An Eternity of Our Own

The morning sun filtered through the large plate-glass window of the café, casting long shadows across the small, marble-topped table. It was their place, a quiet corner of Paris they had claimed through simple, persistent patronage. Aziraphale delicately broke off a piece of his croissant, ensuring a minimal cascade of flakes onto his pristine waistcoat. Across from him, Crowley lounged in his chair, a study in relaxed indolence, his dark glasses reflecting the bustling street outside.

“They really have perfected the art, haven’t they?” Aziraphale murmured, his voice full of genuine reverence. He popped the buttery pastry into his mouth and chewed with a look of beatific contentment.

Crowley smirked, taking a slow sip of his espresso. It was his fourth. “It’s a baked good, angel. Not the Sistine Chapel ceiling.”

“Nonsense. Some things deserve proper appreciation.” Aziraphale’s gaze was soft as it rested on the demon. This was their new normal, these stolen weeks of quiet domesticity. After six millennia of coded conversations and furtive meetings, the simple act of sharing breakfast in public felt like the most profound sort of miracle.

Under the table, away from the prying eyes of the Parisian passersby, Crowley’s boot found Aziraphale’s ankle. He nudged it gently at first, a simple acknowledgment, before beginning to slowly trace the line of the angel’s calf through the fine wool of his trousers. Aziraphale’s breath caught for a fraction of a second, a barely perceptible pause in the rhythm of his breathing. He placed his napkin in his lap, his fingers fussing with the starched linen, but he did not pull away. Instead, he pressed back, a subtle pressure that was an answer in itself.

“That man’s trousers are entirely too tight,” Aziraphale commented, his eyes fixed on a young man strutting past the window. The comment was a flimsy shield for the warmth that was spreading up his leg from Crowley’s persistent touch.

“Says the angel in a tartan bow tie,” Crowley countered, his voice a low purr. His fingers drummed a silent, restless beat on the table. He was watching Aziraphale’s face, watching the faint color rise in his cheeks. He loved that he could still make the angel blush after all this time.

The touch under the table grew more confident. Crowley’s foot slid higher, pressing against the sensitive back of Aziraphale’s knee, making the angel shift in his seat. A slow, pleasant heat began to pool low in Aziraphale’s belly, a familiar and welcome sensation that had become a part of his existence since they had stopped pretending.

“My bow tie is a classic,” Aziraphale said, his voice a touch strained. He cleared his throat and took a sip of his tea, the porcelain cup rattling faintly against the saucer.

Crowley leaned forward, the scent of him—brimstone and expensive cologne and something uniquely his own—drifting across the table. He removed his glasses, and his golden, serpentine eyes fixed on Aziraphale’s. The full, undivided weight of his attention was a physical thing, and Aziraphale felt it like a touch.

“It is,” Crowley agreed, his voice dropping lower. “Everything about you is.”

The air between them thickened, charged with an intimacy that felt far more revealing than the casual conversation of the other patrons. Aziraphale felt his own body responding, the pleasant warmth in his stomach tightening into a distinct ache of need. His corporation was a vessel he had long grown accustomed to, but only with Crowley did he feel every nerve ending with such sharp, startling clarity. He could feel the hardness of his own penis pressing against the confines of his trousers, a direct and undeniable response to the demon’s proximity.

Aziraphale reached across the table, his fingers brushing over Crowley’s. “You’re insufferable,” he whispered, though his touch betrayed the words.

Crowley’s hand turned, capturing Aziraphale’s. He brought the angel’s knuckles to his lips, his mouth warm against the skin. He did not kiss them so much as breathe against them, a silent communication that went deeper than words. “You love it,” he breathed back, his thumb stroking the soft skin of Aziraphale’s palm.

A shudder worked its way through Aziraphale. He did. He loved all of it. The quiet mornings, the insolent smirk, the predatory grace, the unwavering devotion that hid beneath layers of sarcasm. He loved this peace they had fought the entire world, Heaven, and Hell to secure.

Crowley finally released his hand, leaning back in his chair and replacing his glasses as if nothing had happened. The spell was broken, but the current remained, a low hum beneath the surface. He dropped a few euros on the table, more than enough to cover the bill.

“Fancy a walk?” Crowley asked, his tone casual again. “We could stroll by the Seine. Mock the tourists.”

Aziraphale gave a small, flustered nod, still feeling the ghost of Crowley’s lips on his hand. “Yes,” he managed, his voice steadier now. “That sounds lovely.”

