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Many years ago, deep in a dark wood, lived a man who worked with plants. He cultivated and foraged, made poultices, teas, and tinctures. Though the wood was dangerous and full of strange creatures, folk from kingdoms and villages far and wide made the perilous trek to his cottage seeking his remedies. The man, who went by Crowley, charged nothing for his treatments, dispensing them freely to anyone in need who arrived at his doorstep. Some who came to him and were healed insisted on showing their gratitude by giving him gifts or coin, but he only accepted whatever he needed to subsist, such as grains or laying hens, sturdy cloth or tanned leather. Those who insisted on bestowing finer gifts, (and many did, for his medicines sometimes cured long illnesses that had resisted other treatments and his cures sometimes saved patients who other healers had given up for dead) he sent away with instructions to bestow their riches on those who needed them more than he.
For all of this, he was considered by the people of the neighbouring lands to be weird as hell. Rumours swirled about his methods, spurred in no small part by his strange appearance. He was tall and slight with long, curling hair the colour of dusky currants that fell to the middle of his back. His eyes were like a cat’s: golden yellow with pupils like slits. Some wondered if he were part fae, others pegged him as the willing concubine of some evil demon or spirit. Still others wondered exactly why he sometimes communicated only in flustered consonants. Was it some supernatural dialect? No one, in all the kingdoms and villages surrounding the wood, could quite figure out his deal.
Crowley, however, had a pretty good idea about what his deal was. His deal was that he didn’t want anyone bothering him about his personal affairs or creeping sidelong into his life. He thrived on peace, solitude, and making medicine with plants and it just so happened that dealing with the people he treated was an annoying but necessary cost of doing business. If folk thought he was strange and gave him wide berth, so much the better.
As it happened, Crowley was fairly strange, but not in the way most people thought. As far as he knew, he was fully human, born with an ocular defect that was mostly cosmetic, but did make him a bit short-sighted. He had been a curious child, prone to asking too many questions, and had bothered his birth family with them as soon as he had learned to talk. That family, who he had been born to unexpectedly, already had more than enough mouths to feed and not nearly enough patience for him. So at the age of five, he was sent to live with a distant relative, another oddball who happened to love answering questions. Though he was never certain exactly how they were related, he called her Aunt Agnes. The two got along famously and Agnes taught him all she knew: how to forage, how to cultivate, and how to compound. She also taught him the basics of botany and herbology, which she herself had learned years ago at a faraway university.
Years later, when Agnes passed away, Crowley buried her in a sunny corner of the garden and planted chamomile over her grave. He vowed to carry on her work and maintain the cottage that had long been his home. He thought of her often, felt lonely without her, and sometimes felt starved for her warm hugs and odd wisdom. Though he missed her dreadfully, he couldn’t imagine sharing his life with anyone else. His own family hadn’t tolerated him. Who else but Aunt Agnes could?
And so Crowley carried on a quiet adulthood, mostly content, mildly off-putting, helping where he could, harming no one. If he ever thought of wanting more, he ground those thoughts down along with the herbs in his mortar. It was for this reason that he completely missed it when someone came along who wanted more from him than just healing plants.
The day had begun like a thousand others. Crowley was out foraging for lion’s mane and as the midday summer sun beat down on him, he began to feel overheated. He pulled off his simple black tunic and draped it over a low branch, continuing to work in just his dark leggings. He was bent over, taking a cutting from the trunk of an ash when he heard a strangled, choking noise behind him. Wary, he straightened up and looked round, changing the grip on his knife in case he needed to defend himself. He rarely ran afoul of forest folk. He kept a respectful distance and didn’t forage more than he needed, etiquette Agnes had drilled in to him from the day he met her. He treated forest folk from time to time, sometimes stumbling upon them sick or injured in the wood, sometimes aiding them when they appeared at his door. Even so, he knew better than to let his guard down when alone in the wood. Not all creatures were tolerant of his presence.
He heard a rustle to his left and looked in that direction. Peering through the leaves, he caught a glimpse of fur and horns. Not large enough for a minotaur, he thought, and not enough legs for a centaur. Possibly a faun. Not dangerous, then, but potentially annoying. Fauns he had encountered in the past were loquacious and jovial, seeking him out for indigestion usually, and once treated, pestering him for hallucinogens. They usually offered to pay him in song. Crowley didn’t cultivate those kinds of drugs and found that faunsong tended toward the mortifyingly ribald.
He turned away and continued his work, judging himself safe and not wanting to encourage any social engagement. Before long, however, he heard more rustling, and the sound of hooves stepping closer. Crowley’s shoulders dropped, and he barely suppressed a deep sigh.
“Hello there,” a rich, melodious voice said behind him. Crowley took a deep, fortifying breath and turned around.
“Ah, hello,” he muttered.
“Forgive me,” the faun said, coming closer. He must have been nearly eight feet tall, with long curved horns, a wild head of hair so pale it was nearly white, and an unruly beard of the same shade. He had a broad chest, a soft belly, and thick legs covered in the same ivory hair. Crowley was struck by the sheer size of him, the way the sun lit up all that pale hair so that he very nearly glowed. The word “beautiful” floated across his mind like an errant soap bubble and he popped it before it could land on the surface of his brain and stay there. He arranged his features into what he hoped was an expression of polite disinterest, hoping against hope that this interaction would be brief.
“You’re a long way from home, human,” the faun said. “Need help getting back? I’ve guided many a lost traveller back to their village safe and sound.” He winked, which somehow had the affect of making Crowley want to wash his face and fix his hair.
“No thanks,” Crowley said instead. “I know where I am and how to get home.”
“Ah,” the faun returned, not to be deterred. “Perhaps I could walk you home then. These woods can be dangerous for a lone human.”
“I’m fine,” Crowley insisted. “Been handling myself alone in these woods for years.”
The faun blinked at that and seemed about to say something else, then stopped.
“A shame,” he said, finally. “You seem like good company.” The faun’s eyes flitted over him. He wanted something, Crowley thought, but heaven only knew what.
“M’not,” Crowley said. “Good company, that is. Most folk find me odd.”
“Most folk would rather chew rocks than read a book,” the faun said, a bit bitchily in Crowley’s opinion. He smirked in spite of himself.
“You read?” he asked before realizing that was an insensitive question. Fauns were half-wild but they weren’t illiterate.
“I do,” the faun said haughtily, a tone Crowley reckoned he deserved. “And I enjoy it. Have quite the library, in fact.” His eyes roved over Crowley again. “Which is not to say that I don’t enjoy wine, song and,” he licked his lips, “other faunish activities.”
Crowley nodded, not knowing what to say next or how to remove himself from this interaction. His long hair was starting to stifle him, so he pulled a leather thong from his pouch and quickly tied it up. When he looked back at the faun, his eyes were wide and he was clutching at his own forearm, almost as if he were holding himself back. Before Crowley had time to wonder what that was all about, the faun seemed to recover himself and released his grip. That’s when Crowley noticed a deep scratch on the faun’s forearm. It was swollen and angry red. A thick fluid seeped from it.
“That’s infected,” Crowley told him, gesturing at the faun’s arm. “You should treat it before it gets worse.”
The faun looked down at his arm and shrugged. “It’s just a scratch,” he said, bravely, “Got it in a friendly wrestling match with another faun. You should see the other guy.” His expression was smug.
“It’s infected,” Crowley repeated. “And if you don’t treat it, the infection could spread to your blood and then you’ll be too dead to wrestle.”
The faun gave him a chastened look and slowly brought his arm to his mouth. For the love of someone, he was going to lick it. Crowley rolled his eyes and lunged forward to stop him.
“Oi, not like that,” Crowley said, putting a hand on the faun’s muscular forearm. What vasculature, Crowley thought looking at it, completely against his will. The faun didn’t flinch at his touch, just looked deep into his eyes with an earnest expression. Crowley sighed.
“I can help you,” he said. “Follow me, I can clean that up and treat it back at my cottage.”
The faun beamed a smile at him that was somehow brighter than the the midday sun overhead.
“My goodness,” he said, batting his eyelashes. “I’d be ever so grateful. Wait. Are you the healer who lives in the wood? Crowley, isn’t it?”
Crowley gave him a curt nod. “That’s me. Not a healer though. Just an herbalist. The plants do all the work.”
“I’ve heard of you,” the faun continued. “You healed my cousin’s lungs last year. We’d given him up.”
“I remember,” Crowley said. “Just a tough case of pneumonia. Nothing some linseed and rest couldn’t handle.”
“The way he described you, I didn’t think you’d be so…” The faun hesitated and bit his lip.
“So what?” Crowley asked, a bit defensive.
“Oh, nothing. He was very grateful for your services,” the faun said quickly. “Please, lead the way.”
Crowley nodded, collected his shirt and basket and started walking in the direction of his cottage.
“I’m Aziraphale by the way,” the faun said, following behind him. Crowley waved a hand over his shoulder in acknowledgment and continued walking.
At the cottage, Crowley opened the door for Aziraphale because he had been brought up with manners. The way Aziraphale paused and looked at him wide-eyed made him wonder if the faun had been.
“Er, after you,” Crowley said. Aziraphale ducked through the doorway and clomped inside. Crowley had had visitors of all shapes and sizes in his home over the years and had lined the walls with a few benches and poufs; comfortable places for anyone of any size to sit or lie down, but the fact remained that the cottage had been built by a tiny human woman and even Crowley, at just over six feet, found its nooks and crannies a bit awkward at times. Aziraphale looked mightily out of place in the small, spartan living space, standing with his arms crossed and hooves shuffling. Crowley gestured toward an extra large, squashy cushion in one corner of the sitting room.
“Have a seat,” he said. “Cup of tea? It'll take me a moment to get everything ready.”
“If it’s not too much trouble,” Aziraphale said, settling primly onto the cushion, and Crowley rethought his judgmental assumptions about the faun’s manners.
The inside of the cottage was well-insulated and cool, and Crowley, still shirtless, shivered a bit. Aziraphale made another choking noise behind him, which Crowley politely ignored. A bit of dry throat, probably. Tea would be just the thing.
Crowley tossed the tunic he’d been wearing into a laundry basket in the kitchen and ducked into his bedroom to take a fresh one from the small wardrobe. He pulled it over his chilled torso. He came back into the kitchen and went to work putting water on for tea. While waiting for it to boil, he popped into the workroom off the kitchen to sanitize surfaces and set up the supplies he’d need to treat Aziraphale’s wound. The kettle whistled just as he was wrapping up, so he returned to the kitchen to steep his proprietary tea blend.
He turned to peek out of the kitchen at Aziraphale who had gotten much more comfortable in his absence. He had leaned back on the cushion, hooves crossed, and was paging through a book on local birds that Crowley had left on a nearby table. When the tea was ready, Crowley brought him a mug.
“Thank you,” he said, accepting it. The mug looked tiny in his massive hands, but he drank from it in small, graceful sips.
“Interested in birds, then?” Crowley asked, dusting off his creaky and underused conversation skills.
“I’m interested in all local wildlife,” Aziraphale replied, eyes flicking over Crowley in a way that was becoming familiar if no less confusing.
“S’important,” Crowley agreed.
“What is?” Aziraphale asked.
“To understand. The lives of the folk and the animals that live near you. S’all connected.”
“Of course,” Aziraphale nodded, encouraging. “We do all rely on each other. I wish more folk took that view.” He looked solemn for a flash before his sunny smile returned.
Crowley had nothing more to add, having already revealed too much about his own worldview, so he looked down at his own cup of tea.
“Well, drink up,” he said, into the depths of it. “The tea will help with the pain and nerves.”
“Oh, so it’s not just tasty, then?” Aziraphale said. “How clever!”
“M’yeah,” Crowley responded, still staring down his tea. “Find it helps to settle people first. Before treating them. Nothing too potent, mind. Not going to knock you out. Just some calming herbs.”
