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Chapter Text

Romeo and Juliet, according to most historians, was written between 1594 and 1596, and performed somewhere along the way to an audience rumored to have contained the Queen herself. This was rather more accurate than Aziraphale had expected of the humans, though the exact date would always remain a mystery to them.

In fact, Romeo and Juliet was written in the year 1595 over a dazzling span of three months, and performed the day after Shakespeare finished his first draft, with revisions made backstage. Queen Elizabeth was truly in attendance. As was Aziraphale.

Queen Elizabeth was wearing a gorgeous silk and taffeta gown, adorned with scarlet and gold and white, with fur, rubies, and pearl earrings. Her ruff was once pristine, but was recently spotted with running makeup and tears. She dabbed a handkerchief across her heavily powdered face, then offered the cloth to her companion.

Aziraphale thanked her with a little nod. His eyes were puffy, his face blotchy, and his nose runny. He blew as quietly as he could manage, though he shouldn’t have bothered. Everyone around him was sobbing hysterically; one woman had even fainted off the balcony and brought the performance to a short yet memorable halt.

His chest hurt a great deal, which was perplexing. Perhaps his corporal form had a defect. No, that was silly. While Romeo spoke his monologue to his sleeping wife, Aziraphale shook his head to clear it. Something was the matter, yet he had few guesses.

“O happy dagger,” came Juliet’s sweet, sorrowful voice. “This is thy sheath. There rust, and let me die.” Onstage, she plunged a dagger into her heart. Scarlet fabric folded luxuriously out of the staged wound, but to all the onlookers, the fountain of blood was a true cascade, bathing the lovers in their violent end.

Blubbering something unintelligible, Aziraphale wrung the handkerchief in his hands. There was the epilogue to come, all the apologies to the audience, but he barely retained those words. He stared blankly at the actors while they bowed. His mind was full of fog and his heart, which had raced only moments before, had turned heavy as lead.

He made his excuses to the Queen as to why he could not accompany her backstage to congratulate the playwright, nor even return to court. Finding it best to gather his thoughts alone, he slipped through throngs of adoring people to escape outdoors.

The air was hardly fresh, what with summer boiling every foul stench to an airborne state. He took great gulps of it anyway. It was no Garden of Eden, but it would have to do for comfort until he could find pastries. That would take a few hours if he wished to uphold his standards, because the street vendors who gathered outside the theaters served barely edible cakes on a good day. He shuddered to recollect what was served on bad days.

Aziraphale walked down the road. A stray dog came loping past, whining for scraps. Checking for onlookers, Aziraphale found none, and in a wink of an eye, the mongrel was fully fed and groomed better than the royal hunting hounds.

“Off you go,” he said, scratching it behind its velvety ears.

It yipped and sped down the street, its once broken tail wagging with wild abandon as it went. Aziraphale smiled, far more cheerful than he had been when his excursion began. Of course, he should have been suspicious. Shakespeare’s tragedies had tried to teach him to treat joy with caution, but Angels were never an entity to change their feathers too fast.

“Ooh, a miracle!” interjected a sardonic voice. Out of the shadows, Crowley emerged, his outfit as dark as Aziraphale’s was light.

“Oh, no,” Aziraphale pouted. He marched toward Crowley, shooing him away as one might a particularly persistent pest.

Crowley simply grinned, retreating into the alley with only a quick raise of his eyebrows at the shooing. “Oh, yes,” he replied in his most dramatic interpretation of the phrase.

They stopped near the middle of the alley. It was bathed in the sun’s warm glow from the east and only cold blackness on its other half. Crowley’s hair blended into the bricks. It could have been comical, had Aziraphale not suspected the camouflage was helpful in demonic plots.

He narrowed his eyes. “What are you doing here? You don’t even like the tragic ones.”

“I’m not here for the play.” Crowley scoffed. He crossed his arms and leaned against the wall, one leg bent haphazardly beneath him and the other digging into the dirt. He was also squirming. Aziraphale had the insane urge to put his hand on his chest to make him stand still.

