Present Day

"That's better," Aziraphale said appreciatively, inhaling the fragrance of his port. "Much, much better. I don't want to question your taste, dear boy, but the wine in that place was hardly deserving of its price tag."

Crowley carefully replaced the decanter on the table instead of in its jarrah case, ready to refill the glasses. He'd been saving this particular Seppeltsfield for—well. To spoil Aziraphale with, obviously. But he had a half-acknowledged special celebration in mind, and the event hadn't happened. He wasn't sure why he had pulled the port out tonight, except that he wanted the bottle to be as beautiful for Aziraphale as the drink. He wanted everything beautiful, to make up for the quarrel in the wine bar.

"Well, organic small vineyard wine is especially designed to be expensive and difficult to grow and produce, and difficult to make a profit on, while not being, exactly, very good at all. Lots of dead hopes and dreams with every vineyard."

"And I'm sure that amuses you," Aziraphale said, disapproving. "Your doing?"

"Yeah. But I told you, I'm not doing that kind of thing anymore."

"You still took me there?" That expression. Curious and... seeking? Trying to dig under his expression, see what hid there. Crowley felt vulnerable, and almost wanted to put his glasses back on, but that would seem weird once he'd doffed them.

He shrugged. "Thought you might like to see where I kicked around when we're not together. Sorry." He tested the port with his tongue, then tasted it. Rich and syrupy. Perfect for the angel, if he did say so himself.

"That was a kind thought," Aziraphale said in an odd tone. He stood up, glass in hand, and wandered around, looking for all the world like a cream cat sniffing and padding around a new home.

"What're you looking for? You've seen it all before."

"I had other things on my mind last time than home decoration," Aziraphale said vaguely. "Concrete, my dear boy? Why is it all so cold and dark? You detest the cold and dark. You can certainly afford light and heating." He stared at the Mona Lisa sketch as if he could sense the miraculously restored tartan thermos hidden behind it. Perhaps he could. Or perhaps he was wondering how long Crowley had gone by "Anthony" before that damned spy gave it away.

"Fashion, I guess," Crowley said, feeling ridiculous.

Aziraphale hummed a little, and the light became amber, the temperature creeping up. "Isn't that more comfortable?"

"Yeah. Thanks." He felt even more ridiculous. It was much nicer now, he had to admit.

His feeling of pained, exposed ridiculousness increased as Aziraphale drifted to the sculpture, and stood before it, rolling his glass in his hands, the ruby liquid glinting in the new light. When he could bear the silence no longer, he said, "It symbolises the eternal conflict between Heaven and Hell."

"Really? Who's winning, dear?" Definitely something arch in his tone.

"Heaven," Crowley said bitterly. "Now stop prowling about and come sit down."

"Let me put some music on first," said Aziraphale, which instantly sent Crowley into internal panic. Was he putting music on to avoid talking? But then why come back here in the first place? And—oh, Satan, the almost completely black and expensively simple stereo was showing the last track played in bright blue letters, and the corner of Aziraphale's mouth was quirking.

"Put on anything you like," Crowley said hastily.

"Well, I must put on something that suits your taste. What about The Ride of the Valkyries? Or is that too peaceful for you?"

"Shut up."

"How do I work it, anyway? It doesn't seem to have any controls."

"I lost the remote. Just think at it."

"All right." The music swelled out, much more quietly than Crowley usually had it play. Not Wagner after all, and no tone poems. Puccini. The wistful notes of Che Gelida Manina did not so much fill the room as subtly permeate it. It made Crowley think of tea again, but a delicate white tea, not Yunnan. Aziraphale made no move to sit down, staring at the stereo as if it had some answers. "I'm not completely au fait with modern technology, but shouldn't there be speakers?"

"Should there?" Crowley asked guiltily. "Seems to work well enough."

Aziraphale continued to keep his attention on the stereo. "You know, your hands always do seem cold."

"Comes with the serpent thing, I suppose. Yours are always warm," said Crowley and then, as if the lyrics or the port compelled him, "so come warm mine."

He thought it was too much, as Aziraphale's already exquisitely correct posture stiffened a little. Only a few moments, then the angel turned and came to sit beside him, putting his glass aside and closing two hands over Crowley's free one, trapping and chafing it.

"So hand holding is allowed," Crowley muttered. Delicious warmth was spreading up his hand and arm. "Good to know."

"My dearest." There was pain and tenderness in Aziraphale's face. "I never wanted to leave you cold."

"Could've fooled me," said Crowley, then caught the words back as the pain on Aziraphale's face intensified, and the hands loosened on his own. "Sorry, sorry." He put the glass down and wrapped his other hand on the back of one of Aziraphale's. "Stop looking at me like that, angel." His voice shook.

"Like what?" Aziraphale's voice was a little shaky as well.

"Like I'm something you want and can't have."

"Hasn't that always been the case?"

It wasn't just his voice shaking now. "Don't give me that. I've been yours for the taking for centuries, and I've been perfectly obvious about that."

"You've been tempting me for centuries. But I don't think you have ever once offered what I actually want."

