hopefully prison is quieter than this absolute hell.

Worst of all, he’s actually been hoping to get some work done today. As it is, though, he sits at his laptop and simply suffers since not even the music blasting into his ears is enough to drown out the incessant drilling.

Finally, fed up with it all, he stands from his desk with a newfound resolution. In a few strides, he makes it over to the window then wrenches it open.

“Oi!” he yells. “Mate! Sod off already with all that bloody noise, driving me - absolutely - bonkers…” he trails off, suddenly realising who he’s yelling at. That angelic face, again. “Oh. ‘s you. Angel.”

Noticing that he’s being talked at, the angel stops drilling and stands up straight. He’s wearing a pair of blue ear defenders and he makes a move to pull them down so that they rest on his shoulders instead of atop his ears. It’s at that moment that Crowley realises he hasn’t heard a word of what he’s been yelling - although admittedly, Crowley still feels a bit bad about it.

“Excuse me?”

“It’s you!” Crowley repeats, trying to squash the feeling. “From the other day. When I - ngk…” He waves an arm uselessly, unable to find an elegant way of phrasing something like when I was dancing and singing naked in my flat and you saw it all. Also, you happen to be the most gorgeous man I’ve ever seen, could we kiss maybe?

Bugger. Crowley’s a disaster.

“No, yes, I know, of course, I remember you, but - sorry, what was it that you said?”

“Ah.” Crowley scratches at the back of his neck. “Er, well, ‘s just that you’ve been drilling a hole into my head this entire morning, angel. But, part of the job, I suppose, not your fault.”

“Oh. Oh, dear, I’m terribly sorry, I don’t intend on disturbing you, truly, but the work is what it is…”

“No, yeah, I know, I know, ‘s not on you, it’s just, well… a bit aggravating, really.”

Looking at him up close like this, Crowley’s beginning to feel even worse over the whole thing. The angel looks genuinely apologetic and a little distressed, as if being a nuisance to Crowley caused him physical pain. It’s not a fit look for a guy as pretty as he is. Besides, Crowley knows well what it’s like to have to do your job while getting in the way and on the nerves of everyone around him. With a soft sigh, he leans against the window frame.

“Look, it’s fine. Don’t worry about it. I’ll just turn the music up a bit or, I dunno, go out, do some work from a Starbucks while you finish up your… drilling.”

“Dear boy, I’d hate to inconvenience you…”

Crowley is about to argue, but before he can say much of anything, there’s a pair of ear defenders being shoved in his direction. Or, well, shoved is perhaps the wrong word to describe what’s really happening - it’s more that the angel is offering them, gingerly, like they’re a treasure. Or a wedding ring, Crowley’s mind supplies helpfully. Right, great one, brain.

“Here,” the angel says.

Crowley stares, dumbfounded. “What?”

“You can use these. While I drill. They muffle the sound quite efficiently, if I do say so myself.”

“Isn’t that exactly why you need them?” Crowley asks, pushing himself off the window frame and standing up straight. The angel is still holding the muffs out and so at last Crowley relents and takes them from him.

“Well - yes, certainly, but it’s no trouble for me to grab another pair.”

“You’re sure you can just… give them away?” The angel nods. “Are you sure you’re sure?”

“Quite sure, indeed.” He clasps his hands, clearly chuffed that he’s managed to talk Crowley into this. “Jolly good, then! Off you go, dear, best not to dawdle.”

“Suppose not…” Crowley turns the muffs over in his hands and considers them for a moment. “Thanks, angel,” he says eventually, giving him a small smile.

The rest of the afternoon is blissfully silent. He sits at his desk, clad in the blue ear defenders and protected by the will of a construction angel.

As stated in clause 2.1 of the Heaven Construction employee handbook:

“While performing work at a construction site, employees should only take breaks in areas designated for that purpose. Employees should not consume their meals in areas not meant for such activities, this includes, but is not limited to: scaffoldings, buildings in which construction is being performed, vehicles [...]”

It’s lunch time, by the time Crowley gets home, and yet the construction work outside his window seems to be going in full force. He sees him, the angel, walking across the scaffolding in his silly hard hat and silly vest, though to Crowley’s eye he seems… a bit more crestfallen than usual; tired, perhaps.