The moment passed. Aziraphale said, “Tell me your plans now, and they ought not to involve burning down the Globe, or, or…” He fumbled, fuming. “Or I’ll be angry!” he finished lamely.

“Wouldn’t want that,” Crowley retorted, the words barely gone before his mouth slithered into a smirk. “No, I--”

He stopped speaking abruptly. Aziraphale cocked his head. “Crowley?” he asked. His voice jumped up a considerable amount of the next octave as he repeated the name. Attempting to interject some more appropriate emotion besides fear into his voice, he tried a harsher, “Forget it,” but The Bard would have called it the worst acting he’d ever witnessed.

“Have you been crying?” Crowley’s question was a whisper. His hand hovered beside Aziraphale’s face, and then, softly, as if touching the surface of a peaceful lake, he laid his hand down. The heat of it was shocking when added to the hot tears that had fallen minutes ago. Aziraphale wondered idly how the burn compared to Hellfire.

He did not trust himself to speak at first. When he closed his mouth, a million answers filled up his lungs, and when he opened it, they all died. The result came very close to what he imagined suffocating to be: air piling up into his esophagus until it had nowhere to go and stretched out, infinite, staying and leaving all at once while silver spots danced in his vision.

“I-I-I’m fine,” Aziraphale managed much later. Shrugging, he retreated, yet the blush did not disappear with Crowley’s touch as he’d hoped. He blinked rapidly as a tingling sensation spread over his face, then smiled when the tear tracks were successfully miracled away. “Tip-top,” he squeaked, with a tiny shake of his pounding head. “The tippiest, really.” He would have giggled had his throat allowed it.

Crowley, it seemed, was also at a loss for words. His characteristic simper was instead a gape. His hand was still outstretched to where Aziraphale had stood.

Now he did giggle, a great, nervous sound that filled his belly and went careening down the whole street. Which would not have been an issue if the play had not let out, and filled the square with people, people who had little else to do with the rest of their day except come hurtling down the alley admonishing Aziraphale and Crowley for being too loud.

“It is a popular spot, gentleman. Thus, it requires discretion.” William Shakespeare himself appeared in front of them. His hands were on his hips and he continued pacing as he talked. “Squander not the hopes of the many other young couples fortunate enough to encounter solitude on a summer’s eve.”

“Couple?” Crowley inquired. His shoulders were back in their usual leaning posture, his hips doing that silly thing many of the actors in Shakespeare’s more promiscuous works were prone to do.

Shakespeare smiled like he knew all of their secrets, then made a motion as if to shush himself. “Of course, how erroneous of me to reprimand you when I also throw caution to the wind. Good day, sirs.”

Once again they were alone. Aziraphale cleared his throat, opened his arms, and said, “After you.”

They stopped before they went out and looked at each other. Aziraphale shuffled his feet, stared at his interlocked fingers, and said, “It was his play, if you must know. Romeo and Juliet.”

“Ah.” Crowley made the vowel out to be the explanation for everything that had just occurred in that alley, drawing it out in different pitches and ranging through the whole spectrum of whatever he was feeling. He finished with, “That’s why I prefer the funny ones."

He left, strutting off in the opposite direction. Aziraphale could not help but notice how tightly his hands were clasped behind his back.

Chapter Text

Crowley was particularly proud that day, and was striding down the London streets with the air of a man who had just won an outstanding bet. Of course, if anyone from Below had inquired as to the source of that happiness, he had three very good reasons available. One: He had tempted a whole gang of thieves to rob a cargo ship at the West India Docks (not in the slightest bit true). Two: He had convinced an architect to plan one of the first English suburbs (inaccurate; the man had designed it himself). Three: He had tricked some angels into believing in monsters. Not just any monsters, either; great, cloaked, Hell-sent things with big teeth and hair-raising vocabularies.

The final reason was the most related to his particular sin. Nonetheless, it still took the truth, shook it up in a grimy gin bottle, and spat it out on a pub floor. Not that anyone downstairs would ever notice. His imagination was earning him regular commendations and it wouldn’t stop simply because he had some other things to worry about.