“Very clever,” Aziraphale repeated in a lower tone. He took another sip of tea and looked over the top of the mug at Crowley. Crowley fidgeted with his own mug. This close, Aziraphale was a bit staggering, though his manner was gentle. He just took up so much space, filling the room with his presence and his scent which was musky and outdoorsy and intoxicating? Where had that word come from? Crowley never felt truly comfortable around anyone, really, but his discomfort with Aziraphale had a different flavour. There was an element of fascination to it. Crowley wanted to lean in, breath in, learn more, all behaviours that ran counter to his nature. Something in him was sparking with curiousity about just who this genteel faun with a hint of ferality lurking just under the surface was.
Crowley swallowed these thoughts down with his next sip of tea. In a few minutes, he’d be cleaning and dressing the faun’s wound, and a few minutes after that, Aziraphale would walk out of the cottage and Crowley’s life. They’d forget about each other, and that was for the best.
He looked back up at Aziraphale who gave him another one of those radiant smiles. The faun set his mug down on the table. “All done!” he said. “Shall we?” So, he was eager to get this over with. Crowley couldn’t blame him. Why would anyone want to stay here a moment longer than they had to? He nodded, put his own mug down next to Aziraphale’s and gestured toward the workroom.
“This way,” he said. Aziraphale followed close behind him in the small space. Looming, would be the uncharitable way to characterize it, but at his height, perhaps he couldn’t help it. Either way, Crowley felt a chill down his spine at the proximity.
Once in the workroom, he gestured toward a long, low, polished oak table in the centre of the room. “Sit,” he instructed.
Aziraphale walked over to it, tail wagging a bit timorously. He turned and sat, the wood groaning a bit under his weight. Crowley knew it could hold him. It was built to hold much more. Aziraphale was just, well, a lot.
“Nice set-up you’ve got here,” Aziraphale said, his voice exhibiting a trace of nervousness. “Very well-equipped.”
“M’yeah,” Crowley muttered, gathering his supplies. “My aunt and I set it up.” Goodness, he was being forthcoming. He rarely revealed this much personal information.
“Oh, I believe I’ve heard stories of your aunt. She was a healer too?”
“Herbalist,” Crowley corrected. “Scientist, really. She just wasn’t cut out for the academic life. When she graduated university, she set up shop here. Wanted to be where the plants were and help people.” He picked up a small pitcher of saline and a long, shallow bowl.
“Arm out,” he ordered. Hopefully getting to work would keep him from running his mouth. Aziraphale held out his arm, and Crowley carefully poured the saline over the wound to flush it out, catching the run off in the bowl for disposal. Aziraphale flinched when the water first hit, then relaxed.
“Thought it might sting,” he said, sheepishly.
“Big, bad faun beats up another faun and is afraid of a little sting?” Crowley said, and then immediately felt his face heat at his own cheek. Aziraphale, fortunately, threw his head back and laughed.
“You’ve caught me,” he said. “I’m not a fighter. I scratched myself on a bramble bush while picking berries.”
Crowley tsked. “Should wear some sleeves next time, especially if you’re going to go and let a scratch get infected.”
“Sleeves!” Aziraphale snorted. “And cover all of this?” He gestured to his broad chest and sculpted biceps. Crowley turned away to set his supplies down and pick up a clean cloth, hoping he’d be done blushing by the time he turned back round. What was wrong with him?
When he turned back, Aziraphale was beaming at him again. Crowley distracted himself by gently dabbing at the wound to dry it.
“You weren’t wearing sleeves just now when I stumbled upon you,” Aziraphale said, voice low.
“Yes, well, I know what I’m doing,” Crowley replied and looked up at Aziraphale to see how this deliberate tease would be received. Aziraphale shouted his laughter again.
“You’re feisty under that laconic exterior,” he said.
“Nggmh,” Crowley replied, quietly outraged at being perceived so acutely. Who was this guy, anyway? Every other faun he’d ever met had barely noticed him beyond what he could (or wouldn’t) provide to them, which was true for most humans as well. He channelled his pique into gently and thoroughly applying an antibiotic salve to Aziraphale’s scratch. He gripped the underside of the faun’s arm to keep it still and did his level best not to notice how solid and firm it was. These thoughts about the faun’s body were getting out of hand. He never had these kinds of thoughts about his patients. For one thing, it was wildly unprofessional to get hot and bothered about the body you were trying to fix. Thankfully, this was easy for him to avoid, as he barely had these kinds of thoughts about anyone at all. With a few fleeting exceptions, he’d rarely felt the pull of sex or romance in his life, and when he did, it was easy to brush off by engaging his natural tendency to avoid getting emotionally involved. That kind of compartmentalizing was invaluable in his practice, and kept his personal life simple.
But here was Aziraphale, solid and charming and teasing, slowly chipping away at his battlements. Up close like this, his scent was even more intense – woody and earthy with a slight gaminess that was somehow alluring. As he adjusted his grip on Aziraphale’s arm, he thought he felt him flex the muscle. But that was probably just a reflex. Either way, it was silly to linger on it. He wrapped a clean bandage around the wound, pinned it, and released Aziraphale’s arm.
“Er, all set,” Crowley said, leaning away for his own good. Aziraphale held his arm out and admired the neatly applied bandage.
“Leave that on for two days,” Crowley instructed. “After that, you can leave it off, but flush it a few times a day with clean water, dry, and put on a thin layer of this.” Here, he gave Aziraphale a small ceramic pot of the ointment he’d just applied. “If it gets worse, come back and I’ll have another look at it.” Crowley absolutely did not hope the wound would get worse, but if it meant seeing Aziraphale again—No! He banished the thought. The sooner he got the faun on his way and out of his life, the better for both of them. He clearly couldn’t be trusted around him.
“I can’t thank you enough,” Aziraphale said, then ducked his head and looked up at Crowley through his pale lashes. “There must be something I can do for you in return.” Crowley’s mouth went dry, and he very deliberately cut off all paths his brain might decide to take after hearing that question.
“S’nothing,” he replied. “Just a scratch, like you said. Take good care of it and it’ll be fine.”
“Well,” Aziraphale said. “I’ll still feel indebted to you. Perhaps I’ll find a way to thank you soon.”
“Sure, ok,” Crowley said, taking another step back, trying to signal that they were done. “But I promise you, there’s no need.”
“Even so,” Aziraphale said, standing up. He didn’t complete the thought. Even with Crowley’s retreat, with Aziraphale standing, they were suddenly very close. Crowley found himself at chest level, craning his neck up to look at him.
“I suppose I should be on my way,” Aziraphale said, finally. Crowley nodded, and led him through the cottage to the front door.
“Thank you again,” Aziraphale said as he stepped over the threshold. He seemed about to say something else, but Crowley cut him off.
“It’s really nothing, you can thank me by following instructions and healing well.”
“You have my word,” Aziraphale said, blessing him with another grin. Then he was gone, gracefully loping off into the forest.
Crowley shook as if waking from a dream. He went back into the cottage and tasked himself with preparing the lion’s mane he’d collected. This was all just another day’s work after all.
The next week passed in a blur of busy normalcy which suited Crowley just fine. The village nearest his cottage had been passing around an upper respiratory infection, so he was running short on honey, lemon, and thyme. He was in the midst of making a list of harvests and trades to replenish his stocks when there was a knock at the door. Expecting another coughing blacksmith, he was surprised to find Aziraphale standing there. He looked different somehow. It dawned on Crowley that the faun’s hair and beard had been trimmed and the woolly hair on his legs and abdomen had been freshly washed and groomed. He was wearing a loincloth of thick, woven cloth in a tartan pattern, rather than the utilitarian leather he had been wearing the last time they met. He was holding a bottle in one hand and, was that a bundle of flowers in the other? Crowley was so aghast, by the faun’s tidy appearance, by the fact that he had returned, that he stood in the doorway gawping for a long moment before remembering himself.
“Ah, hello,” he said, cleverly.
“Crowley,” the faun returned. “I hope I’m not bothering you?”
“Not at all. Just trying to restock after a week of coughing sickness.”
Aziraphale gave him a concerned look. “Oh not me,” he clarified. “Was just taking care of the folk in Elk Village.”
“You do take good care of them, don’t you?” Aziraphale said gently. Were his eyes sparkling? Crowley had never seen eyes do that in real life. Must be a trick of the light.
“Just use what I know to help where I can,” Crowley demurred.
Aziraphale nodded, seeming to know better than to argue.
“Ah, these are for you,” he said, handing over the flowers. His cheeks were pink. It was warm out. Crowley had better invite him in before he got heat stroke.
“Thank you,” Crowley said, bemused, accepting the small bundle of yellow and white flowers. “Would you like to come in?”
“If I won’t be imposing,” Aziraphale said, eyes flitting down. Goodness, his eyelashes were long.
“Not at all,” Crowley said, stepping aside. “C’mon in.”
Aziraphale stepped in, and Crowley went to find a vessel for the flowers. Aziraphale took the same cushion he had occupied the week before.
“I must admit, I was a little intimidated bringing you a thank you bouquet,” he said, fidgeting with the bottle in his hands. “I don’t know the first thing about flowers and you’re an expert. I hope none of them are weeds.”
“No such thing as weeds,” Crowley said, arranging them in a small flask with some water. “Only plants gardeners find undesirable for one reason or another.” He set the arrangement down on the small kitchen table. “Right here, you’ve got moon daisies, yellow-rattle, and tansy. First two are good for attracting pollinating insects. Tansy is highly toxic, but good for killing intestinal worms in the right doses.”
“Ah, er, is that so?” Aziraphale said, looking a bit green.
“Sorry,” Crowley said. “Sometimes I forget that gut parasites aren’t a good topic for polite conversation.”
“It is...interesting,” Aziraphale tried.
Crowley waved him off. “Nah, I get it. Anyway, er, thank you. They’re, er, very nice.”
“Silly, maybe,” Aziraphale said. “Bringing you flowers. But I did say I’d find a way to thank you, and I had a feeling you wouldn’t accept anything extravagant.”
“You’re right about that,” Crowley said. “How is the wound, by the way?”
“Oh, much better,” Aziraphale said, holding his arm out for Crowley’s inspection. “Nearly healed.”
Crowley came over to him to take a closer look. The scratch did look good. It was no longer infected, and had scabbed over well. The skin surrounding the scab was a healthy pink.
“Nice job,” Crowley said. Aziraphale beamed up at him. “Mind the scab, let it fall of by itself.”
“Yes, doctor,” Aziraphale said, a teasing note in his voice.
“M’not a doctor,” Crowley grumbled.
“Yes, herbalist?” Aziraphale said, eyes glinting. “Yes, plant master?”
“All right, that’s enough,” Crowley said, smiling in spite of himself. “What’s with the bottle?” he asked, attempting to change the subject.
“Oh,” Aziraphale said as if he had forgotten the jewel-green bottle he’d been toying with all this time. “This is for you, too. Not a gift, but a trade!” he said quickly when Crowley scowled at him. “I hoped to exchange it for some of that lovely tea you made me last week. I have trouble sleeping sometimes and I think it might do the trick. I was so relaxed after drinking it.”
“That’ll be the chamomile and valerian root,” Crowley said. “If it’s sleep you’re after, I can add more valerian. Should knock you right out.”
“Oh, that would be lovely,” Aziraphale said, holding the wine bottle out to him.
“Trade’s not necessary,” Crowley said, running a hand through his hair. “If you need the help, you’ve got it.” He walked back into the kitchen to blend the tea.
“Perhaps,” Aziraphale said, standing up and following him into the kitchen, “we could, ah, enjoy the wine together.”
Crowley turned round to see the faun standing behind him, brandishing the bottle with a hopeful look on his face. “Bit early, isn’t it?” Crowley said, glancing at the sun from the kitchen window.
“Ah, of course.” Aziraphale said. “Your people aren’t usually day drinkers. Perhaps a cup of tea first? Then we can indulge.”
Crowley leaned back against the kitchen worktop, considering. It had been a long week and his restock inventory wasn’t especially urgent. In a couple hours, he’d be settling in with a cup of tea and a book anyway. Why not enjoy some company for once?
“Yeah, all right,” he said. Let me bag this tea up for you, and then I’ll make a pot that’s a little more stimulating.”