Crowley can’t help but feel a pang of concern and wonder, has he even taken a break today? How do I cheer him up? because he’s that kind of a romance-inclined idiot. Anyway. He can think of one offering he can make to the angel and it comes in the form of a tupperware container full of badly folded sushi. He’s already ingested enough fish food to last him a lifetime during the sushi-making class Anathema had taken him to and so, really, it’d be a waste if he didn’t at least offer some of it to someone, right? The sushi might not be his best work, for sure, but hopefully it’d still be enough to satiate the angel.

And so, with a tupperware container and a set of chopsticks in hand, he makes his way over to the window. He pulls it open and raps his knuckles against the windowsill to get the angel’s attention.

“Oh! Hello,” he greets with a smile and a wave.

“Taken your lunch break yet, angel?”

The angel pauses at the question. He glances at the work around him then back at Crowley and the container that’s still cradled against his chest.

“Right! Yes. Lunch. That is to say, no, I haven’t - if you’d be so kind, what time is it, dear?”

“Like, one. Nearly one, anyway.”

“Rather late already… I’ve gotten so caught up in the work I didn’t even realise. I suppose I shall pop down for a quick bite, then, thank you -”

“Wait.” Crowley holds up a hand. “I thought - er, thought I could tempt you to have lunch with me? I, well, a friend of mine dragged me out to a sushi class, now I’ve got so much sushi leftover there’s no chance I’ll ever finish it on my own so I figured… could share it?”

He raises his eyebrows, gestures at the container and waits. It’s as good an offer as he can make, a chance at a proper conversation with the kindest man on this scaffolding. The angel does appear to consider it, his expression shifting in ten different, miniscule ways as he thinks.

“I could get in trouble,” he says slowly. He chews on his lip, conflicted. “There’s all sorts of rules about it, designated areas…” he trails off. His gaze flickers down to the sushi.

“Surely one time couldn’t hurt? Get a slap on your wrist at worst and at best… no one will even notice.”

Despite not getting a clear response, Crowley places the tupperware down on the windowsill. Carefully, he perches down next to it and then holds his arm out, offering the chopsticks to the angel. With a soft sigh, he relents and takes this offering before joining Crowley on the windowsill. They sit, back to back, the container between them, but still their heads are turned in such a way so that they can look at one another.

“You really didn’t have to,” the angel says fondly, picking up the container. Despite the small protests he’s been putting up, he seems rather pleased by the turn of events.

“Sure I did.” Crowley grins. “Wouldn’t want an angel to go hungry, now would I?”

Chopsticks hovering in the space above the container, the angel pauses. Crowley raises an eyebrow.

“You keep doing that.”

“Doing what?”

“Angel. Calling me angel.”

“Oh. Nyehhh, you know, you’ve got those curly white little -” Crowley gestures at his face. “And your - cherubic… cheeks…” He really should cut it out right about now, before he makes a complete fool out of himself. “And - you’ve never told me your name.”

“Aziraphale,” the angel says. He looks a bit flustered and Crowley wonders what did it, the pet name itself or perhaps Crowley’s terribly eloquent description of his cheeks. He’s not going to ask. “It’s lovely to make proper introductions at last…”

“Crowley,” he supplies with a nod of his head. “Well then. Now that we’re properly acquainted, dig in. And let me know what you think.”

Glancing at the container in Aziraphale’s hands, Crowley’s once again reminded that it is a rather sorry attempt at sushi. While he’s always thought he has a knack for using his hands, it’s clear he hasn’t yet mastered this particular art. The rolls have already mostly fallen apart, loose rice sticking to the walls of the container rather than, well, other pieces of rice. At least, he thinks, the ingredients used are of a high enough quality that the experience shouldn’t be a horrible one, taste-wise. That, and he also hopes Aziraphale is hungry enough not to mind particularly much that this creation is nowhere near proper sushi quality.

Propping his chin on his hand, he watches intently as Aziraphale picks up a roll - squished between the chopsticks it falls apart some more because of course it does - and then carefully places it in his mouth. He chews, agonisingly slow, his eyes fluttering shut - how in the hell are his eyelashes this long? - and then, once he’s finally swallowed - what if I swallowed you, Crowley’s singular braincell says, unprompted - he breathes a tiny, satisfied sigh. To make matters even worse, he, honest-to-Someone, does a full-body wiggle. All in all, it’s quite the sight. Crowley can’t look away.

