31 Days of Kisses: A Good Omen Advent Calendar

Persistent Pining

For my dearest Alex, you amazing, wise, caring, brilliant person. Thank you so much for being part of my life. Love you so much.

Advent Prompt: Pine

After lunch on the third day of the rest of their lives, Crowley walked Aziraphale to the door of the book shop, and stood closer than usual, drinking his angel in. So close, so soft, so strong. The promise of the batted eyes, the meaningful looks, the smiles over lunch. Aziraphale had looked at him like that before, looked like the sun rose and set behind Crowley's dark glasses, but there had always been Heaven and Hell looming over them.

Now there was nothing stopping them.

On the other hand, he had taken Aziraphale for dinner at the Clove Club. Ten tasting courses. Aziraphale, glowing golden in the blue surroundings, had watched as duck consommé  was theatrically poured into his glass of one-hundred-year-old Madeira, and heaved a long breath. "Those poor ducks," he murmured, while Crowley stared at him, baffled. Aziraphale hadn't even commented on the paired teas and had eaten the clementine sorbet mechanically, as if not caring what it tasted like or felt in his mouth. Crowley had felt sick.

As they left, they walked side by side. Crowley stared at Aziraphale's arm in its beautiful wool jacket. He had been rehearsing in his head, ever since they escaped Heaven and Hell, sliding his hand through that arm, hooking onto it, drawing him to walk closer. Maybe, even, sliding his hand down his arm after a bit, and clasping his hand. Fingers against fingers, palms against palms.

Dear Satan, he was a six thousand-year-old demon, the thought of holding hands making his chest pound in panic made no sense at all. But Crowley had long ago surrendered any thought of sense when it came to Aziraphale. Aziraphale was the most clever being he'd ever met and thought dolphins were fish and mated out of water. Aziraphale lied to archangels and God and was cruel to innocent prospective book buyers and radiated goodness like a beacon. Aziraphale was petty and self-absorbed and the kindest creature in the world. Aziraphale avoided religious luminaries ("So tedious, dear boy. Now pour me another drink if you'd be so--oh, not good, of course not!') and spent his social time getting smashed with a demon instead, and was the purest soul Crowley had ever encountered. Aziraphale was bashful and nervous and defied the ranks of angels assembled for battle. No logical rules applied to Aziraphale, or ever had.

Especially rules about what demons were meant to feel when confronted by a fussy, kind-hearted angel: hostility, fear, disgust, definitely not the desire to push him against any convenient surface and kiss the breath out of him, unless it was with defiling intent. Not a mixture of fond irritation and something close to worship.

Demons certainly weren't meant to feel depressed because an angel was looking unhappy, the light in his river-coloured eyes dimmed.

Impossible to reach for Aziraphale's arm under those circumstances.

* * *

Perhaps Aziraphale needed taking out of himself. The next day, Crowley mentally ran down his list of Aziraphale's interests and booked--actuallybooked-- them into the Hotel du Vin for the Cheltenham Literary Festival. "I mean, you can't expect me to listen to the talks," he said, defensively. "But you'll need someone to drive you around. And the hotel has great French food and wonderful wines. You'll love your suite, it has a fire and a four-poster bed and a monsoon drench shower and roll-top bath. You can leave books everywhere."

Aziraphale had nodded, looked at him with sad eyes, and said: "That's very considerate of you. But what about you?"

Crowley bit his lip. His suite, technically the second-best, had double showers and double baths next to each other and an eight-foot bed and if he had dared only book one without risking huffing and losing the entire venture, he would have. The thought of bathing next to each other made his palms sweat. Aziraphale wouldn't even walk with his hand in reach, he wouldn't be for chummy bath dates. And he looked so bloody distant. Sweet as always, adorable as always, and a million miles away. When had all that softness hardened to marble?