He sidestepped a puddle to avoid ruining his newly-polished shoes. Special occasions called for special dress, and his black tailcoat nearly gleamed over the embellished burgundy waistcoat and black linen shirt he’d chosen. Finally, there was a small white flower. He would have a difficult time wiggling his way out of that one if the boys downstairs noticed. Subtle enough, he thought, but he kept glancing and picking at it as he navigated the Soho streets.

All of the world, Hell itself--and even the galaxy--at his disposal, and Crowley was pretty keen on settling in a small area of the West End. If asked, he would praise its vibrant nightlife and lack of aristocracy, and forget to mention the nasty cholera outbreak that he’d taken all the credit for in the paperwork.

He’d also forget to mention the bookshop. Or the angel.

Crowley stood in front of Mr. A Fell Purveyor of… well, that was a mouthful. Pretty on-brand with that Biblical way of going about naming and writing things, though. He scratched his chin with his knuckles because his fingers were occupied, wrapped tightly around three objects. In his right hand he held a finely crafted walking stick, a unique, customized design of sleek black with a silver snake’s head carved at the peak. In his left hand he held a box of chocolates, as well as fresh flowers that should have wilted by then in the smog. Miraculously resilient, those red camellias. He smiled through the nerves.

It was ten minutes past the lunch hour, and the doors to the shop were wide open. The paint had only dried an hour ago, and it was a vibrant gold. It paled in comparison to Aziraphale’s smile as he walked through those doors--his shop doors--, arms spread and breathing out an exuberant welcome to all the people gathered on the steps.

Crowley felt his mouth split into a wide grin. Immediately, he faked a coughing fit, hiding his lips behind a closed fist. His walking stick waved wildly in front of him. A few parents clutched their children tightly and moved away, and he couldn't say he blamed them.

As was intended, he created enough of a ruckus that the owner of the establishment came bustling over, already fussing over his patrons. “No matter, friends,” he told them. “Enjoy your browsing!” When he saw that it was Crowley, he made a face that was surely meant to show disapproval yet betrayed him both instantaneously and obviously. “What are you doing here?” Aziraphale hissed, if angels could hiss. It was more of an excited whisper combined with the rustling of wrapping paper as he reached for Crowley’s elbow, leading him aside.

“I came round earlier,” Crowley said cheerfully, “but you had company.”

Aziraphale grimaced. Then he sighed, glanced over his shoulder, and replied, “They wanted to send me back, you know.” His eyes strained toward the sky. “I had almost cancelled the opening when they returned, positively quaking in their boots and asking me to remain stationed here.”

“Strange.”

“Mm. Yes.” He wrung his hands together.

Aziraphale peered closely at Crowley. He thought he might be caught until the angel shook himself and switched his attention to the bookshop. There was a significantly larger crowd than Crowley had expected, knowing Soho residents were generally more fond of alcohol and parties than ancient dictionaries or whatever used merchandise Aziraphale was peddling.

Actually, Crowley wasn’t sure entirely clear about that. He followed Aziraphale up the steps and inside the cozy, overstuffed store. There were myriad plush armchairs covered in mismatched, patterned pillows. Patrons lounged while reading. Glasses of wine and mugs of tea sat on small tables, all holding their own small stacks of books. Candles burned nearby, all miraculously unable to light any blazes. Near the unmanaged yet well-populated counter Crowley asked, “Are you selling anything?” They set their hats down side-by-side.

“Well...!” He looked scandalized by the implication, though he had also taken a great interest in the binding on a dark red volume near the register. Crowley smirked at Aziraphale for a moment until the angel frowned and admitted, “Not the first editions, of course. Or anything signed. The prophecies… and the reprints are quite nice, you know? Those stay put.”