“Indeed!” Aziraphale said, and winked. Crowley wasn’t sure what to make of this, so he turned around and finished putting the tea in a small pouch for Aziraphale to take with him. When he’d finished, he pulled out a small jar of black tea from the cupboard. He turned around to find Aziraphale filling the kettle and setting it on the hob to boil.
“Didn’t have to do that,” Crowley said.
“I like to be useful,” Aziraphale replied. “And you’ve already helped me so much.
Crowley started to protest, but when he looked up from preparing the teapot, Aziraphale was smiling at him with such fondness that it took Crowley’s breath away. Even Agnes, the person who had loved him most in the world, had generally shown her affection for him through taking the piss and sharp claps on the back. He had no idea what to do with this kind of naked affection. What did Aziraphale mean by it? Did this make them friends?
It was hard to fathom. Crowley had never had friends, and was sure he didn’t need them, if he were being blunt. But with Aziraphale here in his home, asking him questions, helping him—it sparked a warmth in him that he felt both drawn to and wanted to shy away from. He could avoid this discomfort by telling Aziraphale to leave, which would probably offend him to the point that he wouldn’t turn up again. Then he could continue with his evening and his life as planned. But looking at Aziraphale, with his sunny smile, his polite, well-groomed, interested appearance, tipped his resolve toward pursuing this friendship, if that was indeed what it was.
There was also something inherently appealing about Aziraphale. Crowley, for some reason, just liked looking at him. Most folk he encountered appeared to him as a series of problems: a stuffy nose, itchy skin, an upset stomach. But Aziraphale was a whole, not a series of ailing parts. What’s more, he was interesting. Clever and bold, funny and endearing, tall and—well he was a fine specimen. Well-made in a way Crowley could appreciate as someone who spent his days looking at bodies. Something about Aziraphale made Crowley want to know more. He wanted to bask in his presence, absorb the sunshine of it. At least for a little while.
The kettle whistled, shaking Crowley from his reverie. He half-smiled back at Aziraphale and got to work steeping the tea. He pulled two mugs down from the cupboard, set them on the kitchen table, and brought out sugar cubes and a small pitcher of cream from the larder. Crowley usually drank his tea black, but he had a feeling about Aziraphale.
He took a seat at the table and nodded at Aziraphale who took the seat opposite. The two looked shyly at each other, both suddenly lost for words. Aziraphale broke the ice first.
“So,” the faun said.
“Mmm,” Crowley responded. The tea hadn’t steeped for long enough yet, so he had nothing to do with his hands.
“What do you like to do when you’re not...herbalizing?” Aziraphale said finally. Crowley chuckled.
“Not much,” he admitted. “I like a quiet life. Like to settle in with tea and a book. Like to take aimless walks in the wood sometimes. Seem to find the rarest and most useful plants when I’m not intentionally looking for them.” He picked at a knot in the wood of the old table, working a fingernail into it. “Like to stargaze,” he continued softly, as if it were a confession.
“Oh, lovely!” Aziraphale exclaimed. “What a charming pastime. I’m quite smitten by the night sky myself.”
“M’yeah,” Crowley said. “Always liked the stars. Agnes taught me all about the constellations, the phases of the moon, the movements of the planets.”
Aziraphale nodded. “She seems to have been a wonderful influence on you, if the man you are today is anything to go by. You must miss her very much.”
“I do,” Crowley said quietly. He couldn’t find the strength to say more.
“Sorry to bring up a difficult subject,” Aziraphale said.
“S’not difficult,” Crowley said. “I like remembering her. Just don’t fancy having a big sob in front of someone I just met.”
“Understood,” Aziraphale said, solemnly.
By this time, the tea was ready, for which Crowley was grateful. He poured it into the mugs and was pleased to see that he had been correct about Aziraphale’s preferences. The faun added a healthy dollop of cream and three sugar cubes.
“What do you like to do?” Crowley asked.
“Oh, the usual. We fauns are social folk, so there’s no dearth of occasions to celebrate with wine, revelry, song, and,” here he lowered his voice and gave an exaggerated waggle of his eyebrows, “fornication.”
Crowley let out a laugh that was dangerously close to a giggle, and stifled it with a sip of his tea.
“I suppose I’m a bit of an outlier in my clan. I also like a quiet evening at home with a cup of tea and a book. I’m frequently chided for leaving the party before things get good.” He took a sip of tea and looked away. Crowley wondered if he was even more of an oddball among his people than he had just admitted.
“But you do like wine,” Crowley said with a teasing tone, attempting to lighten the mood.
“I do like wine,” Aziraphale agreed, rewarding him with a sly smile.
“Me too,” Crowley said.
“Drink up so we can get to it,” Aziraphale said with yet another blinding smile. Crowley was quickly becoming addicted to them. He hid his own behind his mug.
Aziraphale’s wine was ruby red, rich, and complex. So delicious that the two of them polished it off within the hour, prompting Crowley to dig into his own stash. He had accumulated many fine bottles over the years from patients and rarely had occasion to crack them open. They were now two and a half bottles in, and Crowley, to his own surprise, was holding court.
“Poor guy walked in here and couldn’t even stand up straight,” he was saying. “Wouldn’t tell me what was wrong until we were in the workroom, made his wife stay out here.”
“His wife came with him?” Aziraphale exclaimed, eyes sparkling with merriment.
“She insisted! Wouldn’t let him leave the house without her. She was so worried.”
“Well, of course she would be!” Aziraphale said.
“Sure, the love of your life comes to you knock-kneed and wide-eyed, and you’re going to want to know what’s going on. All he told her was that he couldn’t sit down.”
“So what did he say once you had him alone?”
“Said he tripped and fell on the trowel handle.”
“He didn’t!” Aziraphale sat back in his chair, aghast.
“Swear on my aunt’s grave, and I can do that because Agnes would have loved this story.”
“So, he had the handle in…” Aziraphale’s face twisted into a frown as he he tried to reckon with this information.
“And the business end was sticking out.”
“Well, thank goodness for that!”
Crowley threw his head back and laughed at that.
“It did make the procedure much easier,” Crowley said.
“So what was...the procedure?” Aziraphale asked, leaning in. A gust of his scent washed over Crowley as he did so. It was the same heady fragrance as last week, subdued a bit by the scent of fresh-smelling soap and perhaps a cologne? Crowley caught hints of citrus and greenery. He was briefly doubly intoxicated. Slowly, it dawned on him that his mouth was hanging open and eventually, that he had just been telling a story.
“Well,” Crowley said, boldly leaning forward himself as if he were sharing a secret technique. “I gave him some of that calming tea to ah, relax the muscle, then worked some mineral oil up the handle, and pulled it out. Slowly.”
“Oh, dear,” Aziraphale said, scandalized.
“It was actually pretty easy once he was relaxed.”
Aziraphale looked muzzy for a moment, his eyes unfocused and his own mouth open. He shook himself back to alertness.
“So, ah, what did you tell his wife?”
“Nothing,” Crowley said.
“Nothing! Wasn’t she curious?”
“I made him a deal. Told him I wouldn’t say a word to her as long as he promised me he’d tell her about his interests and invite her to explore them together safely, by which I meant, not with a garden implement.”
“And he agreed?”
“I think he would have agreed to anything at that point just to get out of there without any additional embarrassment. No idea if he actually did it, but a few weeks later, I saw the two of them together at the market and they both looked very happy. He even gave me a little salute.”
Aziraphale guffawed and slapped his knee. “You healed more than his body that day!” he said.
Crowley blushed. He knew Aziraphale was joking, but the praise, along with the wine, had gone to his head.
“He and his lovely wife did all the hard work,” he said, head bowed.
Something lifted his chin and he found himself looking into Aziraphale’s eyes.
“You do good work,” Aziraphale said. “You helped someone discretely and humanely out of an embarrassing situation and taught him how to indulge himself safely. You should be proud.”
Fingers, Crowley thought, stupidly. Specifically, Aziraphale’s large, broad fingers. That was what was lifting his chin. Not only that, but they were still there, propping him up, so that the two of them could gaze, er, look into each other’s eyes. With a herculean effort, Crowley looked away.
“I pulled a hand shovel out of a man’s arse, Aziraphale,” he said wryly.
Aziraphale gripped his chin in his palm and brought Crowley’s gaze back to his. Crowley gulped, loudly. “It’s a silly story, but you gave him dignity. And you helped him to understand himself better.”
“Never thought about it like that,” Crowley admitted, mouth dry.
Aziraphale released his chin and Crowley bravely tried not to be sad about it. The faun covered Crowley’s slender hand with his enormous one instead, which was somehow better and worse.
“You do so much good,” Aziraphale repeated, “and you do it with grace. If you can’t be proud of yourself, I will be.”
Crowley battled the upwelling in his eyes and nearly lost. Aziraphale, who had more emotional intelligence in one hoof than Crowley had in his whole body, slapped the table jauntily and insisted on pouring them both more wine, much to Crowley’s relief. The rest of the evening passed in a wine-fueled blur. Later, Crowley would only remember snatches of laughter and then strong hands guiding him to bed. The next day, he awoke with a world-ending hangover and a fluttery feeling in his belly that didn’t go away, even after mixing and necking his best hangover cure.
Aziraphale made excuses to visit Crowley periodically over the next few weeks until finally, he wasn’t making excuses at all, just showing up at Crowley’s door at some point during the day with that same devastating smile. Sometimes they’d fall into an easy camaraderie, sitting at the kitchen table, telling stories, arguing, laughing, getting used to each other. Just as often, Crowley would put Aziraphale to work. He taught the faun to harvest and forage, to dry and prepare plants for compounding. Aziraphale thrived on it, picking up each task easily, always eager to please. Crowley’s patients weren’t always pleased to see a hulking, eight foot, horned faun when they arrived for treatment, but Aziraphale almost always won them over with a bedside manner far superior to Crowley’s.
Crowley found himself idly imagining a future (future? There was a word that didn’t often show up in his thoughts) where they worked together all of the time. Perhaps Aziraphale could could take Agnes’s old room. Crowley had been using it for storage, but it could easily be cleared out. They could work during the day, enjoy each other’s company at night. He could cook, Aziraphale could do the washing up. And after dinner, well—“after dinner,” “night,” “overnight”—those were times Crowley wouldn’t let himself fantasize about. If he did, it was usually after a couple of glasses of Aziraphale's particularly potent wine. When Aziraphale had gone for the evening and Crowley was alone in his bed, belly sloshing with wine and mind drifting where it pleased without his strict direction, that’s when he closed his eyes and thought of massive hands about his waist. It was those moments when his imagination conjured plush lips on his own, a rough beard on his neck, and what he assumed must be an absolutely giant—but no, that was wildly inappropriate. Terrible to speculate about the size of his friend’s—and it was usually at that point that he was spilling over his own fist before he even realized what he was doing.
Gods, he was awful. In those moments, he’d clean himself up, drink a double strength sleepy tea, and put himself to bed before the thoughts could blossom further.
It was after one of those tipsy evenings when Crowley’s mind had wandered away from him that Aziraphale didn’t appear for over a fortnight. At first, Crowley wondered if he had been drunk enough to say something, or worse, do something, he couldn’t remember. He had been especially soppy that night, but he thought he had done a good job of hiding it. Aziraphale had shown up in the late afternoon when Crowley had been finishing up with a young mother and a colicky baby. He hadn’t had much to offer the mother other than soothing strategies, dietary changes, and time, and she was about to leave in tears. Aziraphale had swooped in like a hero, scooping up the infant who looked like a fragile baby bird in his arms, and reassuring the mother in that warm, calming way he had. He gave the mother essentially the same advice Crowley had, but it just sounded better coming from him. And what’s more, he listened to her while she vented about her sleepless nights, her insecurity, her anxiety. By the time she had finished talking, somehow Aziraphale was holding her and the baby at the same time which was good, because Crowley was having a moment and didn’t need any of them to see. The mother took her baby, gave Aziraphale one last squeeze and left with some tea leaves and a watery, but hopeful smile.
