A Harmony of Opposites

The tiny kitchen in the back of the bookshop smelled of roasting duck and rosemary. Aziraphale fussed, adjusting the flame under a simmering pan of cherry sauce with a minuscule miracle. It wasn't that he couldn't have miracled the entire meal into existence, perfectly cooked and plated, but that felt like cheating. This was different. This was their first official date since they’d had The Talk. The one where unspoken things stretching back to Mesopotamia were finally, haltingly, given voice.

An Arrangement. That’s what he called it in his head. It sounded so much more solid than just… dating.

He smoothed his waistcoat for the tenth time, the soft tweed a familiar comfort against his fluttering stomach. The table was set with his best china, the plates gleaming under the soft, warm light he’d coaxed from the overhead bulb. Two candles stood tall in silver holders he’d polished thrice. It was perhaps too much. It was perhaps not nearly enough.

A low rumble, felt more than heard, vibrated through the floorboards. The Bentley. He was here. Aziraphale’s breath caught, a ridiculous reaction after six thousand years of this particular sound heralding this particular being’s arrival. But tonight, the rumble seemed to thrum directly in his veins. He took a deep breath, wiped his perfectly clean hands on his apron, and went to open the door.

Crowley sauntered in, the shop’s little bell announcing him with a cheerful jingle that was entirely at odds with his aesthetic. He wore his usual black, the fabric of his jacket and trousers clinging to his long, lean frame in a way that Aziraphale found endlessly distracting. The dark glasses were firmly in place, hiding his serpentine eyes, but they couldn't hide the slight tension in the line of his jaw. He was feigning his usual languid grace, but Aziraphale knew him too well. He saw the stiffness in his shoulders, the way his hands stayed shoved in his pockets for a second too long.

“Angel,” Crowley said, his voice a low drawl. “Smells decadent. Trying to fatten me up?”

He pulled one hand from his pocket, and in it was a bottle of wine. It wasn't just any wine. Aziraphale recognized the label instantly. A 1945 Romanée-Conti. It was the sort of bottle that cost more than the entire building it was being brought into. A silent, extravagant admission that this evening was just as important to him.

“Oh, my dear,” Aziraphale breathed, his carefully constructed composure threatening to crumble. “You really shouldn’t have.”

“Found it rolling around in the back,” Crowley lied, placing the bottle on a precarious stack of books with deliberate nonchalance. “Better to drink it than let it go off.”

Aziraphale stepped forward and took the bottle, his fingers brushing against Crowley’s. A spark, small but potent, shot up his arm. He set the wine carefully on the main counter before turning back. The space between them suddenly felt charged, humming with a new and unfamiliar set of rules. For millennia, they had stood this close, but now… now it was different.

He could feel the heat from Crowley’s body, see the faint curve of his lips beneath the shadow of his glasses. The air was thick with the scent of old paper, roasted duck, and the uniquely Crowley scent of ozone and expensive cologne. Aziraphale’s heart, a mostly symbolic organ, gave a distinct thump.

“Well,” Aziraphale said, his voice a little shaky. “Thank you.”

Crowley just gave a slight nod, that mask of cool indifference firmly in place.

And Aziraphale decided, quite suddenly, that he was done with it. He was done with the dancing around, the unspoken things, the centuries of missed opportunities. He closed the remaining distance between them in two short steps. Before Crowley could react, Aziraphale cupped the demon’s face in his hands, his thumbs stroking over the sharp angles of his cheekbones.

“Angel, what are you—?”

Aziraphale silenced him by pressing his mouth to Crowley’s. It wasn’t a gentle or tentative kiss. It was hungry, desperate with the weight of unspoken want. He felt Crowley stiffen in surprise for a fraction of a second before melting into it. The demon’s hands came up to grip his waist, pulling him flush against his body. The lie of Crowley’s nonchalance fell away completely, replaced by a raw, immediate need that mirrored Aziraphale’s own.

Crowley’s mouth opened under his, and the kiss deepened, wet and searching. Aziraphale moaned softly, his fingers tangling in the fiery red hair at the nape of Crowley’s neck. He could feel the hard length of Crowley’s erection pressing against his stomach through their clothes, and a corresponding heat pooled low in his own belly, a sharp, demanding ache. This was real. This was happening. Crowley’s tongue met his, a slick, hot invasion that sent a tremor through Aziraphale’s entire corporation. He pressed closer, wanting to feel every inch of the demon against him, the solid reality of his body a grounding force in the dizzying swirl of sensation.