When Aziraphale finally opens his eyes, their gazes meet instantly - no other way about it, considering how Crowley’s been staring at him, unblinking, for about two full minutes. Crowley doesn’t even try to shy away from it; and, really, it is a bit too late for Aziraphale not to notice that he’s been blatantly ogled this whole time.

“Liked it, then?”

“Oh, it’s lovely.” Aziraphale smiles at him and it’s blinding. “Although…” His eyes flicker down, up, then down again. He carefully picks up another roll. “Well, there’s certainly room for improvement here, wouldn’t you agree?”

Crowley stifles a laugh, opting for an offended pout instead. “Hey, now… you can’t just diss my hard work like this.”

“Oh, but it’s hardly that. Take it as a compliment, dear, you can only go up from here.”

Oh, wow. So Aziraphale is not only a strong-armed, beautiful angel, but he also has a bastard streak. There it is, then. Crowley’s utterly, properly, fucked. And, worst of all, smitten.

“You really know how to praise a man,” he teases.

“Most certainly I do,” Aziraphale says primly, sticking his chin out. He pops another piece of sushi into his mouth, not breaking eye contact. Blasted soon-to-be-buggered-if-Crowley-has-it-his-way bitchy infuriating little - “Next time, you shall treat me to a proper lunch. I know several lovely Japanese restaurants in the area, I believe they’d be wonderful places to draw inspiration from.”

“Oh, I shall?” Crowley hisses, leaning in closer.

It’s at that moment, when Crowley breaks the barrier of his personal space, that Aziraphale seems to realise the level of overfamiliarity he’s just shown in the last couple of minutes. His face flushes and he looks away, far less confident than he was just a moment ago. Crowley doesn’t like this look on him.

“If you’d be amenable to it, that is, of course,” he says, softer. Unsure. Crowley wonders, how many times have you been shot down, after showing someone this side of you?

“Well,” he hums, leaning back and giving Aziraphale his space back. “Research, right? I couldn’t possibly say no.”

He sticks a hand out. Aziraphale looks at it, confused.

“It’s a deal, angel.”

At last, that brings the smile back to Aziraphale’s face. He shakes Crowley’s hand.

As stated in clause 3.2 of the Heaven Construction employee handbook:

“During active construction work, persons not employed by the company nor involved in the work should be prohibited from entering the construction site. In particular, employees should make sure that only permitted personnel is allowed access to areas of the site that could prove to be particularly dangerous without proper training, such as where: injuries from fall are possible; toxic substances are used [...]”

The clock ticks away loudly, the only noise in the otherwise silent flat.

That’s a lie. There’s not a single analog clock in Crowley’s flat - but, what Crowley does have is an imagination. Looking at the minutes passing by on the digital clock that stands on his nightstand, he can imagine the sound of ticking well enough.

6:01. Tick. 6:02. Tick. 6:03. Tick.

His sleep schedule is all fucked, again. There’s not much of a chance that he’ll be able to fall asleep for another three hours or so and, by then, he’ll end up sleeping through all of the daylight instead. Wonderful.

He wonders if Aziraphale’s started work yet.

That thought is what finally gets him out of bed. He grabs a pack of cigarettes, a lighter and then pads out of the bedroom wearing just his pyjamas - or, more precisely, an old, faded Queen t-shirt, ratty sweatpants and duck-print socks.

It’s just his luck, it appears, that Aziraphale does start work early. Sun hasn’t even risen yet and so Aziraphale’s white hair ends up being a stark contrast against the darkness of the early morning sky. Crowley grins and pulls the window open with more force than is strictly necessary.

“Oi, angel!” He waits a beat, until Aziraphale turns towards him. Once he has his attention, he leans an elbow on the windowsill and, for the added effect, waggles his eyebrows. “What’s a handsome guy like you doing in these parts? Hm?”

In response, Aziraphale shoots him what is most likely supposed to be an exasperated glare, but, really, comes across far too fond for its intended effect.

“Dear, I’m at work, must you really?” he asks, shaking his head.

“Yes, I must,” Crowley says, perching on the windowsill. He then swings his legs over the window frame in one smooth motion until his socked feet are firmly planted on the scaffolding.

Instantly, Aziraphale freezes and stares.

“Crowley, what are you -”

“Going out for a smoke,” Crowley replies casually. He pulls one cigarette out, tosses the remainder of the pack carelessly back into the flat and then flicks his lighter.