If Crowley had been anyone else, he would have swooned. Instead, he goaded Aziraphale into one of their favourite debates: whether cream or tea should go into the mug first. (Crowley insisted that putting the cream in first heated it more evenly, preventing curdling and “milk skin,” and Aziraphale argued that putting the milk in last added a nice layer of creaminess to the top and brought the first few sips to the perfect temperature.) They then proceeded to get pissed and cover several dozen other topics from aardvarks to zygotes and when Aziraphale had finally said goodnight, Crowley was overcome with feelings about letting him leave. He worried that he’d been so overcome with wine and emotions that his normal reticence had failed him.
It wouldn’t do to dwell, so as usual, Crowley threw himself into his work. He was good at this, had been sublimating his feelings for decades at this point, and by day fifteen with no sign of Aziraphale, he had nearly convinced himself that the faun had been visiting him out of pity and had either grown bored of him or was upset that Crowley had been using him for free labour. The whole thing with the baby and the upset mother, Aziraphale having to save Crowley from his own sorry social skills, must have been the last straw. Whatever the reason was, the friendship was over and that was fine. Crowley had been fine before Aziraphale appeared in his life, and he would be fine now. It was fine. He had just finished convincing himself when he heard Aziraphale’s tell-tale knock on the door.
His heart leapt, and he fiercely tamped it down again, vowing not to get swept up in any flights of fancy again. Aziraphale may take an interest in him from time to time, but there was clearly no future in it. He didn’t even want a future from it. He very explicitly did not care about that kind of thing.
He took a deep breath and opened the door. Aziraphale stood before him, well-groomed and holding flowers again. Crowley could feel himself scowling and reminded himself to school his features into a more neutral position, but it was too late. Aziraphale, who had been beaming when Crowley opened the door, suddenly looked distraught.
“Oh, Crowley, I am sorry,” he said.
“Sorry for what?” Crowley said, aiming for measured and probably failing. “You haven’t done anything.” He meant it to sting.
“Well, that’s just it, isn’t it?” Aziraphale said, shoulders drooping. “I’ve been so busy and haven’t stopped by. Though I did tell you I’d try to be back as soon as I could.”
“You did?” Crowley said, searching his memory.
“Yes, the last night we saw each other,” Aziraphale said. “I told you I was on the Midsummer planning committee and that we’d be busy with festival preparations.”
“I don’t remember any of this,” Crowley said, reeling.
“Well,” Aziraphale’s mouth turned up in a shy smile. “You were quite tipsy that evening.”
“Yeah, don’t usually get that, er—listen, Aziraphale, I didn’t say anything, er, or do anything to upset you?”
“Of course not!” Aziraphale said. “You were lovely, actually.”
“Lovely?” The word felt spiky in Crowley’s mouth.
Aziraphale’s cheeks went pink. “Yes, you were, well, soft. The hard edges worn down. Sweet. When I put you to bed, you called me an angel.”
Crowley ran a desperate hand through his hair. This was even worse than he’d imagined.
“Ah,” he said finally. “I guess that’s...good?”
“Very good,” Aziraphale agreed. There was no way Crowley was going to meet his eyes now. Aziraphale thrust the flowers into his line of vision. “These are for you.”
Crowley took them, still not looking up. “Thank you. Er, would you like to come in?”
“I’d love to, Crowley,” Aziraphale said, with what sounded like real regret. “But I have to get back to finish the preparations. I just snuck off for a bit, because, well...”
Crowley looked up at him then. Way up, to meet his anxious eyes. What on earth could be vexing this great, powerful, capable faun so?
“I wondered if you’d be my date? To the festival?” Aziraphale said, finally.
Crowley felt his stomach flip. “Am I allowed?” he asked. His first question after this astounding turn of events would be idiotic.
“Humans may take part in the celebrations as guests. You just wouldn’t be able to take part in the rituals. To be honest, they aren’t the fun part anyway. Necessary, just, you know, less drinking and dancing.”
Crowley quashed the urge to tell Aziraphale he’d love to share the boring bits with him, of any occasion. But then he thought about “drinking and dancing” and it dawned on him what Aziraphale might be asking.
“When, er, when you say ‘date,’ d’ya mean--”
“Ah, yes, to clarify, you would, er, be my partner for the evening. It would be understood that we’re together and not interested in, er, engaging with anyone else.”
Crowley blinked hard and made a concerted effort to steady his breathing.
“It’s well, it’s considered sort of... If you were to attend with me, we’d be seen as, well, you know.” Aziraphale continued.
Crowley thought he might know, but he needed to be sure. “I’m not sure I do know, angel,” a touch of his bastard side coming out as he watched the faun squirm.
“Well, it would be seen as me making a romantic overture to you.”
Crowley was a bit beside himself at this. Two weeks without a word (thought at least now he understood why) and now here was Aziraphale making a “romantic overture.” It was all quite a lot to take in in just a few moments here on the doorstep.
“I...yes,” Crowley found himself saying, realizing in the moment that he’d probably agree to anything Aziraphale asked of him. A startling discovery. “I’ll be your date.”
Aziraphale flapped his hands in joy, and though Crowley couldn’t see it, he imagined the short nub of his tail must be wagging a mile a minute. It was so disarming, Crowley wondered how anyone could ever think of Aziraphale as intimidating. Crowley, for example, was fighting the urge to throw his arms around him.
“Oh, jolly good,” the faun exclaimed. “I’ve been looking for an excuse to take you out practically since the day we met. My people don’t really go in for long courtships. When you see another faun you fancy and they fancy you as well, you just go right to…well, you get the idea. But with you, I got the sense you might like to take things more slowly.”
“Since we met?” Crowley croaked, still hung up on this detail. If he had known—well, if he had known, he would have had no idea what to do. A different kind of agonizing confusion, then.
“I was taken with you from the moment I saw you,” Aziraphale continued, excitedly. “If you had been one of my kind, I would have asked you to bed down right there in the grass.”
Crowley gulped.
“So sorry, my dear,” Aziraphale said, looking chagrined. “I do try to be sensitive to our cultural differences. In fact, I’ve done a fair amount of reading about human courtship practices. I must say, you lot are very patient.”
“You know more than I do, then,” Crowley chuckled awkwardly. “I’ve not courted nor been courted before. That is, some of my patients have tried to marry me off to their relatives. Sometimes to themselves. But that’s not the same thing, I suspect.”
Aziraphale looked aghast. “Oh, my dear, no one? Ever?” Crowley shook his head. Aziraphale chewed his lip. “Is—is courtship, even something that you want?” he asked, his voice gone timid.
Crowley shrugged. “It really wasn’t something I thought about until…”
“Until?”
“Until I met you, I suppose,” Crowley looked down at his feet. “Wasn’t important to me, and no one ever really ‘made sense’ in that way until you. Don’t really know how to explain it.”
Aziraphale laid a gentle hand on his shoulder. “So you do have feelings for me as well?”
Crowley looked up into those cornflower blue eyes, nearly translucent in the sun. “I s’pose I do.”
Aziraphale’s smile gave the sun a run for its money. “Oh, Crowley, I’m so glad. To think someone as beautiful, kind and special as you would be interested in me—”
“Not kind,” Crowley said, “Just practical. Most folk think I’m strange looking and even stranger acting.” Aziraphale shook his head.
“You’re stunning,” he said. “The first thing that caught my eye about you was that cascade of fiery hair. It only got better from there. Your lissome body, those clever hands, the sweet slope of your nose, those eyes—”
“Everyone hates my eyes,” Crowley looked away, feeling uncomfortable and overwhelmed.
“I don’t,” Aziraphale said, taking a step closer and brushing a strand of hair off of Crowley’s brow. Crowley shivered.
“I could gaze into them for hours,” Aziraphale said. Crowley took in a shuddering breath and stepped back. Chastened, so did Aziraphale. “Oh, I do hope I’m not coming on too strong,” he said softly.
“No, no,’ Crowley managed to say, his brain still trying to catch up. “Just a lot to take in, is all.”
“Yes, of course. Please don’t let me overwhelm you. I can go, give you some time.”
Crowley shook his head, as much to clear it as to reassure the faun. When he looked up at him again, Aziraphale was looking at him with such tenderness and concern that Crowley had a wild urge to cry. Instead, he did something that shocked them both.
“I would like to kiss you,” he said before he could talk himself out of it.
“Would you?” Aziraphale asked, his voice almost a whisper, eyes wide and awed.
“Yes,” Crowley said, squaring his shoulders. “Very much so.”
Aziraphale cupped his chin so, so gently that Crowley did feel his eyes start to well up. “I would like that too,” Aziraphale said. He bent low to capture Crowley’s lips and Crowley rose up on his toes to meet him. Aziraphale pulled him closer. Crowley, mindful of the flowers he was still holding, put his arms around Aziraphale’s impossibly broad back. Aziraphale's kiss was guiding but not controlling. Crowley was grateful. He did want this, and though he suspected that Aziraphale was holding back, he appreciated how careful the faun was being with this first contact between them. Crowley felt warm and safe and was just beginning to crave something more passionate when Aziraphale broke the kiss.
“Lovely,” the faun whispered. “Wish I could stay here and kiss you for hours.”
“Me too,” Crowley admitted, feeling bare but secure in Aziraphale’s arms.
“There will be time,” Aziraphale assured him. “I promise you that. Can you wait three more days for me?” he asked, eyes full of apprehension as if Crowley would ever deny him.
“Yes, of course,” Crowley said. He’d wait another fortnight or even two if there were another kiss like the one they’d just shared at the end of it.
“Good,” Aziraphale said. “I’ll be counting down the hours.” He reached into the pouch at his hip and pulled out a small piece of paper covered in elegant handwriting. He handed it to Crowley.
“The details of the celebration,” he explained. “I’d come to get you and escort you myself, but I unfortunately have commitments to the clan. Would it be too much to ask you to find your way there?”
Crowley smiled. “Course not, angel.”
“Thank you for being so understanding,” Aziraphale said, his gorgeous face serious. “I am devastated to say I must be off.” He took Crowley’s hand in his and brushed a kiss to his knuckles. “But I will see you soon.”
“Very soon, angel,” Crowley said.
Three days later, Crowley arrived at the edge of the wood, just outside the faun village as the sun was setting. He wasn’t allowed to join until the sun went down, but he was loathe to be late. He settled on a stump facing away from the village and practised his own ritual. He stilled his body and focused on his breath, not forcing himself to breathe in any particular way, just noticing the rise and fall of his chest, the feel of the air entering and leaving his body. He let the whole of the forest pass through his senses – the breeze on his skin, the warmth of the fading sun, the clicking of insects, the melody of the birds. He inhaled the sweetish smell of decaying leaves and sun-warmed grass, and breathed it out slowly. Behind him, he heard chanting, a call and response in faunish tongue. He recognized the caller’s voice as Aziraphale’s, the rich resonance of it cutting through the air and landing in the centre of Crowley’s chest. He knew he shouldn’t look, but that voice compelled him. He picked his way slightly closer to the edge of the wood and scrambled up a tall oak. From it’s branches, he could just barely make out a circle of fauns around a bonfire. Aziraphale was there, his pale hair glinting white-gold in the setting sun. He looked astonishingly beautiful, standing tall, his shoulders thrown back, warm clear voice ringing out.
Crowley also couldn’t help but notice that Aziraphale, like the other fauns, was not wearing a loincloth. This would stand to reason, of course. Fauns rarely wore clothing among their own kind, only covering up to appease the delicate sensibilities of humans and other conservative folk. Crowley normally wouldn’t think twice about nudity. Bodies were just bodies after all, just bone and muscle, viscera and sinew, bagged up in skin. But this was Aziraphale. He had feelings about Aziraphale and Aziraphale’s body. He was about to be up close to said body, dining and dancing with him. Crowley was, for the first time, about to see Aziraphale’s—
A twig snapped behind him and Crowley whipped his head around. The chanting had stopped and the light was fading fast, but he could still see the silhouette of a woman-shaped being walking toward his tree.
“Spying, are we?” the being called in a rich voice, dripping with mirth. “They are striking when they’re chanting in the altogether.”
Crowley briefly wished for a bolt of heat lightning to hit the tree and take him down with it.
“I’ve been invited,” he said weakly.
“As have I,” the woman said. “Come on down from there, we’ll walk in together. Strength in numbers. They won’t try to seduce us both if we present a united front.”
