Priorities

Crowley awoke to the delicious smell of frying bacon. He let the knowledge waft over him with the scent. Someone who was not him was in the flat, cooking him breakfast. It had literally never happened since he moved to Mayfair in 1861. He allowed himself a few minutes to forget about impeding doom and just grin like an idiot.

Then he followed the alluring smell. Aziraphale had produced an apron, apparently from the ether, and was bustling over the stove. "About time you got up, Crowley."

"Why? Do we have plans? The whole Antichrist thing was yesterday's news, surely?" The scene was so ludicrously domestic that Crowley resisted the ridiculous urge to slouch over and kiss the angel on the cheek.

"We're in the lull before the storm, but I don't know how long Adam will hold them off," Aziraphale said, matter of factly. "We would do well to have a good breakfast inside of us before we face the day."

"A last breakfast? And do I smell coffee? I don't, do I? If it's my last breakfast, at least let there be coffee. Please."

"I have no idea how to work that monster of a espresso machine. There's tea." Aziraphale moved the eggs and bacon to a warming plate. "And it won't be our last breakfast. I told you, I worked it out, and we'll discuss it after breakfast."

"Coffee," Crowley said, equally firmly, waving an empty cup under the huge, shining espresso machine. It filled with perfect coffee, rich and dark and fragrant. He mostly had the espresso machine because he felt someone with his kind of flat should have one, but he'd never felt the need to work out how to use it properly, clean it, service it or even refill it with coffee beans. He had paid good—or at least expensive—money for it to make excellent coffee, so it did. "Then breakfast. Then tea and answers. And possibly alcohol, depending on what the answers are."

"Go sit down and I'll bring it in. No, not here. You have a perfectly serviceable dining room." Aziraphale returned his attention to arranging plates on a tray, and added, very quietly, "Your Majesty."

"I hate you, angel."

"No, you don't." Aziraphale gave him a smile of pure sunshine. "Go sit down, dearest."

Crowley, rendered completely defenceless, went to sit down before his legs failed him. Bloody angel. That had to constitute an unfair verbal attack. Unfair smiling attack. Definitely something unfair. Crowley squeezed his eyes shut, took a deep breath, and realised he had automatically thrown himself on the throne. Bless. He decided to make the best of it and sprawl demonically. At least he could try to look cool about it. Or sexy. Something.

Aziraphale glided into the room and served the food with as much graceful economy of movement as a waiter in the best of establishments. Crowley supposed he'd had plenty of chances to observe them. He didn't mention the throne, or the sprawl, but Crowley had his suspicions of a mocking twinkle in those blue eyes.

He couldn't help an anxious glance at the television, but the screen remained blank. Not broodingly blank, either, as if Hell was lurking behind it. Just switched off because he wasn't watching anything at the moment. Crowley relaxed and ate. Breakfast was really very, very good, bacon crisp, eggs with firm whites and perfectly runny yolks, bread fried to just the right decadent texture. Of course it was. Aziraphale was meticulous about these things.

He was glad Aziraphale saved his plan until afterwards, because it would have completely spoiled the meal.

"I don't like it." He leapt to his feet, arms swinging wildly, as if trying to escape him. "What if it doesn't work?"

"It worked before."

"But what if you're wrong?" He spun Aziraphale's chair towards him and grasped his shoulders, glaring down into his face, trying to communicate his desperation. "Aziraphale, you have no idea what it's like down there. I can't let you go there. Not you. Demons have no imagination, oh, no. Can't come up with creative tortures. Unless humans come up with them and then some stupid fucking idiot writes them down in memos and sends them to Hell! With illustrations by Hieronymus Bosch!"

Aziraphale flinched a little, but remained calm. "It would be all right, you know, dearest. My side wouldn't let me stay there for an eternity."

"You can't be sure."

"Perhaps not. But am I supposed to let it happen to you instead?" Close as they were, Crowley could see there were tears on Aziraphale's lashes, although his jaw was set firmly. "Impossible, my dear boy. Put it right out of your mind."