The gentle breeze coming off the river did little to cool the lingering flush on Aziraphale’s cheeks. He walked beside Crowley, their shoulders occasionally brushing, a small, electric jolt each time. The path was crowded with tourists and locals, a vibrant flow of human life that Aziraphale found endlessly fascinating. Crowley, as usual, seemed mostly irritated by it, though his irritation was blunted by the pleasant weight of a good meal and the angel at his side.

“Look at that one,” Crowley said, gesturing with his head towards a man sketching furiously on a large pad of paper propped on an easel. “Churning out bulbous noses and giant teeth for ten euros a pop. The pinnacle of human artistic achievement.”

“It’s a bit of fun, dear boy,” Aziraphale chided gently. “A souvenir.”

A wicked grin spread across Crowley’s face. “A souvenir, you say? I think we should get one.”

Aziraphale stopped walking. “Absolutely not. It’s undignified.”

“Oh, come on, angel.” Crowley’s hand found the small of Aziraphale’s back, his touch warm and firm through the tweed of his jacket. He steered him towards the artist. “Live a little. When was the last time you did something undignified?”

Aziraphale opened his mouth to protest, but the memory of Crowley’s boot against his calf under the table, of the insistent pressure and the resulting ache in his own groin, made the words die in his throat. A fresh wave of heat washed over him.

“Exactly,” Crowley purred, clearly reading the angel’s expression. He spoke to the artist in rapid, fluent French, a negotiation that ended with a crisp banknote being exchanged. “He says we’re his most distinguished-looking subjects all day.”

Before Aziraphale could formulate a proper objection, Crowley had positioned him, draping a possessive arm around his shoulders and pulling him in close. Aziraphale’s body went rigid for a moment before melting against the demon’s side. He could feel the lean strength of Crowley’s frame, the familiar scent of his leather jacket filling his senses. He rested his head tentatively against Crowley’s shoulder. It felt right. It felt like coming home.

The artist worked quickly, his charcoal stick flying across the page in broad, confident strokes. As he sketched, Crowley’s thumb began to move in slow, lazy circles on Aziraphale’s shoulder. It was a small, seemingly innocent gesture, but Aziraphale felt it down to his toes. He focused on a passing boat, on the cheerful chatter of a nearby family, on anything but the dizzying sensation of being held by Crowley in the bright, open sunlight. With a small, imperceptible flicker of will, Crowley nudged the artist’s perception, tweaking the image forming in his mind, guiding the charcoal just so.

In a few minutes, the artist beamed and turned the easel around. It was them, undeniably, their features exaggerated in the classic caricature style. Aziraphale’s cheeks were cherubic, his bow tie enormous. Crowley was all sharp angles and a smug smirk. But there were other details. Peeking out from behind Aziraphale’s shoulders were two tiny, fluffy white wings. And nestled in Crowley’s chaotic red hair were two small, wickedly curved horns.

Aziraphale gasped, his hand flying to his mouth. He shot a panicked look at Crowley, his eyes wide. “Crowley! You didn’t.”

“Just a bit of artistic license,” Crowley said, his grin widening. He took the drawing from the artist, handing him another bill. “Merci.”

“But… people will see!” Aziraphale hissed, trying to pull Crowley away from the thoroughfare.

“They’ll see a cartoon, angel. Relax.” But he allowed Aziraphale to tug him into a small, secluded alcove between two stone buildings, out of the main flow of traffic.

Once they were shielded from view, Aziraphale’s panic subsided, replaced by a reluctant amusement. He looked at the drawing again, at the tiny, perfect details. A bubble of laughter escaped him. “It’s ridiculous.”

“It’s us,” Crowley said, his voice suddenly serious. He pinned the drawing between his hand and the wall, using his free hand to cage Aziraphale, his palm flat against the cool stone beside the angel’s head. The playful energy between them shifted, coalescing into something sharp and needy. “This is us, Aziraphale. No more hiding.”

He leaned in, and the world narrowed to the space between their bodies. The scent of the river, the sounds of the city, it all faded away. There was only the intense gold of Crowley’s eyes, the heat coming off his body, the unspoken question hanging in the air. Aziraphale gave the answer by closing the small distance between them, his lips meeting Crowley’s.

The kiss was not gentle. It was hungry, fueled by weeks of forced propriety and the sudden, heady rush of freedom. Crowley’s mouth was demanding, his tongue sweeping past Aziraphale’s lips to explore and possess. Aziraphale met him with equal fervor, his hands coming up to tangle in Crowley’s hair, pulling him closer. He pressed his body fully against the demon’s, feeling the hard planes of Crowley’s chest, the lean strength of his thighs. Through the layers of their clothing, he could feel Crowley’s erection, hard and insistent against his stomach, and a deep, answering throb started in his own penis. A soft moan escaped Aziraphale’s throat, and Crowley swallowed the sound, his hand sliding from the wall to grip Aziraphale’s hip, pulling their bodies into an even more intimate alignment. It was a raw, desperate claiming, a physical affirmation of everything they were to each other, right there in the heart of Paris.