“Seduce us!” Crowley choked out, as he nearly lost his grip on the branch he was swinging down from.
The woman let out a raucous laugh. “Joking of course. They have better manners than that. Which is not to say one or more of them won’t give it a shot once the wine starts flowing.”
She came closer to him and stopped. “Oh! You’re the healer Aziraphale is so gaga over!”
“Herbalist,” Crowley said, now wishing the earth would open and consume him. “And you know that?”
“Course,” she said. “Everybody knows it. About time he made it official.”
Crowley suddenly had a flash of memory, of every patient who had visited him while Aziraphale had been assisting. Then he imagined how many of them might be prone to gossip, and how many of those might have been quicker on the uptake than Crowley himself and noticed that Aziraphale fancied him. Or worse, that Crowley fancied Aziraphale. Lightning and earth weren’t enough. He needed to be tossed into the surface of the sun.
“I’m Anathema,” the woman said jauntily, either ignoring or thoroughly enjoying Crowley’s discomfort. “Itinerant witch.” She put out a hand and Crowley shook it absently, still on fire with embarrassment.
“Come on,” she said, offering her arm to him. “You’re about to have the best night of your life.”
Dusk was rapidly becoming night as Crowley and Anathema entered the village together. The bonfire was roaring, the light nearly blinding Crowley, leaving him blinking as a large figure walked toward them.
“Aziraphale!” Anathema called, beckoning the faun over. Either Anathema had some arcane method of eye protection, or was just smart enough not to look directly into the flames. The figure, who had been identified as Aziraphale, came closer, his rich voice ringing out.
“Anathema!” he boomed warmly, and then more quietly, “Crowley!” with, was it awe? Couldn’t be. He’d seen Crowley plenty of times before. Crowley had dressed up a bit, but wasn’t so tarted up that he should elicit that kind of look.
Abruptly, he was gathered up into strong arms, completely surrounded by the breadth and strength of Aziraphale’s body. “You look stunning,” Aziraphale said into Crowley’s hair. He took a deep inhale. “Smell amazing too.”
Crowley had washed with lavender and vanilla soap, scents he knew Aziraphale liked. He’d worn his best summer clothes, a long black linen tunic, embroidered with snakes and insects in deep, red thread by Agnes herself. He’d paired it with silk hose and soft, black leather boots. Aziraphale held him at arms’ length to look him over again.
“I’m going to go find food and drink,” Anathema said loudly, poking Crowley in the ribs. “Pleasure to meet you, Crowley,” she said.
“Oh, sorry, dear,” Aziraphale said, prying his eyes away from Crowley’s face to acknowledge her. “Lets catch up later tonight.”
“If you’re unoccupied!” Anathema called over her shoulder as she sauntered away.
Aziraphale shook his head as he watched her walk away. “She really is a dear woman, if a bit piquant,” Aziraphale said. He looked back at Crowley. “How did the two of you happen to meet?”
“Er, bumped into each other in the wood,” Crowley said, nearly telling the whole truth.
“You should spend some time with her,” Aziraphale said, “I think you’d be fast friends.” Aziraphale pulled him close again and Crowley felt minuscule in his embrace. “Later, though,” he whispered. “Tonight, you’re mine.”
Crowley’s knees nearly buckled. Not that it would have mattered if they did. Aziraphale could have braced him as if he weighed nothing. God he was huge. Speaking of that, Crowley still hadn’t seen—
Aziraphale pulled him up into a lusty kiss, deep and searching, so different than their first kiss. Crowley melted into it, letting Aziraphale hold him up, the faun’s tongue sliding hot into Crowley’s mouth. A sound rose unbidden from the depths of Crowley’s belly, turning into a whine as it reached his throat. Aziraphale pressed closer, and he felt the faun’s half-hard cock twitch against his belly.
The faun pulled back a bit, breathing hard. "I almost want to just take you back to my hut so we can take the edge off,” he growled, his eyes fathomless in the dark, his hair a halo backlit by the fire. “Would you want that?” he purred.
Crowley’s eyes flitted downward without his permission, and he swallowed hard. Aziraphale’s cock was as big as the rest of him, even in its current not quite tumescent state. Crowley felt a tingle of anxiety mixed with anticipation. Would it even be possible?
Aziraphale tipped Crowley’s head up with two fingers under his chin. “Don’t worry,” he said. “I’ll be gentle with it.” His eyes bored into Crowley’s. “Unless you don’t want me to be.”
Crowley, in his inexperience, had no idea what he might want. He’d never taken more than his own two fingers inside himself, and even that was fairly rare. But something was sparking inside of him as he was pulled into Aziraphale’s orbit. He wanted to try, and he trusted Aziraphale to take care of him. He pressed into Aziraphale and went up on his toes to nip at the faun’s neck.
“I want you,” Crowley said. Aziraphale rumbled and pulled him up for another kiss, lifting him off of his feet, one strong arm around his waist, the other under his arse. Crowley swooned, something he previously thought himself incapable of. A needy whine escaped his throat which only seemed to fuel Aziraphale’s desire. The hand on his waist skidded up his back to the nape of his neck, fingers spreading into Crowley’s hair.
Crowley was coming apart at the seams. He’d never been so surrounded and held so safely in his life. The whole world was Aziraphale—the rippling muscles of his arms, the coarse drag of his furred thighs, the heady taste and pressure of his tongue. Crowley tried to bring some of the presence from his earlier meditation to this moment, letting every sensation pass over and through him. He’d gone so long without needing this, and now he wasn’t sure he’d ever get enough.
He was just about to will himself to break the kiss so he could suggest that they go back to Aziraphale’s hut after all, when a voice boomed behind them.
“Aziraphale! Aren’t you going to introduce us to your new mate?”
Aziraphale growled lowly, in an altogether more aggressive manner. He gently eased Crowley down and turned to face the two fauns that had approached them, positioning Crowley at his side and slightly back, a protective gesture.
Crowley was still reeling from being called Aziraphale’s mate. He knew coming here would imply something about their relationship as Aziraphale had explained, but he didn’t think it would mean they were committed. Crowley was unmoored. It wasn’t that he didn’t want that, it was just that the two of them hadn’t spoken about it, and now here they were in front of Aziraphale’s, well, they didn’t seem like friends, but—
“We are not yet promised,” Aziraphale said, his voice more strident and cool than Crowley had ever heard it.
“You brought him to Midsummer and snogged him like that in front of everyone and you’re not even promised?” sneered the shorter faun, (short was a relative descriptor, they were about Crowley’s height) who had not spoken till now. “I knew you were hard up for it, but that’s cheap even for you, Az.”
“It’s really none of your business,” Aziraphale said, his voice steely, fists clenched. Crowley also thought he noticed a flinch when the shorter faun shortened his name. Crowley didn’t like it either. It felt mocking and overly familiar. The taller faun looked Crowley up and down disdainfully.
“I think you’ll find that it is our business,” he said. “It’s important that members of the Elders’ Council set a good example for the young ones and that includes choice of mate.”
“Gabriel,” Aziraphale said through gritted teeth. “Do you recall how the Council reacted when you were promised to Beez, here? A faun from a rival clan? And how I supported you both?”
“And I am grateful for it,” Gabriel said grandly with a smile that did not reach his eyes. “But I think you can appreciate how this situation is different.”
“How, Gabriel?” Aziraphale growled. “How exactly is it different?”
“C’mon, Azzie, I’m just trying to help you. Think of it as me returning the favour.” Gabriel unleashed another smarmy smile and gave Beez a rough squeeze. Beez scowled up at him.
“I want to hear you say it,” Aziraphale said. Crowley wasn’t even touching him but could sense that his whole body had gone rigid with anger. “Tell me why you think this isn’t an appropriate match.”
Gabriel’s false magnanimity fell away, and even Beez stepped back as the tension mounted.
“You know why,” Gabriel snarled.
“Say it,” Aziraphale said. “I know you want to. Just say it.”
Gabriel squared his shoulders, his face full of rage. “Because he’s a naked worm, a tailless un-ungulate! And you should know you only fuck them, you don’t mate them!”
Crowley had heard that there was a small contingent of fauns who insisted on genetic purity, but as far as he knew they were a fringe subset. This was the first time he’d been faced with this kind of hatred so openly. It was upsetting to be sure, but he was more concerned about the coiled spring of Aziraphale’s body next to him.
Almost quicker than Crowley could perceive, Aziraphale reared up and to the left and crashed his horns down against Gabriel’s. The sound of it was like a crack of thunder. Gabriel stumbled backward and went down on his arse with a resounding thud.
“What the fuck, Aziraphale?” Gabriel mumbled, dazed from the impact.
“Serves you right,” Beez said, hauling him up by one arm with preternatural strength. “Even I wouldn’t use those words.” Gabriel got to his feet and leaned hard on his mate. “I’m not wrong!” he bellowed.
“You are,” Beez said. “You’re an idiot. Let’s get you cleaned up. I don’t want to miss the feast. Don’t worry,” they said turning to Aziraphale and Crowley. “I’ll keep this muttonhead out of your way. Tonight’s not the night for it, but you can sort it out between yourselves later. I’ll talk some sense into him in the meantime.”
Beez bodily dragged Gabriel away in a manner belying their size, grumbling as they went. Aziraphale took Crowley gently by the elbow and led him away, closer to the edge of the wood and our of earshot of Gabriel and Beez and the other revellers. “I’m so sorry,” he said to Crowley.
Crowley shrugged. “Not your fault he’s a bigot.”
“Even so,” Aziraphale said. “I shouldn’t have goaded him. We have a long history of—” he seemed to consider his words, as if searching for the most diplomatic phrasing. “Disagreements,” he said at last. “We’re both on the Council and we frequently clash, but it goes back even before that, to childhood.” He stopped and took Crowley’s hand. “I promise you’re safe with me. Gabriel is one of the few amongst us with such repellent beliefs. I understand, though, if you don’t feel safe here or with...with me. I’ll gladly take you home if you like.”
Crowley was a bit shaken, and under different circumstances he probably would have left. But he trusted Aziraphale and knew, especially after that frankly magnificent display, that he was safe.
“I’ll stay,” Crowley said. “And I believe you. That I’m safe with you.”
“I promise you are,” Aziraphale said solemnly.
“There’s only one thing that’s bothering me,” Crowley said.
“What’s that?” Aziraphale asked. He grasped Crowley’s other hand and searched his face, ever solicitous.
“I thought you said you’re not a fighter?” Crowley’s mouth turned up in a smirk. Aziraphale scoffed.
“I’m not! Usually,” he insisted. “I suppose it just depends on whether or not I’ve got something worth fighting for.”
Crowley felt himself blush. There were so many things he wanted to say, but he feared this moment becoming even more vulnerable than it already was. He also knew that Aziraphale had worked hard on this festival and he deserved to enjoy it.
“C’mon, angel,” he said. “Let’s have fun?”
Aziraphale laughed. “Why do you say it as if it’s a question?”
“Dunno,” Crowley shrugged. “Not used to having fun if I’m honest.”
Aziraphale giggled. “Well, then. Let me tempt you.” He took Crowley’s hand and with a blinding smile, pulled him into the celebration.
Crowley danced. He wasn’t sure he had ever danced in his life. Maybe as a young child, before his strangeness had led his family to discard him. But now here he was, letting Aziraphale guide him through the steps of a reel. He was patient and kind as Crowley clumsily followed the steps. Crowley thought of himself as agile and aware of his body. It was important in his line of work. But the dance left him flummoxed. After a short while, however, with Aziraphale's patient instruction, it suddenly came to him in a flash of understanding. He began moving through the steps with some competence if not exactly grace. Aziraphale, on the other hand, was impressively light on his hooves, stepping and spinning with contagious joy. His cheeks and chest were flushed with exertion and Crowley wished there was some way to capture him like this. Aziraphale was vital and magnetic. Other dancers lit up when they got a turn with him. Crowley was struck by how lucky he was that this golden creature had turned his attentions to him. He begged off the next dance claiming exhaustion (the truth) and stood at the edge of the crowd of dancers, sipping chilled wine and admiring his date.