“But my dear fellow, you can’t -”

“Oh, if anyone asks, just tell them you tried to stop me, but I wouldn’t budge. Besides -” He pauses to light the cigarette, then gestures with it at the surrounding construction. “- no one’s even paying attention to us. ‘s fine, angel.”

Aziraphale opens his mouth, then closes it, but, of course, not without a frustrated huff. Still, he makes no move to actually shoo Crowley back inside.

They both fall silent after that. Crowley leans against the building wall and Aziraphale, dropping any pretence of displeasure, comes to stand next to him. The tension seems to have been drained from his shoulders, not as worried about anyone catching them anymore. In the distance, the first rays of the morning sun begin to shine.

Crowley takes a couple of puffs and then clears his throat.

“I gotta ask, angel, why construction? I mean, no offence, but you don’t strike me as the kind of guy to do manual labour like this out of passion. Bit too…” he waves an arm. “Bit too… something for that.”

“Queer?” Aziraphale supplies helpfully, an amused smile tugging at his lips. “Posh?”

“Eghhhhh…” Crowley makes a vague noise and shrugs. “Both, I guess.”

“Ah, but certainly there’s many posh, queer men such as myself working these jobs,” Aziraphale laughs. Crowley can’t argue with that. “That being said, when it comes to me… you aren’t wrong, dear.”

“Just pays the bills, then?”

Aziraphale nods. “That, it does. I suppose it’s… well, I’ve always been strong enough to do this kind of work. Like you said, it does pay and is fairly easy to come by. And - for all the prejudices that there might be, in a field such as this one, the people I work with tend not to care what my sexual preference is or how manicured my hands are, just as long as I can do the work.”

Instinctively, Crowley’s eyes flicker down to Aziraphale’s hands. They’re littered with callouses, tiny cuts and scars, various signs of hard physical work, yet they really do look well taken care of, nails perfectly trimmed and shiny. He distinctly remembers the time they shook hands, too - how soft Aziraphale’s hand felt, despite the strain of the work. Good hands, they are.

Needing to stop his thoughts from running wild before he starts considering what those hands could feel like against other parts of his body, Crowley takes a drag of his cigarette. “What would you do instead, then?” he asks, blowing the smoke out. “If money was no object.”

Aziraphale doesn’t need to consider the question long. “I’d run a bookshop,” he smiles as he says it. “Or work in a library… some place that’d let me introduce people to the joys of reading.”

“Books, huh,” Crowley hums. “See, now that does seem like you.”

Aziraphale laughs softly.

The silence they fall into once more is a companionable one, neither of them eager to let this moment come to an end just yet. It takes about a minute or two before Aziraphale speaks.

“Would you be so kind as to share a fag, dear?”

Crowley smirks. He can’t possibly pass up an opportunity like this. “Well… that’s forward, even for you.”

Aziraphale puffs his chest out. “That is not -” he begins, but cuts himself off the moment their eyes meet.

Something in the air between them has just changed. All of a sudden, the moment feels charged, something unspoken, and Crowley, provocative as ever, intends to make good use of it. He presses the cigarette to his lips and takes a long drag, eyes never leaving Aziraphale’s. Nicotine smoke billows between them and Crowley drops his arm, letting the cigarette hang loosely between his lips. He raises an eyebrow, what do you say, angel?, and then simply waits, still as a statue.

Aziraphale’s tongue darts out as he wets his lips, his gaze flickering down to Crowley’s own. He seems to get the hint, the clever angel, and without hesitation reaches out to pluck the cigarette directly out of Crowley’s mouth. He presses it to his lips, tips his head back and breathes in, deeply.

Crowley can’t take it anymore.

The moment Aziraphale pulls the cigarette out of his mouth, Crowley pounces. He grasps at the collar of Aziraphale’s shirt and pulls him in, just in time for Aziraphale to exhale the smoke into Crowley’s mouth right as their lips meet. A small gasp of surprise escapes him as well, but he doesn’t seem displeased by the turn of the events; the opposite, really.

Oh, isn’t it a delightfully decadent thing to be kissing an angel on this scaffolding, out for anyone to see, with cigarette smoke clouding in the shared air between.