"Yes, you are supposed to let it happen to me! It was part of my deal when I fell. Eternal torment and all that. Look—get me some more holy water. Worst comes to the worst, I'll take the easy way out and swallow it. I've had a good six thousand years. A terrific six thousand years."

"No, Crowley. I would not put you in harm's way unless I was sure. I understand Agnes and how her mind worked. I know what she was telling me. You have to trust me, my dear."

"It's not about trust!" Crowley let go of him and spun on his heel, wishing he was wearing his sunglasses. Some eye shields would come in handy right about now.

He heard Aziraphale push the chair back and move to the window, opening the shade. "It's a beautiful morning, Crowley. A beautiful world. It's alive, it's full of potential, and it's at least partly because of us. Agnes knew this. She wouldn't sacrifice us without an attempt to save us." They stood in silence. "If it's not about trust, what is it?"

"What do you think?" Before he could register what he was doing, he was across the room, leaning against Aziraphale's back, arms tight wrapped tightly around his chest, head buried on the soft, plump shoulder, right where the wings would sprout. "What do you think, Aziraphale? Am I supposed to lose you again?"

"Oh, Crowley." Aziraphale's voice was very gentle.

They stayed there for what seemed like a long time, yet not long enough. Crowley let his heartbeat quieten, his breathing slow to match Aziraphale's, feeling like he was holding desperately tight to everything in Heaven and Hell and the whole vast Universe. Aziraphale was so solid and stable, so terribly warm, and hadn't he always craved stability and warmth, from the moment the Almighty had created him in the cold heavens? Crowley clung, dimly aware of the slow uncoiling of desire within him, of his body responding to the closeness by surging with lust, and not even caring if Aziraphale noticed. If he could only stay there forever and not have to let go...

"Trust me, my Crowley." Aziraphale's voice was barely above a whisper.

He surrendered. "Yes. Always."

Aziraphale carefully removed Crowley's arms from his chest, and turned. "Hold hands and think of happy memories?" His smile was made of fire that felt like it consumed Crowley's soul.

"Happy memories." My dearest, he thought, holding tight to that memory. He extended his hand, and tried to answer the flaming smile with tenderness, as if they had changed roles.

Aziraphale's hand rose, then twitched back, the ethereal fire in his face dimming.

"What's wrong?" Crowley said sharply.

"Do we really have to hold hands?" Aziraphale was suddenly pink and fussy again, his hands clasping together defensively, looking away to the window.

Crowley felt as if he had been punched in the gut. His hand fell back to his side, and he turned half away, consciously loose in his hips, casual. "It seems easiest. Skin contact is important, and holding hands is the best way to make us feel connected. I think. But if you'd rather not..."

"Doesn't it hurt you when I touch you? You always cringe."

"Only for a moment." He relaxed a little. "Takes a little while to readjust to the holiness. Don't worry about that, angel."

Aziraphale's fingers squeezed together for a moment, and then, nervously, as if noticing what they was doing, he put his hands behind his back. "Does it actually have to be holding hands? Would another touch work?"

"I suppose. What are you thinking?"

Aziraphale smiled again, and this time it was not a holy celestial blazing smile, but something gentle and nervous. The angel stepped forward, put a hand on each side of Crowley's head, and kissed him.

The pain flared up and away almost before Crowley was conscious of it. His arms came up and pulled Aziraphale tightly against him almost of their own accord. Oh no, some bewildered terrified part of his brain said. He was misinterpreting. They had lived more years than not in times and places in which men kissed each other as chaste salutations, although they'd always avoided making demon-angel mouth contact themselves. This was probably just an old fashioned sealing of an arrangement and if Crowley continued to grab and press like that Aziraphale was going to smite him, and it would be a merciful death, and Aziraphale had just parted his lips, this wasn't chaste at all, was it? He wouldn't be making that sound between a gasp and a moan if it was merely a friendly gesture. Or perhaps Crowley was making the sound. He wasn't at all sure. And Aziraphale's hands had slid down and were kneading the back of his neck and oh someone.