A presence appeared at his elbow as he watched. “He’s quite the catch,” Anathema said, taking a long draught of her wine. “Which means you must be something special. There were quite a few disappointed fauns here tonight when you showed up as his date.”
Crowley looked down, not quite knowing how to respond. “No idea what he sees in me.” He looked up and followed Aziraphale with his eyes as he laughed and danced. Aziraphale could have anyone he wanted and he had chosen Crowley.
Anathema scoffed beside him. “Are you serious?” she asked. Crowley turned to her, perplexed. She gave him an appraising look. “You’re gorgeous, Crowley. Don’t you ever look at yourself?”
“Not really, no,” he answered truthfully.
Anathema snorted. “Well, you are. And I happen to have excellent taste. And you have a reputation.”
“A reputation?” Crowley didn’t like how that had come out dangerously close to a squawk.
“A reputation,” Anathema repeated, nodding. “As a talented, generous healer. Exactly the kind of man our Aziraphale would be interested in.”
“Just doing my job, and I’m not a healer. I’m just the strange plant man of the wood.”
Anathema turned to him and gave him a piercing look. “You are more than a ‘plant man.’ You have a knack. Maybe even something more than a knack. I’d need more time to figure it out.”
Crowley’s eyebrows knitted, “You’re not suggesting--”
“There were rumours about your aunt, you know,” Anathema said. Before Crowley could latch onto this, Anathema continued. “At any rate, you take good care of folk and you do it with love. I’d wager that’s what Aziraphale is attracted to. Aside from the glorious head of hair and the pert little arse.”
Crowley absolutely did not have a response for any of this. Luckily, he was saved when a handsome but bumbling young faun came tumbling out of the crowd toward them. He looked at Crowley and then at Anathema and his eyes widened. Anathema shook her head and tsked. “Nothing to worry about, Newt,” she said to the young faun. “He’s with Aziraphale.” She set her wine mug down on a nearby table.
“If you’ll excuse me,” she said, winking at Crowley. She took the faun by the hand and twirled him into the dancing crowd. The faun tripped over his hooves briefly before recovering and gazing at his partner with open admiration.
Crowley’s eyes searched the crowd for Aziraphale and as if he had sensed Crowley’s gaze, the faun turned and sought him out as well. He smiled and disentangled himself from the dance, making a beeline for Crowley. Crowley blushed as he watched him saunter forward, his torso glistening with perspiration, cheeks glowing, hair mussed. Crowley willed himself not to let his eyes scan downward, but they went anyway, seeking out the massive, golden-furred thighs and the thick cock that swung between them.
Crowley took a belt of his wine and barely tasted it. They should spend a little more time here. Aziraphale was in his element and he had done so much work to make the night a success. The wine was flowing, the bonfire was roaring and the tables were groaning with delicious food. He should let Aziraphale enjoy his accomplishment before they left for other activities.
And then Aziraphale was standing before him, radiating heat and musky with exertion. Crowley felt himself inexorably pulled to him, found himself wanting to swipe his tongue up the rivulets of sweat running down that broad chest, to inhale the scent from his neck, to slide down the faun’s body and bury his face between the shaggy fur on those thighs. When he looked up into Aziraphale’s face, he saw the faun scanning him with a look so hungry Crowley felt it in his chest. He came close to Crowley, leaving the scantest gap between them. He grasped Crowley’s waist, easily covering half of it with his broad hand.
“What do you think,” he asked, circling the remaining half of Crowley’s waist with his other hand, “about taking some food with us and going back to my hut?”
Crowley’s heart was thundering. This was real. This was really happening.
“But the festival,” Crowley said weakly. “Don’t you need to be here for it?”
Aziraphale looked around at the revellers who were getting handsier with each other and more inebriated by the moment.
“We can stay if you like, but my role in the celebration is done. The festival will proceed deep into the night and well into the next morning with or without me. And,” here he pulled Crowley into him, and Crowley gasped as he felt Aziraphale’s hardening length press into his belly, “things are about to get positively debauched around here, and if I’m being honest, Crowley, I’d rather have you to myself for our first time rather than in the middle of a drunken orgy.”
A noise bubbled up inside of Crowley and emerged as something between a whine and a moan. “Yes,” he croaked, pressing closer against Aziraphale’s front, earning a tortured grunt from the faun. “Let’s go.”
Aziraphale blessed him with a different kind of smile than the ones Crowley had seen before, one that was crooked and louche and could only be described as lewd. “Just a moment,” Aziraphale said and walked over to a nearby table. He reached under and pulled out a large oilcloth bag. He began carefully choosing foods from the table and placing them gently inside. “Anything you’d like in particular, dear?” he asked as he plucked a particularly plump lemon tart from a platter and placed it in the bag. Crowley couldn’t help but laugh. Here was the faun he was going to spend the night with, still half hard, dropping delicacies into a bag. For someone who just weeks go had had no intention of spending the night with anyone, possibly for the rest of his life, it was delightfully absurd.
“What’s so funny?” Aziraphale said through a mouthful of grape he had just plucked from the bunch he was dropping into the bag. He turned to Crowley with an offended hand on his hip. Crowley couldn’t resist. He walked up to the faun and went up on his tiptoes to kiss the frown off his face. Then he plucked another grape from the bag and popped it between the faun’s lush, pink lips. Aziraphale chewed gratefully and made a little noise of delight that Crowley hoped he would be able to elicit from him again later.
“Just can’t believe how lucky I am,” Crowley said, tossing an arm around Aziraphale’s waist and burying his face in the faun’s chest. “Take whatever you like, angel. I have a feeling everything is good. Probably because you planned the menu.”
Aziraphale put the bag down on a table and gathered Crowley into a hug. “I did,” he said into Crowley’s hair. “And I’m the lucky one.” He released Crowley after one last squeeze. “All right. Just a few last things and then we’ll go. Don’t think I can wait much longer,” he said, chucking Crowley’s chin. He finished filling the bag with a few more choice items, then took Crowley by the hand.
“This way,” he said, pointing toward a secluded path through the wood. “Otherwise we’ll be stuck saying goodbyes into the wee hours.”
Crowley chuckled and followed him into the wood.
Aziraphale’s hut was larger than Crowley’s cottage. The garden was wild and Crowley’s fingers itched to tame it. He vowed to bring it up to Aziraphale later when their minds were clear. Aziraphale paused at the doorstep and turned to Crowley.
“I’ve tried to tidy up, but I’ve been busy these past few weeks and, well, I’m not the greatest housekeeper at the best of times.”
Crowley ran a hand up Aziraphale’s chest and reached up to cup his chin. “You’re all I’m going to be looking at, angel.” Shocked at his own audacity (Had he ever flirted before? This truly was a night of firsts), he blushed and made to remove his hand. Aziraphale caught it and brought it to his lips.
“I don’t deserve you, my darling Crowley,” he murmured, gently kissing Crowley’s knuckles. The words “my darling Crowley,” reverberated through his head until he couldn’t think of anything else. Aziraphale kept hold of his hand as he turned to open the door. Then he whirled round on Crowley with a grin and pulled him inside.
The faun took a few steps inside and lit a lamp on a table next to a vast, sumptuous armchair. The interior of the hut was bathed in a low, warm glow. As Crowley’s eyes adjusted to the dim light, he was struck not by any mess (the hut was cluttered but cosy, and smelled of lemon and soap as if it had just been mopped and dusted) but by the shelves lining every wall, all of them filled with books.
“You do like to read,” Crowley said, awed by the collection.
Aziraphale chuckled. “I do. You’re welcome to peruse these in the morning if you like.” He flitted about the room lighting lamps and then trotted into the kitchen to stuff the bag of food into the larder, tail wagging furiously all the while. When he finished, he approached Crowley and took both of his hands in his. Crowley was once again awestruck by the difference in their size. His belly flipped and fluttered. He’d never been to sea before, but imagined this must be what it felt like to be tossed about on a wave.
Aziraphale’s eyes glittered in the lamp light. “I want to be with you tonight, Crowley,” he said, his voice warm but serious. “In whatever way you feel comfortable.”
“I...I’m not sure what I want exactly, but I want to be with you too.”
Aziraphale smiled. “You aren’t always so…” he seemed to be searching carefully for the next word. “...forthcoming. About your needs,” he finished. “But I need you to be now. It’s OK if you don’t know what you want, but you must tell me if I suggest something that you don’t want.”
Crowley nodded. “I can do that,” he said, becoming sure of it in the moment. He knew Aziraphale wouldn’t be able to bear hurting him, and he knew he couldn’t bear hurting Aziraphale by letting him.
“Good,” Aziraphale said, releasing Crowley’s hands and sliding his own up to circle his wrists, dwarfing them in his grasp. Crowley had a sudden realization that Aziraphale could snap him in half with very little effort, especially after witnessing him tangle with Gabriel just a few hours earlier. But Aziraphale’s touches were gentle, careful in the sense that he could tell Aziraphale was taking care, his intention evident in every caress.
His hands covered Crowley’s biceps, then his shoulders. Then one was threading into his hair while the other wrapped around his waist and pulled him closer. He leaned down as Crowley rose up on his toes, a move that was becoming instinctual. Aziraphale kissed him, softly at first, warming him up. Crowley was grateful. As much as he wanted this, he needed some easing in. Especially since—oh gods he had to tell him, didn’t he?
Crowley pulled away slightly and willed himself to look up into Aziraphale’s eyes. “What is it, darling?” Aziraphale asked, voice full of concern.
“You should know,” Crowley started, taking a deep breath. “I’ve never...I haven’t...” He looked up and to the side to gather his thoughts. Aziraphale had asked him to be forthcoming and he could do that, for him.
“I’ve never been with anyone before,” he said finally, voice only wavering a little bit.
“Oh, my darling boy,” Aziraphale said, pulling him into an embrace. “Thank you for telling me.”
“I just thought you should know. It doesn’t change how I feel about you, or what I want,” Crowley said into Aziraphale’s chest. “But it will explain my fumbling.” Aziraphale’s laugh rumbled pleasantly against Crowley’s cheek.
“You’ve been a natural so far,” Aziraphale assured him.
“Been thinking about it quite a bit,” Crowley admitted.
Aziraphale made a noise between a growl and a purr.
“Have you, now? When you feel comfortable, you must tell me exactly what you’ve been thinking about.”
“Reckon I will,” Crowley said. “Someday.” He looked up at Aziraphale’s gentle face. “Never really thought about it much before you.” He was feeling bolder by the second. “I’d touch myself now and then, but it was just something I had to do to get it over with. Like maintenance. S’different with you. I never thought I’d want it with anyone else. But I do. With you.”
“Thank you for telling me all this, Crowley,” Aziraphale said, “And I will do everything I can to be worthy of your trust.” He ran a warm, broad hand up and down Crowley’s back. A long moment passed where they didn’t speak, Crowley just basking in the feeling of safety while Aziraphale soothed him. It felt so good. Crowley had a feeling that if he asked Aziraphale to just take him to bed and rub his back like this until they fell asleep, the faun would agree without argument. But as Crowley breathed Aziraphale in, felt the firm warmth of his chest against his cheek, lost himself in the strength of his arms, he knew he did want more.
He looked up at the faun and his expression must have betrayed him because Aziraphale let out a rumbling sigh when their eyes met.
“Gods what you do to me,” Aziraphale murmured, and Crowley felt the faun’s cock twitch against him. It stoked the spark in the pit of Crowley’s belly.
“Will you take me to bed, angel?” Crowley asked, looking up at him through his lashes.
Aziraphale rumbled deep in his chest. “Of course I will,” he said, and suddenly Crowley was lifted off his feet. Aziraphale had him cradled in a bridal carry, walking him to a corner of the hut partitioned by a thick curtain. He kicked the curtain aside and laid Crowley down on a plush grass pallet covered in soft woollen and linen coverlets and many, many cushions.
Aziraphale settled in next to Crowley, laying on his side. Crowley turned to face him. The bed smelled clean and fresh, like linens washed in good soap and dried in sunshine. It also smelled of Aziraphale, and more importantly, Aziraphale, who was pressed up against him now, smelled potently of Aziraphale. A scent so intoxicating Crowley wished he could bottle it so he could spread it over his chest at night before he went to sleep.