He broke the kiss first, pulling back with a gasp for air that his corporation didn't strictly need. His lips were tingling, his whole body thrumming with an energy that was entirely new. Crowley’s hands were still gripping his waist, his knuckles pressing into Aziraphale’s back. The demon’s chest rose and fell in a ragged rhythm, and his lips were red and slightly swollen. He looked utterly debauched and completely breathtaking.

“My,” Aziraphale managed, his voice sounding far away. “The duck.”

Crowley blinked, his expression dazed. He let go of Aziraphale’s waist as if just realizing he was still holding him. “Right. The duck.” He ran a hand through his messy red hair, a gesture of such profound bewilderment that it made Aziraphale’s heart ache with affection. “Wouldn’t want to disrespect the duck.”

The moment of intense, unrestrained passion fractured, leaving a glittering, awkward silence in its wake. Aziraphale turned, his movements feeling stiff and clumsy, and tended to the meal. He plated the roasted duck with trembling hands, spooning the glistening cherry sauce over it and adding a sprig of rosemary he absolutely did not need. The domesticity of the act felt absurd after the raw hunger of their kiss.

They sat at the small, candlelit table. Crowley slid his dark glasses off and set them aside, leaving his golden, serpentine eyes completely exposed. The effect was immediate and devastating. Without the shield of the glasses, every flicker of emotion was visible, and Aziraphale found he couldn’t look away.

“This is… nice, angel,” Crowley said, picking up his fork. He swirled it in the sauce, his gaze fixed on the plate. “Very… proper.”

“I do like proper,” Aziraphale replied, his voice still a little too high.

For a few moments, the only sounds were the clinking of silver against china. Then, as the wine and the familiar comfort of Aziraphale’s cooking began to work their slow magic, the tension eased. They fell back into the well-worn grooves of their friendship. Crowley complained about a new directive from Hell regarding soul-collection quotas, which were apparently now tracked via a soul-destroyingly awful series of spreadsheets. Aziraphale recounted the tragic tale of a 17th-century folio that had been rebound in the most garish Victorian leather.

It was easy. It was familiar. And yet, it was entirely different. Aziraphale was acutely aware of the space between them, of the way Crowley’s knee brushed against his under the small table. He was aware of the curve of the demon’s throat as he tipped his head back to drink his wine, the sharp line of his jaw illuminated by the candlelight. The dull ache in his lower abdomen had not subsided; it had merely settled into a low, constant hum of awareness.

In the middle of a story about a particularly dull archduke, Crowley’s left hand, which had been resting on the table, began to move. It slid across the white linen, slow and deliberate, a predator stalking its prey. Aziraphale’s breath caught. His own hand lay just inches away, next to his plate. He watched, mesmerized, as Crowley’s long, elegant fingers crept closer. They were almost there, the tip of Crowley’s index finger a mere millimeter from his own.

Then, just as contact seemed inevitable, Crowley flinched. He pulled his hand back as if he’d touched a hot stove, balling it into a fist on his lap, hidden below the table. He didn't miss a beat in his story, but a faint flush crept up his neck.

A sharp pang of disappointment went through Aziraphale. He tried to keep his expression placid, to focus on the archduke and his unfortunate taste in snuff boxes, but his mind was racing. Had he misread everything? Was the kiss a mistake? A momentary lapse driven by adrenaline and six millennia of proximity?

It happened again a few minutes later. While Aziraphale was refilling their glasses, Crowley’s hand drifted out once more, this time with more confidence. It moved over the space between them, palm slightly upturned in a silent offering. Aziraphale’s heart leaped. He started to turn his own hand to meet it, but again, Crowley retreated. He snatched up his wine glass, draining half of it in one go and clearing his throat. The easy rhythm of their conversation faltered, the new, unspoken thing between them a palpable presence at the table. He was unsure of the rules, Aziraphale realized. For all his swagger, for all his tempting and prodding, Crowley was just as lost in this new territory as he was.

The silence that followed was heavy, filled with the ghosts of touches that hadn't landed. Aziraphale stood abruptly, the legs of his chair scraping against the floorboards. "Well! I should clear these away." He gathered their plates with an efficiency born of nervous energy, needing something to do with his hands.