They stay like that a while, lips moving lazily while the cigarette continues to burn, nested between two of Aziraphale’s soft fingers. Eventually, Crowley’s too-gay-to-function mind finally gets about half a thought and it goes something like fuckfuckfuckbuggerfuck -

At once, he lets go of Aziraphale’s shirt and pulls back, lips parted and breath coming out heavy. Aziraphale, too, is a sight - cheeks flushed, lips pursed and shiny with saliva, shirt mussed up where Crowley had just been holding on. The moment they’re parted, Aziraphale brings a hand up, presses his fingertips to his reddened lips. Fuck, Crowley wants to kiss him again, badly.

He doesn’t, though. Instead, he scrambles away, one hand grasping at the windowsill lest he slips and ends this otherwise wonderful kiss in a rather unfortunate tumble to the ground.

“You can finish it off,” he mumbles, gesturing at the cigarette in Aziraphale’s hand. It’s pretty much burnt down to the butt by now, seeing as how they had gotten too distracted to pay attention to it.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale says and his fingers are still pressed to his lips and Crowley should really just leave before he does anything stupid and gets this angel into trouble.

“Nice seeing you, angel.” He hurriedly swings his legs over the windowsill, all while making a half assed attempt at a two-finger salute. “Ciao!”

So that’s how Crowley first kisses an angel. It’s also how he manages to cock it all up the very same morning. Bollocks.

As stated in clause 1.1 of the Heaven Construction employee handbook:

“During active construction work, employees on site are not permitted to leave the site during their scheduled work hours. The only exceptions are: scheduled breaks, in which case employees may leave their work assignments and head to the designated break area; as well as emergencies and accidents.”

There’s a knock on Crowley’s window. He can hear it, clear as day. He considers, for maybe a second or two, if he should ignore it.

He hasn’t spoken to Aziraphale in a few days. He sees him, day in and day out, as he continues his work right by Crowley’s window, but each time, he makes a point to look away, to stay away. All because of the Kiss - and yes, it definitely deserves the capital letter.

Crowley’s not stupid. He knows Aziraphale enjoyed it, could see it in the way he responded so eagerly to it, trailing after him once they parted, how his fingertips pressed against his own lips as if savouring it. He also knows that Aziraphale has been flirting with him as much as Crowley himself has. So, all in all, it seems like there’s certainly no reason for Crowley to be having this giant queer freak out. And yet.

There’s a knock on Crowley’s window and, freak out or no, he can’t ignore it.

He opens the window and raises his eyebrows the moment he’s met with Aziraphale’s bashful face.

“Wassup?” Act casual.

“Ah, yes, hello, terribly sorry to bother you, and you can of course say no, but it seems that Ligur has rendered our portapotty out of order, and well. I was just wondering, that is -”

Oh, as if things weren’t awkward enough already.

Aziraphale is rambling and Crowley is still freaking out, but he likes Aziraphale and so he takes pity on him. “Yes, angel, you can use my bathroom,” he sighs and takes a step back, giving Aziraphale the space to climb inside.

“Oh, oh thank you.”

There isn’t much finesse in how Aziraphale climbs through the window and into Crowley’s flat - in fact, he nearly loses his balance not just once, but twice, and Crowley resists the urge to hold his hand to help him. Eventually, he makes it through and stands up straight, smoothing out his clothes before giving Crowley a tight-lipped, but thankful, smile.

“Ah yes, where do I -”

“Down the hall, second door to the left.”

Aziraphale nods and without another word, walks past Crowley and into the hall in search of the bathroom. The moment he’s gone, the bathroom door clicking shut behind him, Crowley lets out a long sigh of suffering and slumps against a nearby wall. God, what was he thinking…

Outside, he hears first raindrops hit the scaffolding. He turns to look out the window, watch the rain as it falls, heavier and heavier. It’s a gloomy day. It’s a gloomy day and there’s an angel in Crowley’s home and Crowley is an absolute stupid idiot twat -

The bathroom door clicks again. By now, the rain outside pounds heavily, a typical English downpour. Aziraphale comes out of the hall and all Crowley wants to do is wrap him up in a blanket and watch the rain together. He really is an idiot.

“Ah, I suppose the rain was to be expected,” Aziraphale says, another small, fleeting smile on his lips. He’s nervous. Crowley can’t blame him.

“Yup,” he responds.