Aziraphale brushed Crowley’s hair away from his forehead and his hand slid down and lingered on Crowley’s cheek. Crowley rubbed against the faun’s palm like a cat, closing his eyes. Aziraphale ran his thumb over Crowley’s slightly parted lips.
“Can I kiss you again?” Aziraphale asked.
“Please,” Crowley whispered. Aziraphale’s hand moved to Crowley’s shoulder and he gathered him in. He pressed his lips to Crowley’s, gently at first, taking Crowley’s lower lip between his own, then pressed a little harder, his tongue slipping out just barely to taste Crowley’s lips. Crowley felt liquid heat in his chest and belly. It had been an evening of stops and starts and he couldn’t bear it any longer. He wanted to keep going.
He pushed Aziraphale over, or rather, he pressed at Aziraphale’s shoulders, and Aziraphale humoured him by rolling onto his back as if Crowley had pushed him. Crowley straddled Aziraphale’s hips, his legs barely long enough to bracket the bulk of them. He braced his palms on the faun’s chest and kneaded gently, relishing the softness that gave way to hard muscle. He ran his hands down over the curve of Aziraphale’s belly, scratched his nails through the softer hair just below his navel. The faun’s cock was hard and flushed between his legs, flexing against the base of his belly, leaving a damp spot in the hair there. Crowley’s mouth watered. He marvelled again at the sheer size of it, thick as Crowley’s wrist, nearly as long as his forearm. He was ravenous to take it and at the same time, had no idea how he possibly could. Aziraphale had said he would be gentle. Crowley had faith that he would show him how.
Crowley dragged fingers through the thick hair on Aziraphale’s thighs. “Can I touch you?” he whispered, trembling too hard to trust his voice.
“Yes, but,” Aziraphale licked his lips. “I’d like...if it’s OK, I’d like to see you.” He fingered the hem of Crowley’s tunic which had ridden up his thighs. Crowley had forgotten he was even wearing clothes in the fog of his desire. He tugged thoughtlessly at the hem of the tunic, eager to divest himself of it, suddenly avid to have Aziraphale’s hands on his skin. Aziraphale chuckled and put a hand over his.
“There’s no rush,” he said, brushing Crowley’s hands away and taking hold of the linen himself. “It’s such a lovely garment, I’d hate to see you rip it.” Aziraphale sat up and lifted the tunic over Crowley’s head, laying it carefully to the side. Working together, they wriggled Crowley out of his hose until he was bare in Aziraphale’s lap. The faun’s hands caressed reverently over Crowley’s chest and belly before he laid back again. Crowley shivered at the gentle touch and withdrawal.
“Gorgeous,” Aziraphale said, eyes roving over him. “As stunning as the first time I saw you.”
Crowley felt his blush spread from his cheeks, down his neck, to his chest. He bit his lip and looked down again. Aziraphale groaned and his hips bucked slightly. “Gods, even your gaze feels like a touch,” he murmured. Crowley let out a breath that ended on a whine as his hand dipped down between Aziraphale’s legs. He tried to forget about his inexperience and try the kinds of touches that felt good to him. He brushed his knuckles over the faun’s perineum and then pressed lightly there. Aziraphale moaned. Crowley was pleased to find he he was on the right track. He kept going, opening his hand and rolling Aziraphale’s bollocks in his palm.
“Gods,” Aziraphale whispered, undulating beneath him. Crowley lingered a bit longer, kneading at the silken skin of Aziraphale’s heavy bollocks before wrapping his hand around the faun’s straining cock. He pumped once, twice, hand gliding up from the base, running his thumb over the slit of the broad head. It put Crowley in mind of a plum, roughly the same size, glistening and ripe.
“Fuck,” Aziraphale moaned. “Thought about your hands on me. When I watched you work.” He grunted as Crowley pumped him faster and twisted his wrist, groping at Aziraphale’s balls again with his other hand. “They’re so deft,” Aziraphale continued, “Dextrous. Knew they’d be good, knew you’d be good, knew those fingers would be long enough to wrap around me.”
Crowley stroked him faster, grip firm but gentle, his eyes tracking every minute movement of the faun’s face, every hitch of breath, making a study of it. “Just barely long enough,” Crowley said, watching his own fingers working Aziraphale over, barely closing around his girth. He leaned forward, still stroking, bracing his other hand on the bedding next to Aziraphale’s side. He leaned down to cover Aziraphale’s body with his, pressing the faun’s cock into his concave belly, still cupping it in his hand. He couldn’t reach Aziraphale’s face, so he mouthed at his plush chest. Aziraphale caught him by the elbow and pulled him up bodily. Crowley went happily, though he immediately missed the silky firmness of Aziraphale’s cock in his palm. Aziraphale pulled him up into a kiss. There was no trepidation now. Aziraphale explored Crowley’s mouth with his tongue, nibbled at his lips. He seemed to be particularly smitten with Crowley’s lower lip, sucking it between his own lips, laving over it, nipping at it.
Crowley felt himself melt against the mass of Aziraphale’s body, subsumed by it. His own cock was solid and leaking, trapped between his belly and Aziraphale’s. It was nowhere near enough friction but it was a delicious pressure, and at this point, he was so worked up, he wasn’t sure he wouldn’t blow at the slightest stroke.
Aziraphale’s hands were on his arse, groping at the scant flesh there as they kissed. The stretch and pull was tantalizing, Aziraphale’s hands sometimes separating his cheeks enough that he felt a tingling stretch that shot him through with desire for more. As if reading his mind, Aziraphale’s fingers crept toward the centre of him, his middle finger just ghosting over Crowley’s wanting hole. Crowley pulled back from the kiss. “You can,” he panted. “You can touch me there.”
Aziraphale groaned and pressed a finger against Crowley’s entrance. Gods, he wasn’t even inside yet and Crowley was alight, grinding his cock against Aziraphale’s belly, leaving a damp trail in its wake. Aziraphale circled and pressed at him, teasing him. Crowley pressed back with a wanton arch of his back, but Aziraphale held fast.
“Gods but you’re tempting,” he growled. “But not yet. Can you wait just a bit longer for me?”
“Yes,” Crowley breathed, though he was desperate for Aziraphale to enter him. He could wait. He could wait forever for Aziraphale if he had to. Luckily, he guessed he wouldn’t have to wait very long. Aziraphale’s face was flushed and glowing with perspiration and Crowley could feel the faun’s cock flexing and tapping against his arsecheek. Aziraphale lifted him again, and as long as he lived, Crowley would never get over being lifted and placed as if he weighed nothing. The faun plopped him down so that Crowley was straddling his thighs again, their erections brushing. Crowley’s jumped at the contact. He looked down between them and marvelled at how Aziraphale's outstripped his. Crowley had seen plenty of unclothed bodies in his time in a purely clinical context, and though he didn’t tend to compare bodies to each other, much less to his own, he had a decent idea of where his own penis fell on the bell curve of human genitalia size. He knew, in other words, that he was well above average, a fact that had meant nothing to him until this moment.
“Fuck,” he whispered, looking down at them both, his mouth falling open.
“That’s right,” Aziraphale said, reaching down between them. He grasped both of them in his massive fist, pressing them together and beginning to stroke, carefully, so, so carefully as if he were afraid of hurting Crowley.
“More,” Crowley found himself saying, “I can take it. Harder.” Aziraphale groaned beneath him and pumped them with greater fervour. Crowley surged up, fucking into Aziraphale’s fist, against the warm velvet of his rigid cock, his bollocks slapping against the wide base of it.
“Fuck,” Aziraphale sounded broken, “You’re incredible, so keen. I could watch you take your pleasure over and over.” Crowley wailed at that, Aziraphale’s deep, resonant voice settling in his core and warming him from the inside out. Crowley felt the pressure of his orgasm building low in his abdomen and knew he could come like this, but it was too soon. He wanted—
“Aziraphale,” he managed to say, “It’s so good, you’re so good, but I’m going to— and I want—”
Aziraphale stopped stroking them and Crowley could have wept, though he knew he didn’t want to come yet, that he had asked for this.
“Good boy,” Aziraphale purred, “Tell me what you want.” The praise almost put Crowley over the edge again.
“I want— I want you to—,” He could say it. He would. Aziraphale, beautiful, kind, generous Aziraphale was here, looking at him with a face open and full of wonder, stroking the outside of his thigh with his thumb as if to reassure him. Crowley made an attempt to steady his breathing.
“I want you inside of me,” he said finally, eyes closed, unable to look at Aziraphale’s tender face while he made this confession. “I want you to fuck me.”
“Oh, darling,” Aziraphale rumbled. “Are you sure? We can take it slow. I’d hate to—”
“I know you’ll take care of me,” Crowley interrupted him. He forced himself to open his eyes. Aziraphale’s brows were knitted, his lips parted. Crowley felt like weeping again, this time at the sweet vulnerability of Aziraphale’s expression.
“I swear I will,” Aziraphale whispered, running a reverent hand up Crowley’s flank. “Promise me you’ll stop me if it’s too much.”
“I promise,” Crowley said. He scrambled up Aziraphale’s body to meet his lips. “Please fuck me.” He kissed Aziraphale, putting all his belief and desire into it. Aziraphale growled into his mouth, and lifted him with his hands under his arse, not breaking the kiss. He sat them both up, keeping one hand under Crowley’s arse, holding him against his chest. With the other, he rummaged along the edge of the pallet among the pile of blankets. His hand came back with a vial of oil. Crowley had a flash of insight, picturing Aziraphale with that vial beside his bed and imagining what he might do with it when he was alone. He made a mental note to ask about it later. Right now he only wanted whatever Aziraphale had to give him.
The faun handed the vial to Crowley. “Be a dear and open this for me? My other hand is rather occupied at the moment,” Aziraphale gave Crowley’s bum an affectionate squeeze to prove his point. Crowley chuckled and opened the vial. Aziraphale proffered two fingers to him. “Would you do the honours?” Aziraphale asked.
Crowley poured a generous dollop of oil onto Aziraphale’s outstretched fingers and rubbed the oil over them in a deliberately suggestive manner. Aziraphale smiled and pulled him into another kiss. Crowley could taste the sunshine of his grin. The kiss grew more sensual, more desperate as Aziraphale reached behind Crowley and traced his forefinger around his entrance. Crowley moaned into his mouth, hungry for more. Aziraphale broke the kiss.
“You want it, don’t you,” he said against Crowley’s lips, “You’re desperate for it.”
Crowley nodded. “Yes,” he whispered. Aziraphale pushed a finger in slowly, just up to the first knuckle. Even that stretch felt huge and Crowley clenched around the broad intrusion.
“Gods you’re tight,” Aziraphale said, pushing in a little more. “But so eager. Feels like you’re sucking me right in." Crowley buried his face in Aziraphale’s shoulder. More overwhelmed by Aziraphale’s words than the finger inside him. Gods, but he wanted it, needed more. He pushed his hips down, taking Aziraphale’s finger fully inside him and moaned against that muscled shoulder, grazing his teeth against it.
“Fuck, Crowley,” Aziraphale said. “That’s right, take what you need.” Crowley’s thighs flexed around Aziraphale’s flanks and he rose and fell a few times, growing accustomed to the stretch. His cock had flagged a bit at the initial entry but was rapidly filling again, pulsing against Aziraphale’s belly.
“Do you think you can take another, my darling?” Aziraphale asked, sounding breathless. Crowley lifted his head and nodded. “Yes,” he said, never more sure of anything in his life. “Yes, please.”
Aziraphale slid his second finger in behind the first, so slowly and so carefully. Crowley breathed through the sting and stretch, willing himself to relax against it. “You’re doing so well, dear,” Aziraphale soothed. “Fuck, the way you pulse. I can only imagine how you’re going to feel around my cock.”
That filthy murmur had an immediate effect on Crowley. He wailed and fucked back onto Aziraphale’s fingers impaling himself on them over and over. Impossibly, it wasn’t enough, even though those two fingers, so much broader than his own, were more than he’d ever taken before.
