The Sum of Their Parts

The porcelain was a delicate, luminous white, with a pattern of tiny, forget-me-not blue flowers winding around the rim of each cup and saucer. Aziraphale polished a teacup with a soft linen cloth, his movements precise and absorbed. It was a lovely set, a new acquisition he’d found at a small antique market in Brighton. It was, he told himself, for the bookshop. For special customers.

But his thoughts were not on the porcelain, or the customers, or even the tea he planned to brew in the matching pot. His thoughts were sprawled, with a sort of languid, serpentine grace, across his tartan sofa.

Crowley.

He had been here for eight of the last ten nights. Aziraphale had kept a meticulous, if private, count. The first night had been after a particularly gruelling incident involving a rogue satyr and a case of stolen wine from a bishop’s cellar. Crowley had returned with him to the bookshop, complaining loudly about the incompetence of modern-day mythical creatures, and had simply… stayed. He’d draped himself over the sofa and fallen asleep before Aziraphale could even offer him a blanket.

The angel had spent most of that night in his armchair, watching the steady rise and fall of the demon’s chest, a feeling of profound and terrifying rightness settling in his own.

Since then, it had become a pattern. A silent, unspoken agreement. Crowley would appear in the late afternoon, they would bicker and drink and listen to records, and then Aziraphale would retire upstairs to his flat, leaving the demon to the sofa below. It was an arrangement. It had to be an arrangement, because the alternative—that Crowley simply wanted to be here, with him—was a thought too vast and bright to look at directly.

He set the teacup down, its slight clatter against the saucer sounding impossibly loud in the quiet shop. He had to say something. This couldn't just… happen. It needed to be defined. Acknowledged. He smoothed the front of his waistcoat, his palms suddenly damp.

He rehearsed the words in his head as he polished another cup. Crowley, my dear boy, I was just wondering about… well, about your frequent presence here. No, that sounded like a complaint. It was the furthest thing from a complaint. Crowley, about this new… arrangement. That was better. Vague, but official-sounding. An arrangement.

He glanced over at the sofa. Crowley hadn't moved. He was lying on his back, one arm flung dramatically over his forehead, long legs crossed at the ankle and propped up on the armrest. He was wearing his customary black, a slash of darkness against the faded greens and reds of the tartan. Even in repose, he radiated a kind of kinetic energy, a coiled stillness that was uniquely his. Aziraphale’s heart did a strange, fluttering little skip. He was quite certain Crowley was awake, and equally certain he was pretending not to be.

This was ridiculous. Six thousand years they had known each other. They had faced down Heaven and Hell, averted the apocalypse, and redefined the very nature of their existence. Surely, he could ask a simple question about sleeping arrangements.

He placed the last cup on its saucer and turned fully towards the sofa, taking a breath to steady himself. The air felt thick, charged with everything left unsaid between them for centuries. His gaze fell on the biscuit tin on the side table. A distraction. A shield. A perfectly reasonable excuse to approach.

He picked up the tin, the familiar weight a small comfort in his hands. He walked the few feet to the sofa, each step feeling deliberate and heavy. He could feel Crowley’s attention on him now, even with the arm covering his eyes. It was a palpable thing, like a change in atmospheric pressure.

Aziraphale stopped beside the sofa, looking down at the demon. He opened his mouth, the carefully rehearsed words queued up and ready. Crowley, about our arrangement…

The words died on his tongue. His courage, which had stood firm in the face of archangels and dukes of Hell, evaporated completely. All he could think about was the proximity of him, the faint scent of old books mixing with something that was purely Crowley—brimstone and expensive cologne and the dust of London streets.

He cleared his throat, the sound painfully loud.

“Biscuit?” he asked, his voice a tight, formal squeak.

Crowley slowly lowered his arm, a lazy smirk already forming on his lips. From under the dark lenses of his sunglasses, he had watched the entire performance. The meticulous polishing of the teacups, the anxious smoothing of the waistcoat, the little aborted steps and nervous glances. It was all so painfully, endearingly Aziraphale. The angel was vibrating with unspoken words, so tightly wound that Crowley half-expected him to simply pop out of existence in a puff of tweed and good intentions.