“I better get a wiggle on, then! Back to work…”

Crowley watches him - as he comes to the window, as he clumsily climbs over the windowsill and as, eventually, the rain catches up to him. Even with the scaffolding in the way, Aziraphale gets drenched immediately and Crowley finds himself doing the impulsive, kind, thing once more.

“Oh for Heaven’s - come back here,” he calls out, leaning out the window to grasp at Aziraphale’s arm and tug him back in before he’s had a chance to walk off. Aziraphale doesn’t resist much - their eyes meet and then Aziraphale’s making his way back inside of Crowley’s flat.

They stand like this for a moment, in front of the window, Aziraphale dripping onto Crowley’s floor while they both stare at one another. Finally, Crowley lets out a frustrated huff and walks away, only to return moments later with a towel. Wordlessly, he pats the towel over Aziraphale’s shoulders, his chest, then gently rubs it over his hair, doing his best to dry him off. Aziraphale lets him. Aziraphale bloody lets him.

“You’ve been avoiding me,” Aziraphale says quietly.

Crowley continues the motions, not meeting his eye. “No I haven’t,” he lies because it’s what he does. Then, he sighs. “Yes, fine, okay.”

Aziraphale sighs as well. “I would love to hear an explanation as to why,” he says. “You… do realise I enjoyed it, yes?”

Crowley groans and, feeling utterly defeated, he lets go of the towel so that it hangs over Aziraphale’s head while Crowley presses his face to the back of his neck. “Yeah, angel, hard not to notice,” he says, voice muffled.

Aziraphale makes a small noise in response and Crowley can easily imagine the flush that’s painted his cheeks now. He still says nothing, though. He waits, Crowley presumes, for an explanation.

“I suppose I’ve been… worrying about getting you in trouble,” Crowley says, lifting his head to speak clearly. He rests his chin on Aziraphale’s shoulder instead. “Making things awkward, me. Anyway. I’m a bit of a - a lost cause, if you haven’t realised, went and did that and then you bloody stare into my window every day so it’s - I just - am I even making any sense?”

He’s fairly certain that he doesn’t. He wonders if that’s enough.

“Oh, Crowley,” Aziraphale sighs, carefully pulling away so that he can turn around and face him. “You’re being silly.”

Crowley opens his mouth to protest, but is cut off by a hand on his cheek and then lips meeting his. He leans into it easily, his hand finding its way towards Aziraphale, fingers tenderly clutching at his work shirt. It’s different from their first kiss - where their first kiss was intense, this one’s calm, gentle. All Aziraphale, he thinks.

It’s also Aziraphale who pulls away first, though then they both hover in the shared space, close, breathing in each other’s air.

“I’d love an opportunity to get to know you better, dearheart,” Aziraphale says softly. “Perhaps, though, under circumstances where I’m not breaking work policies and neither of us is at risk of a fall injury.” His hand slides down, from Crowley’s cheek to his chest and then rests there. “Buy me lunch sometime, will you?”

Crowley laughs, amused by the way in which Aziraphale demands, never asks. “Sushi?”

Aziraphale beams. “Yes, that’d be splendid!”

They stay like this for another moment before eventually untangling themselves from each other and turning to face the window. The rain continues to pound heavily.

“You know…” Aziraphale begins, his eyes flickering between Crowley and the window. “I do work in the rain, typically. It is England, we would never get anything done otherwise.”

“So what you’re saying is I’m getting you into trouble again?”

“I don’t mind,” Aziraphale reassures quickly, flashing a smile. He pats Crowley’s shoulder gently. “Although - perhaps it’s best if I get back to it now, lest I receive another strongly worded note from Gabriel.”

“Sounds awful, that,” Crowley agrees.

They look into each other’s eyes and Crowley, cheesy as it is, wonders if this is what he’s been looking for all this time. Maybe it is true, what they say about some people being made for each other.

Dear Mr Fell,

We regret to inform you that, effective immediately, your employment with Heaven Construction is to be terminated on the basis of multiple violations of the health and safety regulations, as outlined in the employee handbook. [...]

Something is wrong. Something is very, very wrong.

When Crowley comes up to the window, two mugs of coffee in hand, he expects the familiar, angelic face. What he sees, instead, is an entirely different man, with a far more angular face, short dark hair and eyes that seem to glow purple in the sunlight.

Crowley freezes. The man notices him and, unaware of Crowley’s crisis, gives him a smile and a wave. Who the hell is this twat?