Their faces had ended up rather close during this exchange. And Satan help Crowley; the angel was blushing. As Aziraphale tended to speak with almost constant head and hand movement, their noses were nearly touching as Aziraphale explained how there wasn’t anything selfish about hoarding his special books, since Crowley had just accused him of doing so with a quirk of his lips and eyebrows.

Naturally, whispers breed whispers. Crowley could have distracted himself with watching Aziraphale’s mouth for another century at least, but his ears pricked toward unavoidable words floating in their vicinity.

“Say, who’s the fellow with Mr. Fell?”

Crowley yearned to invent some ridiculous persona for himself then and there, perhaps with a little middle letter like Aziraphale had adopted, but he kept quiet. Aziraphale was still going on about his bonkers plan to sell a few books and protect the others. Crowley nodded, only half-listening, as he angled himself for better eavesdropping.

“Oi, this hardcover smells odd!”

There was a loud thunk as the volume was replaced on the shelf. Aziraphale could not suppress a little chuckle of delight. Crowley shifted again, his elbow knocking against Aziraphale’s arm.

“I’ve seen him before.”

“Why’s he dressed for a funeral?”

“...standing awfully close, if you ask me...”

“Partners?” A giggle. “Lovers?”

A pleasant jolt of lightning coursed through Crowley’s veins.

“What have you done now?”

Crowley whipped his head back around. He’d turned almost completely away from Aziraphale, whose rambling had ceased probably a minute or two ago without Crowley’s notice. “Done?” he asked. The vowels were long and the word far longer than one syllable. “What makes you think I’ve done anything?” He ducked his head back to its original spot. It was very nice there, and his heart was thumping along happily while Aziraphale ridiculed him.

“You’re smug,” he said. With his hands on his hips and his head tilted every so slightly, Aziraphale must have thought he cut quite the striking, imposing figure. Only one of those adjectives was accurate.

Crowley’s eyebrows shot up dramatically. “Naaaah--”

“Yes!” Aziraphale wagged his finger in that adorably accusatory way. “I know your smug face, and you’re smug.”

“Well.” Crowley leaned with both his elbows on the counter and his feet stuck out in front of him, ankles crossed, all of his weight balanced on his heels. If he was going to be stared at, might as well have some fun with it; accept his strangeness with style and--

He froze. As it was, he’d almost thought the word ‘grace’, which should have been alarming and very Aziraphale-is-standing-too-close-and-infecting-you-with-all-his-holiness of him. Instead, it made him smile, and the smile only grew when he heard from over his shoulder, “Oh, yes. Lovers.”

Chapter Text

Having procured very good tickets to an up-and-coming band’s first major concert hall show without even performing a minor miracle, Aziraphale was feeling rather proud of himself as he dressed. He did not smirk, since angels didn’t do that sort of thing, but his smile was a tad more sinful than Upstairs would have approved. He wore it out of his shop, onto the street, and into the cab, as well as all the way to the venue. After all, he was exceedingly happy, and would show it however he pleased.

Aziraphale was not a fan of all-nighters. Except on the occasion that all-nighter involved a bottle (or three) of wine, perhaps a good bit of music--and, of course, Crowley. All three of those conditions were met on that March evening, a date otherwise unremarkable in the history of the world. If questioned, Aziraphale would argue it was unremarkable in his own history. The only witnesses to the truth were--well, the entire residency of The Rainbow.

Crowley was already queued up. Because he was not at the front, he was craning his neck to see around the throng of people, perhaps hoping to catch a glimpse of the band. Aziraphale watched him from some meters away. The concert had been a gift to Crowley after all; Aziraphale was easily a fan of Queen, but Crowley had nearly whooped with joy when Aziraphale had given him the tickets over their dinner a few nights ago. It had made Aziraphale want to take Crowley’s face in his hands and freeze that expression until the End Times.

Crowley’s mouth split into a similarly exuberant smile when he noticed Aziraphale. His recognition and subsequent glee were instant, and he made no attempt to disguise their acquaintanceship. “Angel!” he called. He waved his arms so wildly that it was a wonder he didn’t leave the ground. “Over here!”