Crowley mentally reached for every curse word he could think of, but all that came to mind were either blasphemous or obscene, and either felt impossible in the grip of that pure, suffering blue-green gaze. "Aziraphale," he said helplessly, instead. "Please. Just ask?"

"Of a demon?"

"Yes! Ask me anything. Anything at all." His words fell over each other.

"I'm still too afraid of losing what I already have. But, I think—I hope—you're getting there. It's just that maybe I'm foolish for thinking so, and I'm just hurting us both."

"Fuck." Crowley couldn't look at that gaze anymore. It was too angelic, it burned him like holy water. He buried his head on Aziraphale's shoulder instead, half expecting to be pushed away. The hands remained gripping his, though, and Aziraphale bent his own head slightly, to lean against his. "Are you trying to discorporate me?"

"Never." Surely, surely he imagined the light kiss dropped on the top of his head, although fire spread down his body from it. "I've been a long time admitting it to myself, but I can't do without you, either." He laughed a little shakily. "I mean, what will I do next time I get into trouble, without a big bad demon striding in to rescue me?"

"You don't have to act like a damsel in distress every time things go a bit pear shaped. You're perfectly capable of fixing things yourself."

"That wouldn't be very angelic now, would it? Besides, you enjoy feeling all powerful and chivalrous."

"Huh," said Crowley, wondering how he was still managing to grin when everything hurt so much. He thought of a burning bookstore, and thinking Aziraphale hadn't been able to save himself after all. He squeezed his cold hands tighter around Aziraphale's soft, warm ones. "Anyway, you're kind of irresistible when you go all fluttery and helpless."

Aziraphale hummed slightly, and they sat there for a while. The music was still opera but had changed to Flotow's M'appari, and Crowley wasn't sure which of them was choosing the song order. maybe the stereo was. It had so much magic piped into it that it probably had developed an infernal mind of its own. It had to be infernal, wrapping him with all that desperate longing.

I was hurt, I was charmed

By that beauty from above.Love is etched in my heart,And cannot now be erased.

Bless it. He tried to change the song, but either the stereo or Aziraphale was not cooperating. Even his stereo was a traitor. Only the Bentley stayed ever loyal.

"Why not put it on top of a high mountain or somewhere far off?" Aziraphale said almost inaudibly, as if to himself. He sighed, and settled his chin on Crowley's head. It kind of hurt, but Crowley didn't want to complain.

The demon hadn't tried to talk to God since he had railed at the silence before the Apocalypse. No answer. No answer ever for a fallen angel, but he suspected there was no any answer for any of them these days, not since the early times. It was a long time since he believed the other angels were acting on direct orders, even the Metatron. He'd never dared ask Aziraphale about it, wary of saying the one thing that would push him too far and far away.

You have left me,
And my heart along with yours has vanished away.
You've taken away my peace,
I will surely die of pain.

For the first time he could remember since long before his Fall, Crowley prayed.

Please just grant me this one thing, Lord. Just let me be able to be what he needs. Whatever he needs me to become, I'll become, if you help me. It's not fun being a temptation anymore. Please. I'll repent of anything you like.

"I need to go back to the shop," Aziraphale said. "Plenty of work to do before opening tomorrow." He hesitated. "Pick me up at six for the concert?"

"Yeah," Crowley said, unable to muster the energy to even say something snarky about the quality of music to expect.

Aziraphale lifted their joined hands to his mouth and brushed his lips against Crowley's fingertips. The tiny touch sent electricity jolting down his arm, down his legs, aching even in his feet. Aziraphale released his hands and stood up. Crowley let himself slide to a half lying position on the couch. "Good night, my dear."

"Good night, angel." Crowley didn't look up.

He could hear the door of the flat close. Bless, he should have offered to drive Aziraphale home, not send him off in a taxi in danger of running into a dozen souls he had to heal first. Crowley tried to move, and found he couldn't lift his head. It was heavy, so heavy, and his eyes were aching, yet he felt oddly at peace. And warm.

in the last moments before he felt asleep, he became aware that the skin next to his shoulder blades, right where his wings sprouted, was prickling and beginning to burn.

Notes:

1) This is the port. It's pretty local to me, and fairly unusual for an Australian wine to cost $10,000 a bottle, but I am sure it is stunning. The bottle certainly is. Anyway, if anyone can afford it, it's Crowley.
https://www.wine.com.au/the-lalique-decanter-by-seppeltsfield

3) Che Gelida Manina is from Puccini's La Boheme and begins with "What a frozen little hand, let me warm it for you." Not that I suppose Crowley's hands are particularly little. But I always head-canon that the after falling from heaven, where he was in my head-canon a flaming serpent/seraph, Crowley has a very low body temperature as a snakey demon.

4) Quoted lyrics, and the title, are from M'appari, from Felix von Flowstow's Martha. Lyrics by Friedrich Wilhelm Riese and translated by LyricsTranslate. The plot has nothing to do with the sensible sister from the Bible who had her devotion rejected, but it seemed appropriate anyway.