The kiss broke, leaving them both breathing a little heavily in the cool air of the alcove. Aziraphale’s fingers were still tangled in Crowley’s hair, and he slowly, reluctantly, let them fall. The caricature, forgotten for a moment, was still pinned to the wall by Crowley’s hand.

“We should…” Aziraphale started, his voice husky. He cleared his throat, a blush creeping up his neck. “We should probably head back to London.”

Crowley’s eyes, still dark with desire, slowly refocused. A slow smirk returned to his lips. He plucked the drawing from the wall, rolling it into a careful tube. “Right. Before you scandalize all of Paris.” He offered his arm to Aziraphale, his expression softening. “Wouldn’t want to give them the wrong idea.”

“And what idea is that?” Aziraphale asked, taking the offered arm as they stepped back into the sunlight.

“That an angel and a demon can be disgustingly happy,” Crowley said, his voice a low murmur meant only for him.

The journey back through the Channel was a comfortable blur, the Bentley humming its contentment with Queen’s greatest hits. They arrived at the bookshop in Soho as evening was settling over London, the familiar scent of old paper and leather a welcoming embrace. While Crowley went to fetch a bottle of Châteauneuf-du-Pape from the back, Aziraphale stood by his desk, the rolled-up drawing in his hand, a fond smile on his face. He felt a profound sense of peace, a deep-seated rightness to this life they had built from the ashes of a war they had refused to fight.

He was just about to unroll the caricature to find a place for it when a soft chime, like a single, distant bell, echoed through the shop. A flicker of pale golden light coalesced in the air above his desk, and a pristine roll of parchment, tied with a ribbon of pure light, dropped silently onto his blotter.

Aziraphale froze. Celestial mail was not a common occurrence. Not anymore. For years, there had been a blessed, pointed silence from Above. He stared at the scroll, the fond smile gone from his face, replaced by a tight line of apprehension. The ribbon of light dissolved, and the parchment unrolled itself with a soft whisper.

Crowley returned, two glasses in one hand and the bottle in the other. “Found the ‘78. Thought we could celebrate… whatever it is we were celebrating in that alleyway.” He stopped when he saw the angel’s rigid posture, the look on his face. His own easy demeanor vanished. “What’s that? Trouble from Upstairs?”

“I… I don’t know,” Aziraphale said, his eyes scanning the perfect, impersonal celestial script. The message was brief and bureaucratic. It was a formal request, citing some forgotten celestial statute, for a comprehensive census of all ethereal and occult presences currently residing on the terrestrial plane. It was to be completed and filed within the next solar month. It was signed simply, Office of the Archangel Zerachiel, Keeper of Divine Records.

There was nothing overtly threatening about it. It was dry, procedural. But the very formality of it, the cold, administrative tone, felt deeply wrong. It was the kind of communication one received before an audit, or an inquisition. The softness around Aziraphale’s mouth tightened. He straightened his back, a subtle, defensive gesture Crowley knew all too well.

“Angel? What is it?” Crowley asked again, setting the wine and glasses down on a precarious stack of books.

Aziraphale quickly rolled the parchment back up, his movements a little too precise. He forced a dismissive sound. “Heavens, no. Not trouble. Just… bureaucracy.” He avoided Crowley’s gaze, busying himself with tidying a stack of letters on his desk. “A census, of all the tedious things. A complete waste of time. Standard heavenly paperwork, you know how they are. Always creating new forms to fill out.”

He folded the parchment with sharp, definitive creases and slid it into the top drawer of his oak desk. The click of the wood shutting sounded unnaturally loud in the quiet shop. He turned back to Crowley, a bright, brittle smile fixed on his face. “Now, about that wine? I think a celebration is very much in order.”

Crowley did not move. He watched Aziraphale, his sunglasses hiding his expression, but the angel could feel the weight of his stare. He knew Crowley could sense the lie, or at least the careful omission. For six thousand years, they had danced around truths, but in the last few years, they had finally learned to stand still, together. This felt like a step backward, a return to a caution Aziraphale suddenly found suffocating. But the cold dread the missive had inspired in him was a tangible thing, and he refused to let it touch the peace they had found. Not until he knew what it truly meant.