Crowley didn't move, merely watched him from the table, his strange and beautiful eyes tracking Aziraphale’s every movement. The intensity of his gaze was a physical thing, a pressure against Aziraphale’s skin. Aziraphale carried the plates to the small counter near the front of the shop, his back to the demon, trying to compose himself. He set the plates down with a soft clatter, his eyes scanning the comfortable clutter of his shop.

And then he saw it.

It was lying next to the obscenely expensive bottle of wine Crowley had brought. A book. But not just any book. It was a slim quarto volume, bound in what looked like its original limp vellum. Aziraphale’s breath stopped. His hands, which had been trembling slightly, became perfectly still. Slowly, as if approaching a sleeping wild animal, he reached out.

Les Propheties de M. Michel Nostradamus. The 1555 Lyon edition. He had been searching for a copy in decent condition for over three centuries. The few that survived were riddled with water stains, wormholes, and the brutish rebinding of later generations.

This copy was perfect.

He lifted it. The vellum was supple and clean, the ties intact. The pages within were crisp, cream-colored, with none of the foxing or fragility that should have been there. He could feel it, a faint hum of miraculous power, not the sharp sting of a fresh miracle, but a deep, settled restoration. It was as if the book had never been damaged, as if it had simply stepped out of 1555 and into his shop, untouched by the intervening years.

"Crowley," Aziraphale said, his voice a choked whisper. He didn't turn around. He couldn't take his eyes off the impossible object in his hands.

"Still here, angel."

Aziraphale finally turned, clutching the book to his chest like a holy relic. Crowley was leaning back in his chair now, one arm draped over the back, the picture of lazy indifference. But the corner of his mouth was turned up in a small, self-satisfied smirk.

"You," Aziraphale said, his voice thick with an emotion he couldn't name. It was awe and gratitude and a profound, overwhelming affection that threatened to spill out of him. "You impossible, infuriating, wonderful creature."

Crowley’s smirk widened. "Guilty of many things, but you'll have to be more specific."

"This," Aziraphale said, holding up the book. "This is… it is the work of an archangel. The detail, the sheer artistry of the miracle… It’s flawless." He took a step toward Crowley, his eyes searching the demon's face. "It's the most ridiculously extravagant gift I have ever received."

Crowley finally pushed himself up from the chair and sauntered over, stopping a few feet away. He peered at the book, then looked back at Aziraphale, his expression shifting from smugness to something that looked perplexingly like genuine curiosity. "Is it now? Good find. Where'd it turn up?"

Aziraphale stared. "Don't you dare play coy with me. It was on the counter. You did this. There is no other explanation."

"Wasn't me," Crowley said simply. He shoved his hands in his pockets. "Swear on my infernal honor, or whatever."

"You don't have any infernal honor."

"Right. Well, swear on something else, then. Swear on you," Crowley said, his voice dropping a little. "It wasn't me, angel."

The conviction in his voice was absolute. Aziraphale knew Crowley’s tells, his evasions, the subtle ways he bent the truth. This wasn't one of them. The demon was telling the truth, and that was somehow more disorienting than the miracle itself. If Crowley hadn't done it, and Aziraphale certainly hadn't, then who? The book hadn't just appeared from thin air. A miracle of this caliber required intent, and immense power.

Crowley took another step closer, his eyes fixed on Aziraphale's face. He looked pleased, not with himself, but for Aziraphale. The sheer, unadulterated joy on the angel's face was what he was enjoying. "Look, I don't know where it came from," he said softly. "But he's right, whoever did it. You deserve it."

The space between them was humming again, but the awkwardness was gone, replaced by a sense of wonder. Aziraphale looked down at the perfect book, then back up at the demon who was a walking contradiction of sin and grace. A being of Hell who looked at him with an expression of such open, honest delight at his happiness that it made Aziraphale's soul ache.

"I…" Aziraphale started, but he didn't know what to say. The kiss from earlier had shattered the old boundaries, and this impossible gift had just swept the pieces away. He was standing in a new world, and he had no map. All he knew was the man standing in front of him. He reached out, not thinking, and laid his free hand on Crowley’s chest, right over his heart. The steady beat under his palm was a solid, reassuring rhythm in the sudden strangeness of it all.