He found it deeply amusing. He also found it was making his own corporation feel uncomfortably tight around the edges. This dance they were doing was new. For millennia, their meetings had been clandestine, fleeting things. Now, this… this was different. This was domestic. And the terrifying truth was that Crowley wanted it more than he’d wanted anything since he’d first swaggered out of Hell. The worn tartan of the sofa felt more like home than his cold, sterile Mayfair flat ever had. Waking up to the scent of old paper and the soft sounds of the angel puttering about upstairs… it settled something in him that had been restless for six thousand years.

But he was a demon. He didn’t do settled. He didn’t do soft. And he certainly didn’t admit to needing the comfort of an angel’s presence to sleep through the night. So, he masked the tremor of his own anxiety with the familiar armour of sarcasm.

“A biscuit?” He let his voice drip with theatrical consideration, as if Aziraphale had just offered him a vial of holy water. He pushed himself up, unfolding from the sofa with a fluid motion that was deliberately slow, deliberately provocative. He enjoyed the way the angel’s eyes widened slightly, the way his breath caught as Crowley came to stand before him, closing the space between them. He was taller than Aziraphale, and he used it, looking down at the angel with a playful glint. “My, my, Angel. Pulling out all the stops. What’s the occasion? Did you finally catalogue all the books on needlepoint?”

Aziraphale’s cheeks flushed a delightful shade of pink. “It’s just a biscuit, Crowley. A simple gesture of… hospitality.”

“Hospitality,” Crowley repeated, the word tasting strange. He reached out, not for the tin, but to pluck a piece of lint from the lapel of Aziraphale’s jacket. His fingers brushed against the thick wool, and he let them linger for a fraction of a second too long. He felt a jolt go through the angel, a tiny, almost imperceptible shudder. Good. It wasn’t just him, then. The air between them was thick enough to taste, a mix of ozone and something ancient and sweet. He could feel the warmth radiating from Aziraphale’s body, and a coil of heat tightened low in his own stomach.

He pulled his hand back and turned away, needing to put a little distance between them before he did something stupid, like push the angel back against the nearest bookshelf and finally discover if he tasted as good as he smelled.

He sauntered over to the fireplace, running a hand over the cool marble of the mantelpiece. This was part of his territory now, in a way. He’d leaned against it, warmed himself by the fire Aziraphale had miracled on chilly evenings. It felt right.

With a deliberate, almost ceremonial slowness, he took off his sunglasses. The bookshop came into sharper focus, the familiar clutter and warm lighting a balm to his serpentine eyes. He held the glasses for a moment, the dark frames feeling like a part of his own skin. They were his shield, his mask. Leaving them behind was like leaving a piece of his soul.

That was exactly what he intended to do.

He polished the lenses on his shirt, his gaze flicking to the angel, who was watching him with a baffled, hopeful expression. Crowley gave him a tiny, almost imperceptible smirk before placing the sunglasses on the mantelpiece, right next to a small, cherubic porcelain figure. They looked stark and alien there, a slash of modern darkness in Aziraphale’s world of antiquities. An invasion. A promise.

He was testing the waters. Leaving a part of himself here, in plain sight. Not hidden in a pocket or left in the Bentley, but here. In the heart of the bookshop. In the heart of Aziraphale’s home. He was staking a claim, a tiny, fragile one. He turned back to face the angel, his hands shoved into his pockets, his posture deceptively casual. Now, he would wait and see if the angel would let it stay.

Aziraphale’s breath caught in his throat. The sunglasses sat on the mantelpiece, a stark, black intrusion against the creamy marble. They were an anchor. A declaration. They were Crowley’s, as much a part of him as his swagger or the serpentine gold of his eyes, and he had left them here. Willingly. He had taken off his armour and set it down in Aziraphale’s home.