So, something is wrong. Aziraphale is… gone and Crowley’s doing his best not to panic because really, this isn’t a good reason to panic, not at all, except this makes him realise that they’ve never even swapped numbers or… anything, really. If Aziraphale is gone, truly gone, then Crowley has no chance of ever finding him again. Bugger, Crowley’s going to be sick.

The shrill noise of his doorbell makes him jump, some of the coffee spilling onto the floor. Crowley curses under his breath, practically slamming the mugs down onto the nearest surface, ignoring the sting of hot coffee on his fingers. He stomps through the flat, ready to tell whoever is at his door to fuck right off because now is not the time.

“I don’t know what you’re selling but whatever - Aziraphale?”

“Yes. Hi. Hello.”

It’s him, standing in all his angelic glory at Crowley’s doorstep. He looks… well, different from how Crowley’s used to seeing him. Instead of work clothes, he’s dressed much nicer and, as much as Crowley’s enjoyed the chance to see Aziraphale at work, sweat-soaked t-shirts clinging to his skin and toned arms on display, this feels much more like him. It’s old-fashioned, terribly so, a beige suit and a bloody tartan bow tie to top it all off. Crowley wants to kiss him - Crowley realises that he can do just that.

And so he does. Before Aziraphale even has the chance to explain what’s going on, Crowley pulls him in for a kiss. It’s quick, though it leaves them both flushed from the sheer unexpectedness of it.

“Hey,” Crowley says once they part.

“Hi,” Aziraphale repeats and he’s smiling.

Remembering that they’re still standing in the doorway, Crowley steps back and lets Aziraphale come into the flat.

“What the hell are you doing here?” he asks as he shuts the door behind him and then leads him further into the flat. After all, he still has a warm mug of coffee waiting for him. “Not that I’m not happy to see you, but - I was expecting you up there -” He gestures to the window. “- and not over there.”

“Ah, yes - oh, thank you,” Aziraphale interrupts himself as Crowley hands him his mug. “Well, about that…”

He trails off. His eyes flicker over to the window and, as Crowley looks over his shoulder, he sees That Other Guy giving another overenthusiastic wave in their direction. Crowley huffs and pulls the blinds close. It really is wrong to have someone other than Aziraphale looking into his home.

“Yes, angel?” he prompts gently now that there’s no one looking at them.

“I got fired,” Aziraphale admits at last, moving to sit down in a chair. Crowley’s eyes widen and he opens his mouth, but Aziraphale cuts him off. “Oh, do not start apologising, this is entirely on me. And, to be perfectly honest, I don’t find myself upset over losing this job, although, well, it does mean I’ll have to start looking for something new…”

“Angel…”

“Crowley, really, I don’t want to hear a single apology out of you -”

“No, angel, that’s not what I was going to say.” Crowley shakes his head. He comes closer and crouches down in front of Aziraphale who looks down at him with such fondness that Crowley feels like he’s just been shot through his heart. Still, he continues on, “Said you wanted to work with books, didn’t you?”

“Oh, yes. But - well, it’s terribly difficult to -”

“Shhh - shush.” Crowley raises a finger, cutting him off. “Lemme finish. Point is - my point is, I have a friend, book girl, she works at a library. They have an open position, I think, and I could… y’know. Put in a good word.” He raises his eyebrows, letting his hand rest on Aziraphale’s knee. “What do you say?”

“Oh - would you, really?”

“‘course.”

Aziraphale’s smile lights up the entire room. “You’re a darling, Crowley.” He grasps Crowley’s hand and Crowley rolls his eyes.

“Shuddup.”

“Well, you are! And I’m very grateful.”

Crowley grumbles something under his breath. He presses a kiss to Aziraphale’s hand, needing to find an outlet for this warm emotion that’s threatening to burst right out of his heart.

“Buy you lunch about it,” Crowley mutters, lips still brushing against the skin of Aziraphale’s hand.

“Hm?”

He clears his throat, tries again. “I’ll buy you lunch. Today. As soon as you finish your coffee.”

Crowley didn’t think it was possible for the look on Aziraphale’s face to get any fonder and yet somehow the bastard’s done it. Crowley can’t even look him in the eye anymore, too overwhelmed by the love radiating off Aziraphale.

“Lovely,” Aziraphale whispers. “I better make haste, then.”

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