For a long moment, the silence in the bookshop stretched, thick and uncomfortable. Crowley leaned against the bookshelf, arms crossed, watching the angel. He saw the tension in Aziraphale’s shoulders, the way his smile didn’t quite reach his eyes. It was a look he’d seen before, usually when Heaven was demanding something unreasonable, and Aziraphale was trying to pretend it was all perfectly fine. He could push. He could demand to see the parchment, force the issue until the angel’s carefully constructed composure crumbled.

But he knew better. Pushing Aziraphale when he was in this state was like trying to corner a frightened cat. It only made him retreat further. So, Crowley uncrossed his arms and let out a theatrical sigh.

“Alright, fine. Have it your way. Keep your dusty celestial secrets,” he drawled, sauntering towards the wine. “But if they’re asking you to catalog every paperclip in the tri-state area again, I’m not helping.” He picked up the bottle and the corkscrew, his movements deliberately casual.

Aziraphale offered a weak laugh. “Nothing nearly so exciting, I assure you.” He busied himself with wiping nonexistent dust from the wine glasses with his handkerchief. His hands were not quite steady.

Crowley popped the cork with a satisfying thud and poured two generous glasses, the deep red liquid catching the dim light of the shop. He handed one to Aziraphale, their fingers brushing. The angel’s skin was cool.

“Right then,” Crowley said, taking a sip of his wine. “Before you get completely lost in… whatever that was… I have something for you.”

He turned and walked over to the wingback chair where he’d tossed his jacket. He reached into an inner pocket and pulled out a flat, rectangular object wrapped in simple brown paper and tied with twine. He held it out to Aziraphale.

“Found it in a dusty little shop in Brighton,” he said, a lie so practiced it was almost the truth. “Thought of you.”

Aziraphale took the package, his brow furrowed in confusion. “For me? But… what’s the occasion?”

“Does there need to be one?” Crowley leaned back against the desk, watching him. “Just open it, angel.”

With hesitant fingers, Aziraphale untied the twine and carefully unfolded the paper. As the cover was revealed, his breath caught in his throat. It was a book, bound in simple green cloth with gold lettering. The Importance of Being Earnest. A Trivial Comedy for Serious People. A first edition. He knew it instantly, from the publisher’s mark, from the precise shade of the binding. His hands, which had been trembling with anxiety moments before, were now reverent as they traced the title.

“Crowley,” he whispered, his voice thick with emotion. He opened the cover, and there, on the flyleaf, was the familiar, flamboyant signature: Oscar Wilde. “Oh, you absolutely did not.”

“He owed me a favor,” Crowley said with a shrug, though the pleased smirk on his face betrayed his nonchalant tone. “He was always losing bets.”

The celestial missive, the cold dread, the forced smiles—it all evaporated from Aziraphale’s mind, replaced by the pure, unadulterated joy that only a truly priceless book could bring him. He lifted the book to his face, inhaling the scent of old paper and history, a scent more comforting to him than incense.

“It’s magnificent,” he said, finally looking up at Crowley. The brittle tension was gone from his eyes, replaced by a genuine, brilliant warmth that made something in Crowley’s chest ache. “Thank you.”

“Don’t get sentimental on me,” Crowley grumbled, but he couldn’t suppress his own smile. He pushed himself off the desk. “Come on. Let’s have that drink. You can read a bit to me. The part with the muffins.”

The evening settled into a quiet rhythm. Crowley miracled a fire into the grate, and they sank into their respective, well-worn armchairs. The only sounds were the soft crackle of the flames, the whisper of a turning page, and the occasional clink of a glass being set down on a side table. Aziraphale read aloud for a while, his voice filled with a familiar theatrical flair, and Crowley listened, his eyes closed behind his dark glasses.

Later, they lapsed into a comfortable silence, each reading their own book. Aziraphale was lost in Wilde’s wit, the rare volume held gently in his lap. Crowley was engrossed in a modern book on astrophysics, his long legs stretched out towards the fire. At one point, Aziraphale reached for his wine without looking, and Crowley, without taking his eyes from his own book, picked up the bottle and refilled the angel’s glass for him. It was an effortless gesture, a small, domestic miracle born of millennia of knowing each other’s rhythms. The bookshop was warm, safe. It was their sanctuary, and for now, the cold draft from Heaven had been shut out.

Eventually, the fire burned down to glowing embers, and Crowley stretched, his lanky frame unfolding from the armchair with a groan that was mostly for show. “Right. Time for me to slither off. Plants’ll be getting anxious.”