There was fire, all right, but it wasn't like being scalded by holiness, this was... was... Crowley stopped thinking at all, and just kissed, because Aziraphale's mouth was willingly open to his and six thousand bloody years of wanting was worth it.

Their lips parted.

"Oh," said Aziraphale, sounding disappointed. "It didn't work."

"Oh, it did, angel," hissed Crowley. He was having difficulty thinking, but somewhere in his dazed mind he was sure the most urgent thing to think about was whether they could make it all the way to the bedroom or if it was better to just keep going where they were. He leaned in and devoured Aziraphale's mouth again. The angelic heart that still survived somewhere inside him was bursting with light, demonic blood was pounding through his body, and he couldn't tell the difference between them any more.

Aziraphale opened to and returned the kiss. Then he pressed his hands against Crowley's chest and pushed him away, just a little.

"Too much?" Crowley screwed his eyes tight and tried to regain control, releasing his grip and stepping away. "Angel..." He could hear the pleading neediness in his voice, and didn't even care. Let him feel humiliated later. He never had much pride with Aziraphale anyway. "I can stop, I can calm down, I can do anything you need, just don't leave again."

"I mean it didn't work because you're still you. And I'm still me."

"Oh." Crowley opened his eyes. "Oh. That was what we were supposed to be doing. Yeah."

"It was the general idea." Aziraphale pressed a hand to his own chest, breathing hard. "I think I got distracted. You were being very distracting," he added reproachfully.

"I was being distracting?" Crowley grinned toothily, stepping closer again. He was so light-headed that the felt like he was flying. "Holding hands, wasn't that the original idea? Holding hands was too intimate, angel? So you thought..."

"Now stop that. This is serious," Aziraphale said. "I—I think I know what went wrong."

"Wrong?" Crowley leaned in and stole a soft kiss, without resistance. "Well, wrong is my thing. I'm great at wrong."

"i mean, I know why we didn't swap bodies," Aziraphale clarified, and then quickly, dartingly, returned the kiss, just a fleeting caress, as if he couldn't quite help it. "I think I was forgetting to concentrate on my memories of you and concentrating too much on the present moment."

"I wonder why," Crowley hissed, winding his arms back around Aziraphale's back. "Nothing particularly interesting was happening in the moment, was it, my love?"

"Love," Aziraphale echoed, and Crowley wondered if it was possible that when Aziraphale had called him "dearest" he had anything as shamelessly soppy as that giddy, glowing expression. No. His sharp face and yellow eyes could never look so utterly adorable. He leaned in again, but this time Aziraphale put a repressing hand over his mouth. "Don't do that, I can't think."

"You can think later," Crowley mumbled against Aziraphale's hand, kissing his palm and hands. "Much later. Busssy now." He seemed to be losing control of his tongue, which was more forked and difficult to speak with by the moment.

"No, Crowley. Try to stop tempting for five minutes."

"'sss my job." He raked his teeth lightly against a fingertip.

"And you're very good at it, my dearest, but nothing has changed."

"Everything has changed."

"It hasn't changed that my priority is keeping you alive," Aziraphale snapped. "Even if you don't care about your life, I do. And I thought you cared about mine!"

Chastened, Crowley stepped back. "Happy memories. Right. Focus."

"Happy memories." Aziraphale nodded. "I think holding hands might be safest this time."

"Fine." Crowley stuck out his hand, and thought—happy memories. Every smile. Every blush. Every moment of golden flustered pleasure.

The first moment of his angel's lips against his...

He changed.

Notes:

1) I just rewatched and oh Heavens Crowley has an entire room full of thrones, not one. Oh, well, I'm committed to Single Throne Crowley in this fic.

2) Next chapter will probably be the last. We'll see how much room it needs.