A dizzying wave of warmth spread through the angel’s chest, so potent it felt like a minor miracle. Hope, terrifying and brilliant, unfurled within him. For six thousand years, their existences had been a series of fleeting intersections, orbits that touched and then pulled away. This was different. This was an object at rest. This was a statement that did not expect to be moved by morning.

He looked at Crowley, who stood with his back to the fireplace, his unshielded eyes watching Aziraphale’s every reaction. The usual smirk was absent, replaced by a look of raw, waiting intensity. The silence in the shop was no longer empty; it was filled with the weight of that small, black object and the question it represented.

Aziraphale opened his mouth to speak, to say something—yes, or of course, or perhaps even a shockingly bold, it’s about time—but the word never formed.

A shimmer of pale gold light coalesced in the air beside his elbow, smelling faintly of ozone and celestial paperwork. At the exact same moment, a wisp of dark, sulfurous smoke curled into existence near Crowley’s shoulder. The intrusions solidified instantly, resolving into two identical, crisp cream-coloured pieces of parchment. They hovered in the air for a moment before drifting down like forgotten leaves.

The spell was broken. The delicate, charged atmosphere between them popped like a soap bubble, replaced by a familiar, shared sense of profound irritation.

Crowley snatched his memo out of the air with a snarl, the gesture full of reptilian speed. “Oh, for Go— for somebody’s sake,” he muttered, his eyes narrowing as he scanned the document.

Aziraphale caught his own with a more delicate, if equally annoyed, motion. The parchment was cool to the touch, and the typeface was the standard, infuriatingly bland font used for all official heavenly communiqués. He held it up to the light, his gaze flicking from the text to Crowley, who was already rolling his eyes so hard it was a wonder his head didn't spin. They read in unison.

INTER-OFFICE MEMORANDUM
TO: All Ethereal and Infernal Entities, Sector 1834 (Sol 3)
FROM: Joint Committee for Metaphysical Stability
RE: Mandatory Ethereal Frequency Recalibration

Please be advised that commencing immediately, a system-wide recalibration of ambient ethereal frequencies will be initiated to ensure optimal operational harmony and mitigate unauthorized reality fluctuations. No action is required on your part. Your cooperation in not interfering is appreciated.

Aziraphale read it twice, a deep frown creasing his brow. It was utter nonsense. Bureaucratic drivel of the highest order. It had the distinct feel of a project dreamed up by some mid-level angel or demon with too much time on their hands, desperate to justify their existence.

“Right,” Crowley said, his voice dripping with contempt. He crumpled the parchment in his fist. “So they’ve invented spam. Wonderful. A real step forward for cosmic relations.” With a flick of his wrist, the crumpled ball of paper ignited, turning to black ash that dissolved before it could hit the floor. He dusted his hands together with theatrical finality. “File that under ‘not our problem’.”

“Well, quite,” Aziraphale agreed, though a sliver of unease had lodged itself beneath his ribs. It was the simultaneity that bothered him. Since the… event, communications had been sporadic and strictly segregated. A joint memo felt wrong. Presumptuous. He folded his neatly in half, then in half again, and with a small, discreet miracle, it simply ceased to be.

They stood in the sudden silence, the smell of burnt sulfur and faint ozone lingering in the air. The moment was gone, chased away by the intrusion. Crowley shoved his hands in his pockets, his gaze drifting back to the mantelpiece, to his sunglasses. The question was still there, but now it was overlaid with a thin, cold film of external reality. A reminder that as much as they wanted this bookshop to be their entire world, it wasn’t. There were still committees. There were still frequencies to be recalibrated. There were still forces outside their little island of comfort that saw them as assets to be managed.

Crowley’s jaw was tight. Aziraphale could feel the shift in him, the easy confidence replaced by a familiar, defensive posture. The warmth in the angel’s own chest had cooled, the brilliant hope now tinged with a familiar anxiety. The memo was nothing, junk mail as Crowley had said, and yet… it felt like a stone skipping across a placid pond, the ripples spreading out to touch everything. A subtle, disquieting reminder that they were, and perhaps always would be, on somebody else’s list.