Crowley did not move. He simply stood there, under Aziraphale’s hand, and let the angel feel the frantic, unsteady rhythm of his heart. His own heart, which he had insisted for millennia was little more than a biological necessity, was betraying him completely. It hammered against his ribs, a frantic drumbeat that echoed the sudden, roaring pulse in Aziraphale’s own ears.

The warmth from Crowley’s body seeped through the fine fabric of his black shirt, spreading up Aziraphale’s arm and through his entire being. It was a solid, living heat, so different from the ambient warmth of a miracled fire. This was real. This was him. Crowley’s golden eyes, unshielded and brilliant in the soft light, were fixed on Aziraphale’s face. The usual defenses were gone; the sarcasm, the nonchalant slouch, the protective layer of cool indifference—all of it had been stripped away, leaving something raw and astonishingly vulnerable in its place.

Slowly, Crowley raised his own hand and placed it over Aziraphale’s, trapping it against his chest. His fingers were long and cool, a startling contrast to the heat of his body. He didn't intertwine their fingers, just held him there, a gesture that was both a capture and a surrender. The air grew thick, heavy with unspoken things. The scent of old paper and dust, the lingering aroma of wine and rich food, all faded into the background. There was only the solid thump of Crowley’s heart and the intense, searching look in his eyes.

He leaned in. It was a slow, deliberate movement, giving Aziraphale every opportunity to pull away. Aziraphale’s breath hitched. He didn't move. He couldn't. He watched as Crowley’s face came closer, his gaze dropping to Aziraphale’s mouth. The memory of their last kiss—frantic and desperate in the aftermath of Armageddon-that-wasn't—flared in his mind. He wondered what this one would be like. Would it be soft? Questioning? Demanding? A low, pleasant ache settled deep in his belly, a physical manifestation of a desire he was only just beginning to put a name to. His lips parted slightly in anticipation.

Then, the telephone shrieked.

The sound was obscene, a shrill, metallic burr that tore through the fragile intimacy of the moment like a vandal’s blade. Both of them flinched violently. Crowley recoiled as if struck, dropping his hand and taking a step back. The connection was broken. Aziraphale snatched his own hand away from Crowley’s chest, the place where it had rested now feeling strangely cold.

The phone rang again, insistent and loud.

"Oh, for Heaven's— for goodness sake," Aziraphale stammered, his face flushing a furious, mortified red. He turned and practically lunged for the old black rotary phone on his desk, fumbling with the receiver. Crowley stood frozen for a moment, his expression a mixture of profound annoyance and frustration, before he stalked over to the table and threw himself back into his chair, grabbing the wine bottle.

"A. Z. Fell and Co., Booksellers," Aziraphale said into the receiver, his voice an octave higher than usual.

"Aziraphale? Thank God. It's Anathema." The voice on the other end was breathless and strained, stripped of its usual wry composure. "Something very strange is happening."

Aziraphale’s posture straightened, the last vestiges of romantic fluster evaporating in a puff of angelic concern. "Anathema, my dear, are you alright? You sound distressed."

"I'm fine, but… it's Tadfield. The old airbase." There was a crackle on the line, the sound of wind. She was clearly outside. "You and Crowley need to see this. It's… well, it's not natural."

Across the room, Crowley paused, the bottle halfway to his glass. He cocked his head, his full attention now on the phone call.

"Not natural how?" Aziraphale asked, his knuckles white on the receiver.

"There are flowers," Anathema said, her voice a mix of awe and fear. "The whole base, the concrete, it's covered in them. They weren't here this afternoon. They're like nothing I've ever seen, white and silver, and they glow. Aziraphale, they're humming."

"Humming?"

"Yes! It's a sound you feel more than hear. A sort of… vibration. The energy coming off them is bizarre. It feels like… I don't know how to describe it. It's clean and dirty at the same time. Like holy water mixed with gasoline."

Aziraphale closed his eyes, processing the information. A field of impossible, humming flowers sprouting from concrete at the epicenter of their near-apocalypse. A perfectly restored, priceless book appearing out of nowhere on his counter. The two events felt utterly disconnected, yet he felt a cold certainty in his gut that they were not.

"We'll be there," he said, his voice now calm and steady. "Do not touch them, Anathema. Stay a safe distance away and just observe. We'll look into it."