Aziraphale marked his page and set the precious Wilde edition carefully on the table. “Must you?” he asked, the question softer than he intended.

“‘Fraid so, angel.” Crowley walked over to Aziraphale’s chair and held out a hand. Aziraphale took it, and Crowley pulled him to his feet, drawing him close until their bodies were flush against each other. The scent of old books and wine mingled with the sharper, ozone-and-brimstone scent that was uniquely Crowley.

“Thank you again for the book,” Aziraphale murmured against the lapel of Crowley’s jacket.

“Anything to get that worried look off your face,” Crowley replied, his voice a low rumble. He tilted Aziraphale’s chin up with his thumb and forefinger, his gaze intense even through the dark lenses. “You’d tell me, wouldn’t you? If it was real trouble.”

“Of course, my dear,” Aziraphale lied, his heart giving a painful squeeze. He leaned in, closing the small distance between them and pressing their lips together to forestall any more questions.

The kiss started gently, a simple reassurance, but deepened almost immediately. Crowley’s hands slid from Aziraphale’s shoulders down his back, one hand splaying across his spine while the other cupped the soft curve of his backside, pulling him tighter. Aziraphale made a soft noise in the back of his throat, his hands coming up to frame Crowley’s sharp jaw. The demon’s mouth was demanding, the taste of him, of wine and faint sulfur, filling Aziraphale’s senses. He opened his mouth, and Crowley’s tongue swept inside, a hot, slick exploration that sent a jolt of heat straight to his groin.

Crowley pressed him back against a towering bookshelf, the hard spines of the books digging into Aziraphale’s shoulders. He could feel the hard ridge of Crowley’s erection pressing against his stomach through their clothes, a familiar and welcome pressure. Crowley broke the kiss to press his mouth to the angel’s neck, his teeth grazing the sensitive skin just below his ear. Aziraphale’s head fell back, a soft sigh escaping him as Crowley’s hand moved from his back, sliding around to the front of his trousers. His fingers brushed over the straining fabric, and Aziraphale’s breath hitched.

“Stay,” Aziraphale whispered, the word a plea.

Crowley stilled, resting his forehead against Aziraphale’s. For a long moment, he said nothing, his thumb just stroking back and forth. “Can’t tonight,” he said finally, his voice rough. “Got a… thing. Early.” Another lie, but a kind one. He knew Aziraphale needed his space sometimes, even if he wouldn’t admit it. He pulled back, his eyes searching Aziraphale’s face. He gave him one last, lingering kiss, full of unspoken promises, before stepping away entirely. “Lock up behind me.”

And then he was gone, the bell above the door giving a final, lonely jingle.

The warmth of Crowley’s presence vanished as quickly as it had come, and the chill Aziraphale had been holding at bay seeped back into the room. He stood there for a long time, his body still humming with a desire that now had nowhere to go. He tidied the shop on autopilot, putting the wine glasses away and banking the last of the embers in the fireplace.

He went upstairs to the small flat above the shop, changed into his pajamas, and climbed into his bed, the sheets cool and empty. But sleep wouldn't come. His mind kept circling back to the pristine scroll locked in his desk drawer. The bureaucratic language, the impersonal signature—it was a mask, he was certain of it. And beneath it, something felt wrong.

After an hour of tossing and turning, he gave up. He swung his legs out of bed and padded barefoot down the creaking stairs, the moonlight casting long shadows across the book-lined walls. He didn't need to turn on a lamp. He unlocked his desk drawer and slid the parchment out.

In the silent, silvered light of the shop, it looked even more sterile, more out of place. He unrolled it, his eyes scanning the celestial script again. A comprehensive census of all ethereal and occult presences… It was the wording of an accountant, not a guardian. He ran his fingertips over the signature: Archangel Zerachiel.

As his skin made contact with the ink, he felt it. A faint, almost imperceptible sensation he had missed in his haste earlier. It was a coldness, but not the clean, crisp cold of the higher spheres. This was a dead, empty cold, like the air in a tomb. It was a magical residue, ancient and powerful, but it felt… hollow. It didn't resonate with the celestial harmony he knew. It felt alien, a discordant note in the symphony of Creation. It felt like a power that did not come from Heaven.

A shiver traced its way down his spine, entirely unrelated to the temperature of the room. This was not just paperwork. This was a threat. And it was a threat he did not yet understand. He carefully rolled the scroll back up, his mind racing. He couldn't tell Crowley. Not yet. Not until he knew what they were facing. He wouldn't let this strange, cold shadow fall over their peace. He would investigate, discreetly. He had to protect what they had built, even if it meant facing this alone.