To dispel the sudden chill that had entered the room, Aziraphale cleared his throat and made a show of looking at the grandfather clock in the corner. “Well. It seems to be closing time.” He forced a brightness into his voice, a return to the comfortable domesticity that the celestial memo had so rudely interrupted. He turned the sign on the door to ‘CLOSED,’ the familiar click of the lock a small, reassuring sound in the quiet shop.

Crowley didn’t move from his spot by the fireplace. He just watched, his unblinking gaze following Aziraphale’s movements. The angel busied himself with his usual evening tidying, straightening a stack of books here, dusting a shelf there. It was a familiar routine, one that had increasingly included Crowley’s silent, watchful presence. Tonight, however, the silence felt different. The memo had left a residue, a faint static of unease. Aziraphale wanted to smooth it away, to get back to the fragile, hopeful moment they’d been sharing.

He ran his hand along a row of leather-bound classics, his fingers tracing the gold-leaf lettering. He was just pushing a particularly stubborn copy of Jude the Obscure back into place when his fingers met with an unexpected obstruction. Something was wedged deep behind the row of books, stuck between the shelf and the wall. Frowning, he worked his fingers into the gap, his knuckles scraping against the rough wood of the bookcase. He tugged, and with a soft scraping sound, a slim volume came free.

Aziraphale stared at it.

It was a book he knew intimately, though he had never held it. Goblin Market and Other Poems by Christina Rossetti. Not just any copy. A first edition, from 1862, in its original blue cloth binding. The gilt design on the cover was still bright, the pages crisp and barely yellowed. It was in impossibly perfect condition. He had been searching for a copy this pristine for the better part of a century, always being outbid at auction or arriving at a bookstall moments after it had been sold.

He looked up, his heart performing a series of enthusiastic, unsaintly leaps in his chest. He looked directly at Crowley, who was now watching him with an unreadable expression, a faint smirk playing on his lips.

“You,” Aziraphale breathed, clutching the book to his chest as if it were a holy relic. “Oh, Crowley, you didn’t.”

The smirk widened into a slow, lazy grin. “Didn’t what, Angel?”

“This!” Aziraphale gestured with the book, his face alight with a joy so pure it was dazzling. “This is… well it’s just beyond the pale. Even for you. It must have cost a fortune.”

Crowley pushed himself away from the mantelpiece and sauntered over, peering at the book in Aziraphale’s hands. He tilted his head, his serpentine eyes scanning the cover. “Rossetti. Bit on the nose for you, isn’t it? All that forbidden fruit nonsense.” He looked back at Aziraphale, his expression one of pure, unadulterated amusement. “Wasn’t me.”

Aziraphale’s smile faltered for a second. “Oh, don’t be ridiculous. Of course it was you. Who else could it possibly be? It just… appeared.”

“Mysterious ways and all that,” Crowley drawled, waving a dismissive hand. “Maybe one of your lot decided you’d been a good boy.”

“It wasn’t one of my lot,” Aziraphale insisted, his conviction returning. He knew the feel of a heavenly miracle; they were always accompanied by a sense of cloying righteousness, like the smell of ozone and lilies. This felt different. It felt… sneaky. Clever. It felt like a gift given with a wink and a denial already prepared. “This has your fingerprints all over it. Metaphorically speaking.”

“Nope. Not my style,” Crowley said, and for the first time, Aziraphale noticed a flicker of something else in his eyes. A genuine curiosity. “If I was going to miracle a book for you, I’d have it fall off the shelf and hit you on the head. Much more efficient. Less sentimental.”

Despite the denial, Aziraphale couldn’t stop the warm glow from spreading through him. Crowley could deny it all he liked, but the angel knew. This was an apology for the years of distance, a housewarming gift, a step across a line. It was an offering, left just as deliberately as the sunglasses on the mantelpiece. He ran a thumb over the gilt lettering, the feel of it sending a thrill through him. Crowley was simply being Crowley—giving a gift with one hand while pretending the other was empty.