Once people were finished staring at the strange display, they shuffled around to make room for Aziraphale. Many were amiable, while others begrudged every step with some whispered accusation about ‘cutting’ the queue. Aziraphale was, however, patient enough that night to stifle his reproachful glares at those Hellbound souls. With a small shake of his shoulders and a dignified straightening of his coat, he pressed onward, undaunted.

Crowley quickly leaned his shoulders back into the wall and stuck his legs out as Aziraphale approached him, somehow as long in this corporal form as he had been as a serpent. He wore black plaid pants which flared at the bottom, a black turtleneck, and a black leather jacket.

“Really, dear boy, would it be so awful to consider color in your wardrobe?” Aziraphale admonished insincerely.

“I’ve got--” Crowley stuck a foot out, waved it in the air, “red shoes.”

“You’ve red soles on your shoes, Crowley, not red shoes .”

Crowley smiled toothily, his whole head moving with the action. “I don’t think I’ll take criticism from someone who never left the 1940s,” he reciprocated, lifting his eyebrows for emphasis as he gave Aziraphale a once-over.

Pursing his lips, Aziraphale straightened his bowtie and sighed. “I have--”

“Standards, yes, yes.” Crowley smirked. Aziraphale thought he saw him wink as well, but decided it was simply a trick of the light and changed the subject. He and Crowley chatted comfortably about their separate days, which gave Aziraphale an opportunity to share a particularly good anecdote about a mafia member who had recently threatened his shop and who would not be returning any time soon. Crowley laughed, impressed, and Aziraphale felt himself glowing by the time the doors opened and the queue began its steady procession inside the venue.

Crowley leaned forward in his seat as if compelled by magnetism. Body taut, he stared exclusively at the stage, even when Aziraphale leaned over to enquire as to what snack he might prefer for the evening.

“We’ll get food after, my treat.” He smiled with just one corner of his mouth.

“I suppose I can live with that,” Aziraphale sighed contentedly. In fact, he was quite pleased to simply watch Crowley watch the live music, which he did for the entirety of the concert (though, admittedly, he faced a distinct bit of heated discomfort as Freddie Mercury sang out familiar lyrics--

Whatever comes of you and me

I'd love to leave my memory with you

Now I'm here

Think I'll stay around, around, around, around

Down in the city just’a you and me

--lyrics which had Aziraphale clutching his chest for a reason he did not fully wish to comprehend. It was only the second song they played, and it left him afraid to stare at Crowley for too long afterwards.

Aziraphale wished Crowley would have sang along, though; he wished he could have heard “don’t I love you so” in Crowley’s voice. But Crowley did not sing--instead, he danced, and heartily confessed that he was very much inclined to continue doing that as soon as possible once the last notes had been played and the lights came on. Aziraphale leaned back in his seat and smiled.

“ You may go dancing. I will sit at the bar and watch.”

Crowley arched an eyebrow. “You’re going to watch me dance?”

Sputtering objections, Aziraphale stood. Crowley grinned smugly before following suit.

“Where are you going now?” Aziraphale asked sharply. 

Crowley strutted along beside him. “Oh, you know, compromise. Drinks first, then dancing.” His smile was infectious.

Aziraphale ordered the darkest red wine on the menu, which the bartender scandalously served in a plastic cup. Crowley, on the other hand, sipped from something neon blue and bubbling. He stuck the yellow plastic straw into the left corner of his mouth and slurped loudly, which was far more charming than Aziraphale would have liked. Moments later Crowley was swaying along to the music, his hips beating out the rhythm of the song, and Aziraphale was decidedly not watching.

He set his cup down and beckoned the bartender over for another. The wine was close to vinegar and Aziraphale was longing for his private stores, but it would have to do for now.

“Your boyfriend’s got moves,” the bartender told Aziraphale.

“Hm.” Aziraphale nodded. He took the wine before he fully realized the implications, and gasped. “Oh, but he’s only my friend.”