“Give it to me,” Crowley panted, lifting up on his hands and looking directly into Aziraphale’s face, still bouncing on his fingers. “I need your cock.” Aziraphale withdrew his fingers and pulled Crowley in for a desperate kiss.
“You’re a wonder,” he said, drawing back. “Of course you can have it.” He repositioned them so that he was sitting upright with Crowley straddling his lap. They kissed again, Crowley going up on his knees and taking Aziraphale’s face in his hands, licking into Aziraphale’s mouth as if he were trying to map every part of it, take the measure of it, make himself a part of it. He let his hands wander, drunk on Aziraphale’s flesh, filling his hands with the faun’s shoulders, biceps, chest, flanks, and belly. He had never felt so ravenous. He couldn’t get his fill.
Aziraphale must have felt the same way. His own hands roved over Crowley’s skin, leaving heat and spark in their wake. Crowley felt the ghost of the faun’s touch on his body even after his hands had moved on. He felt Aziraphale’s cock brush his tail bone and up his spine and suddenly remembered why they’d gotten into this position. Crowley was struck with the thought that he could have Aziraphale inside him and still have his hands all over the faun’s skin.
Crowley reached to the side and located the vial of oil. “Gods yes,” Aziraphale groaned as Crowley coated his fingers and reached behind himself to slick Aziraphale’s cock. He raised up, high as could go, his calves sliding against the lustrous hair on Aziraphale’s legs. He pressed the blunt head of Aziraphale’s cock against his entrance. Slick as it was, even after having Aziraphale’s two thick fingers inside him, and in spite of the fact that he had rarely wanted anything more in his life, he still wasn’t sure he could take it.
“You can do it,” Aziraphale said, as if reading his mind. “My darling boy. I know you can take me. Just go slow.”
Crowley believed him. He knew he could because he wanted this with his whole being, wanted to join with this glorious creature who made him feel so treasured and safe. He pressed Aziraphale’s slick cockhead to his hole and bore down, easing it past his body’s resistance, gasping at the sting and inevitable give that slowly, surely, became an incredible fullness. Crowley held there for just a moment, with just the head of Aziraphale’s cock inside of him, revelling in the feeling of it. He looked into Aziraphale’s face. The faun looked wrecked, eyelids hooded, mouth slightly open, panting, his hands clenched around Crowley’s waist, fingers almost touching as they circled it.
“You feel…” he started, and Crowley sank down a little further. They both groaned as Crowley’s body stretched to envelop him. “I’ve never felt anything like—you’re incredible.” He gasped as Crowley sank even further. “So good. So, so good. I knew you could do it,” Aziraphale babbled.
Crowley, having just adjusted to the massive intrusion, was now compelled to move, to feel Aziraphale deep inside him, pushing against that sweet spot that had previously only been teased by his own fingers. He put his hands on Aziraphale’s shoulders for leverage, and a bit timidly, began to bounce. Aziraphale covered one of his hands with his own.
“Don’t be afraid to use me,” Aziraphale said, “I can take it.” Crowley had to close his eyes and take a deep inhale at that. Then he lifted himself up, bracing himself on Aziraphale’s shoulders, and came down harder, with intent. The force of it, the exquisite fill, lit him up from belly to throat, and he began to fuck himself on Aziraphale’s cock in earnest, taking it a little deeper with each downward thrust.
His eyes were still closed, but when he opened them, he saw Aziraphale looking down between them, his face slack and awed. Crowley looked down too and saw what had Aziraphale so rapt. On each downward movement, Crowley’s belly bulged with the massive press of Aziraphale’s cock. He whined looking at it: the lewd, obvious evidence of Aziraphale inside of him. Aziraphale’s hands were still wrapped around his waist and he traced the bulge with his thumbs, biting his lip. Crowley couldn’t help himself, he reached a hand between them and covered his belly, wanting to feel Aziraphale both inside and out. Aziraphale growled his name and Crowley almost came with Aziraphale’s ecstatic moans in his ears and his hand pressing against the monster cock inside of him. He took a few deep breaths, scrambling for control and then began moving again, hand still pressed to his belly, feeling it fucking up and into him over and over.
Aziraphale’s eyes rolled back in his head and he gripped Crowley’s waist harder. The faun’s eyes squeezed shut and Crowley was lost at the sight of him. He was close again, nearly cresting, but he forgot all about that as he drank in the sight of his lover’s devastated features. Crowley had an idea, a vision that made him go hot and then cold with anticipation. He slid his hands over to cover Aziraphale’s and squeezed.
“You can use me too, you know?” he said encouraging the faun to grip him harder, to take him by the hips and pump him on his cock. “I can take it.”
The groan that came out of Aziraphale was as captivating as the lightning that flashed in his eyes. His fingers dug into Crowley’s slender hips and he hoped they’d leave bruises there to remember this moment by.
“You’re sure?” the faun asked through gritted teeth.
“Yes,” Crowley said, “Fuck, Aziraphale, use me, fuck me on your cock and make yourself come.”
Aziraphale let out a string of growling obscenities and then got to work, lifting Crowley up by the hips and slamming him down. Crowley wailed and clawed at Aziraphale’s shoulders searching for purchase. Aziraphale picked him up again, lifting him nearly off of his dick. Without thinking about what he was doing, Crowley reached up and grabbed at one of Aziraphale’s great, curved horns. “Yes,” Aziraphale said, dipping his head to give Crowley better access. “Grab them and hang on.”
Crowley did, gripping his horns like they were the only thing keeping him earthbound. He could feel Aziraphale’s hot, desperate breath against his neck as he pounded Crowley on his cock. Crowley felt like he was nothing but a vessel to be fucked and he loved it, throwing his head back and feeling the sensual tumble of his hair falling down his back as Aziraphale used him.
“Beautiful,” Aziraphale gasped, “Fucking breathtaking,” and then his mouth was on Crowley’s neck, sucking at the tender skin, sending shivers down Crowley’s back and chest. He thought the faun might be getting close. Aziraphale’s movements were becoming uncoordinated and his belly was flexed and rigid. He eased one hand off of Crowley’s hip and closed it around Crowley’s neglected cock and then planted his feet behind Crowley so he could thrust up into him. He stroked Crowley with sure, firm strokes. Crowley looked down to see his cock nearly disappear in Aziraphale’s fist, only the flushed, wet tip peeking out. He felt his orgasm building, a warm glow low in his belly. His body rang with sensation – Aziraphale moving within him, his hot fist working him over, the hard, rough horns in Crowley’s grasp, the rasp of Aziraphale’s beard against his neck. He wanted to hold this feeling inside of himself forever while at the same time, his body was spiralling toward release.
“Darling,” Aziraphale panted into his neck. “I’m so close.” Crowley released his horns and pulled him into a wet, gasping kiss.
“Do it,” Crowley said. “Fill me up.”
Aziraphale shouted his orgasm, thrusting up into him so deep that Crowley felt it in his throat. The pulse and throb of his cock inside of him along with Aziraphale’s continued erratic strokes brought Crowley over. He heard himself cry out as his orgasm cascaded through him. He came in thick stripes over Aziraphale’s fist and chest. His peak left him shivering, teeth chattering, and he could still feel Aziraphale emptying into him, his hips slowly lowering as the faun’s breath began to even.
Crowley fell forward, throwing his arms around Aziraphale’s neck, heedless of his own spend, sticky between them. Aziraphale didn’t seem to mind either, holding him close as they came down together. It seemed to take ages for Aziraphale’s cock to soften enough to slip out of him, but that was fine. Crowley was in no hurry to be empty. The volume of come that spilled our of him shouldn’t have surprised him, but Crowley was still in awe of how well Aziraphale had filled him.
Crowley felt hot and sticky and wonderfully used. He knew they needed to clean up and change the bedding, but he needed to hold on just a little longer. Part of him never wanted to let go. Aziraphale seemed content to let Crowley cling to him for as long as he needed. Or perhaps he wasn’t ready to let go either. Eventually, slowly, they pulled apart, only far enough to look at each other. Aziraphale smiled at him and Crowley felt warmth spread from the top of his head, down to his chest and belly.
“Thank you,’ Aziraphale said, brushing a sweaty strand of hair from Crowley’s forehead.
“Thank me?” Crowley scoffed. “I’m the one who just had the orgasm of a lifetime from my first time having sex.”
“It was my pleasure,” Aziraphale said, stroking Crowley’s back as he had before. It made Crowley want to purr himself to sleep.
“And I had an extraordinary experience myself. You’re quite proficient for someone with little experience.”
Crowley buried his nose into Aziraphale’s neck. “Well, like I said. Been thinking about it.”
Aziraphale nuzzled at his check and kissed the corner of his mouth. “Me too,” he whispered.
It took a little longer, but they finally separated, at least long enough to relocate to Aziraphale’s outdoor shower and get their hands on each other again to soap each other up. Once clean and dry, they returned to the hut. While Aziraphale busied himself replacing the bedding, Crowley rifled through the bag of goodies in the larder. He filled a plate he found in Aziraphale’s cupboard and brought it to the curtained bedroom along with two mugs of water.
Aziraphale beamed at him and they sat on the pallet together, popping morsels into each others’ mouths. When they finished, Crowley took the dishes to the kitchen and washed up. Aziraphale came up behind him at the sink and wrapped his arms around Crowley’s waist.
“Will you do me the honour of staying the night?” he asked.
Crowley turned to him, shaking drops of water off of his fingers. “You want me to?”
“I’d have you here every night if I could.”
“Be careful what you wish for,” Crowley said turning in Aziraphale’s arms and rising up to kiss him.
In the end, Crowley didn’t spend every night at Aziraphale’s. They split their time between both homes, Aziraphale coming to his when his Council duties allowed. He continued helping Crowley with his healing work, becoming so capable and beloved by Crowley’s patients that some refused to be treated unless he was there. And Crowley stayed at Aziraphale’s hut when Aziraphale found it difficult to get away. Together, they built a small outbuilding on Aziraphale’s property to serve as a satellite clinic, and Crowley turned his talents to Aziraphale’s garden, turning it into a haven for pollinators and starting some fruit trees and berry bushes.
Aziraphale had been right about Anathema. She and Crowley bonded over stars, plants, and a shared irreverence. She nudged him to think critically about all the things that were “strange” about him: his eyes, his affinity for plants, his skill with healing, and reconsider why he may have been sent to live with Agnes in particular as well as some of the more “eccentric” things she’d taught him. Crowley, was sceptical at first. It was true that Agnes had taught him to speak sternly to his plants, and he had carried on doing it in her honour after her death, but it wasn’t as if he were speaking incantations over them or something, as much as Anathema insisted that was the reason they were so hardy and lush. But then Anathema went through the cottage and dusted off the small corner table of candles and thingummys that Crowley had left undisturbed since Agnes’s death. Crowley humoured her by lighting the candle daily, focusing on the objects, thinking about Agnes, and then practising a bit of breathing and awareness that was suspiciously similar to the meditation method Agnes had taught him. Aziraphale insisted that his patients healed faster and left happier once he started doing this, which left Anathema smirking and Crowley huffing in incredulity. He did have to admit that his results had started to improve, but whether that was because of witchcraft or because Crowley, for the first time in ages, was happy and surrounded by people who loved him, could not be empirically proven.
What Crowley did know was that he was happy. Wherever he woke up now, he was next to Aziraphale, bathed in the faun’s golden warmth no matter the weather. Whether they worked side by side or on their separate pursuits, they made time for each other in the evening, to laugh and debate and discuss the deeds of the day. When they went to bed, no matter whether they made love or simply passed out in happy exhaustion, they fell asleep in each other’s arms.
Several summers later, they found themselves in that same copse where they had met, once again foraging for lion’s mane. Crowley smiled at the memory as he bent to take a cutting, then heard Aziraphale make a strangled, choking noise behind him. When he turned round, the faun was on one knee. Crowley calmly returned his knife to its sheath, and promptly burst into tears for the first time since he was a boy. He couldn’t speak, so he nodded vigorously, and Aziraphale put the ornately engraved silver ring on Crowley’s finger. He stood and held Crowley close, and the two of them agreed the mushrooms could wait one more day at least. Aziraphale lifted Crowley into his arms and carried him home.