He hung up the phone, placing the receiver back into its cradle with a definitive click. The silence that fell was entirely different from the one that had preceded the call. The charged, intimate energy was gone, replaced by the familiar, unwelcome chill of a supernatural mystery. He turned to face Crowley, the wonder of the book and the warmth of the demon's touch already feeling like something from another lifetime.

Crowley looked at him, his golden eyes narrowed. The irritation from the interruption was still there, a sharp edge to his expression, but it was now overlaid with a familiar, dangerous curiosity. "Flowers," he stated, his voice flat. "Humming. At Tadfield."

"And a priceless, miraculously restored first edition appears on my counter," Aziraphale added, his own mind racing. He looked from the phone to the book, then back to Crowley. "These things are not coincidental."

"No," Crowley agreed, pushing himself out of the chair again. He prowled the small space, a restless energy coiling in his long frame. "Things don't just happen. Not miracles like that, not weird horticulture like this. Somebody's doing it." He stopped and turned, pinning Aziraphale with his gaze. "And it's not our side. Or yours."

It was a statement, not a question. Aziraphale knew it was true. A gift of this nature was too personal for Heaven, who preferred their miracles grand, symbolic, and usually tied to a great deal of paperwork. And the flowers, as Anathema described them—holy and profane all at once—smacked of neither pure divinity nor pure damnation. It was something else. Something rogue.

"We'll have to go, of course," Aziraphale said, already feeling the familiar weight of a world-threatening problem settling on his shoulders. "First thing in the morning."

"Right," Crowley said with a decisive nod. The decision was made. The evening, with its tentative romance and simmering promise, was officially over. A new, more familiar script had been handed to them. He gestured vaguely toward the back of the shop. "Right. I'll take the sofa."

"Of course," Aziraphale said automatically. It was what they did now. Since the world hadn't ended, Crowley had taken to staying over with increasing frequency. It was practical. It was easier. It was… safe. But as the words left his mouth, a sharp, painful feeling pierced through him. It was a hollow ache, a profound sense of disappointment that was so intense it was almost a physical blow. He wanted to snatch the words back. He wanted to say, No, not the sofa. Not tonight.

But he didn't. The bravery that had allowed him to place his hand on Crowley’s chest had vanished, scared away by the shrill ring of the telephone and the return of the outside world.

Crowley gave him a curt nod and started clearing the last of the plates, moving with an efficiency that suggested he wanted to put the failed intimacy of the dinner behind him. The air was thick with things unsaid, with the ghost of a kiss that hadn't happened. Aziraphale watched him, his heart doing a slow, heavy beat in his chest. He could still feel the phantom warmth of Crowley’s hand over his, the solid heat of his body. He remembered the look in the demon’s eyes as he’d leaned in, the raw want that had been reflected there. A corresponding heat pooled low in Aziraphale’s stomach, a frustrating, insistent throb of need.

He wanted that closeness back. He wanted to finish what they had started. The thought of Crowley sleeping just one floor below him, so near and yet impossibly far, was suddenly unbearable. The worn velvet of the sofa seemed like a chasm separating them. He wanted the solid weight of the demon next to him, the reality of his presence through the long hours of the night. He wanted to feel that heat again, not just for a fleeting moment, but for hours. He wanted to fall asleep to the sound of Crowley's breathing.

"Well," Crowley said, wiping his hands on a napkin and breaking the silence. "Night, angel." He didn't look at Aziraphale directly, instead focusing on arranging the cushions on the sofa into a vaguely head-shaped pile.

"Good night, Crowley," Aziraphale managed, his voice sounding tight and unnatural to his own ears.

He lingered for a moment, a desperate, foolish hope fluttering in his chest that Crowley might turn, might say something, might close the distance between them again. But the demon simply stretched out on the sofa, long legs dangling over the end, and closed his eyes.

Defeated, Aziraphale turned and made his way up the creaking stairs to his bedroom. The room felt cold and empty. He undressed slowly, folding his waistcoat and trousers with meticulous care, the familiar ritual doing nothing to soothe the disquiet in his soul. He slipped into his pajamas and slid between the cool, crisp sheets of his bed. The space felt vast and lonely. He lay on his side, facing the door, and listened to the faint sounds from downstairs—the rustle of fabric as Crowley shifted, a soft sigh. Each sound was a reminder of the distance. The desire for a closeness he was not yet brave enough to ask for was a sharp, aching pang in his chest, a new and unfamiliar kind of pain that promised a very long night.