He held the demon’s gaze, a soft, knowing smile touching his own lips. “Well,” he said, his voice gentle. “Whoever was responsible, I suppose I shall simply have to be grateful. It’s the most wonderful thing.”

Crowley just shrugged, the picture of nonchalance, but he didn’t look away. He watched as Aziraphale held the book, his expression a strange mixture of pleasure at the angel’s obvious delight and a faint, nagging puzzlement, as if trying to solve a riddle he hadn’t realised was even being posed.

The evening drew on, settling into the comfortable quiet that Aziraphale had come to associate with Crowley’s presence. The demon had reclaimed his spot on the tartan sofa, long legs stretched out, an ankle crossed over a knee. He had picked up a book at random—a rather dry text on 18th-century botany—and was pretending to read it, though Aziraphale knew he wasn’t absorbing a single word. His serpentine eyes, unguarded by his sunglasses, would occasionally flick up from the page to watch the angel.

Aziraphale, for his part, handled the Rossetti with the reverence it deserved, finally placing it in the glass-fronted cabinet where he kept his most precious treasures. He locked the cabinet with a small, satisfied click. The warmth from the gift—because it was a gift, he was certain of it—still bloomed in his chest, a cheerful fire against the lingering chill of the celestial memo.

A draft snaked its way under the front door, a common occurrence in the old building. Aziraphale saw the barest of shivers run through Crowley, a minute tightening of the muscles in his shoulders that he immediately tried to suppress. The demon hated the cold, a fact he would never admit but which was as plain as the nose on Aziraphale’s face.

An idea, both practical and deeply momentous, took root in Aziraphale’s mind. Without allowing himself to second-guess it, he turned and went into the small back room, emerging a moment later with a thick, woolen blanket. It was a soft, dark green plaid, worn from years of use, and it smelled faintly of old paper and tea.

He walked over to the sofa. Crowley’s eyes followed him over the top of the botany book, wary and questioning.

“I thought you might be cold,” Aziraphale said, his voice softer than he intended. He held the blanket out.

Crowley looked from Aziraphale’s face to the offered blanket and back again. For a second, the angel thought he might refuse it, that some stubborn, demonic pride would make him insist he was perfectly comfortable. But then, with a slow, deliberate movement, Crowley lowered the book and reached up to take it.

As Crowley’s fingers closed over the folded wool, they brushed against Aziraphale’s. It was not a brief, accidental graze. For one, eternal second, their hands met. Crowley’s skin was cool, a stark contrast to the sudden, surprising heat of Aziraphale’s own. The pads of Crowley’s long fingers slid against the back of the angel’s hand, a slow, almost exploratory touch.

A shock, potent and electric, shot up Aziraphale’s arm. It was not unpleasant. It was a dizzying surge of pure energy that made his heart hammer against his ribs and sent a flush of heat racing to his cheeks. His breath caught in his throat. The connection felt intensely private, a silent communication that bypassed six thousand years of carefully constructed boundaries. He could feel the fine bones of Crowley’s hand through their brief point of contact, the subtle strength in his grip as he finally took the weight of the blanket.

Aziraphale pulled his hand away as if he’d touched a live wire, his composure shattering into a thousand pieces. He took a half-step back, his mind a sudden, roaring blank.

Crowley did not flinch. He did not pull away. He had been the one to let the contact linger. As he drew the blanket onto his lap, his gaze remained fixed on Aziraphale, his yellow eyes dark with an emotion the angel could not begin to decipher. A warmth was spreading through the demon’s core, a gentle, pervasive heat that had nothing to do with hellfire and everything to do with the angel standing before him, looking utterly undone by a simple touch. It was a quiet, steady glow that settled in a place he had long thought cold and empty.

He unfolded the blanket and draped it over his legs, the movement slow and languid, though his heart was beating a frantic rhythm against his own ribs. He said nothing, knowing that any attempt at a sarcastic quip would die on his lips. The air between them was thick with everything they had never said, charged and humming with a new, terrifying, and wonderful possibility.