It was that moment that Now I’m Here came on with a snap of Crowley’s fingers. Crowley, who was dancing back toward the bar. Crowley, who spread his arms wide and shouted over the noise, “Angel! Come dance!”

Crowley, whose ineffable presence in Aziraphale’s world could be explained quite easily if Aziraphale considered, even for the briefest of moments, that Crowley was his world.

Chapter Text

Just around the corner from his bookshop, a true hop-skip-and-a-jump away, there sat one of the most delightful tea-and-coffee shops Aziraphale had ever encountered. The hustling, bustling Soho streets could not cause calamity in that peaceful building. It exuded the warmest of feelings, like a long hug after a large cup of cocoa.

He had sampled almost every flavor available, and stopped in once a week to check for any new leaves; though the trip was saved after a year when the owner’s daughter would bring him samples in exchange for a smile and a borrowed book. Aziraphale had enough tea stored in his cellar to last him through the End Times.

On a brisk, brightly lit Tuesday morning, Aziraphale exited his shop with his hat donned and a seasonally appropriate soft blue coat draped over his arm. The store locked with a snap of his fingers. He was out of his favorite cinnamon blend, and it would be winter soon. Best to nab something warm. Best to do it fast before he shut himself up with a good novel for the whole week.

He hopped down the steps and skipped down the sidewalk and jumped a small puddle, all to wind up at the Red Bicycle Tea Room. The story behind the name was the loveliest of family stories, one about springtime, romantic rendezvous, and a bicycle that had been maintained almost as well as Aziraphale’s favorite coat.

The building’s exterior was a cherry red wood, with a large glass window and soft red bricks leading to a cream-white door. The door chime was a bicycle bell, which always made him smile. Humans were so very endearing. Aziraphale closed the door quietly behind him after checking for further customers behind him. Being seven in the morning, he didn’t expect many, but he would always ensure there was no one to hold the door for before abandoning the post.

Aziraphale doffed his hat and turned around, beaming, his order on the tip of his tongue. It died instantly. At the counter, where the owner’s daughter usually stood waiting-- well, there she was, yes, but there was also a man. Man, of course, was a loose term. A rather more apt word would be demon, foul fiend, citizen of the underworld.

One Mr. A.J. Crowley leaned with one elbow on the counter, the other pointing to different collections of leaves beneath the crystal-clear glass. He sniffed before sticking his tongue out and running it across his lips. It was a curious habit to anyone who didn’t know his history as a snake, although Crowley had never been one to mind being considered a curious creature. 

“What if I mixed these two?” he asked, and a resounding groan of disgust was his answer. He chuckled. “Alright, ring me up, then.” A few pounds were exchanged for a small red bag.

“Good morning,” Aziraphale piped in, because it was the polite thing to do. In truth, he was miffed to see Crowley. Not that this was only his spot, or that the business didn’t deserve patronage, not at all. It was just that, in addition to the cinnamon restock, he had fancied purchasing some coffee beans as a gift for his sort-of friend.

Crowley whipped around. “Angel!” he yelled brightly.

“Morning, Mr. Fell! Be right with you! Oh.” The girl returned to her current customer to find he was no longer there.

Crowley had sauntered over to Aziraphale, a smirk painted across his lean face. “I have an idea--” he began.

“No--”

“A hypothesis, actually.”

They moved between shelves of various blends, the mingling scents strange but not unpleasant. Aziraphale usually enjoyed the exotic amalgamation. Even such a pleasant olfactory distraction could not pull his attention from his companion, though.

Aziraphale threw his arms up a little, flustered. Crowley was quite close. His yellow eyes flashed happily behind dark sunglasses. He pressed his lips together as if he expected Aziraphale to play along, but he wouldn’t. Not even a guess would leave his mouth.

Crowley rolled his eyes. “Fine! I’m here to convince small businesses to sell to a big, bad company and you’re here to do the opposite. Let’s let the cancelling out happen sooner rather than later, then.” He spread one arm toward the exit.

Aziraphale stood gaping. “That’s,” he sputtered. “That is rotten!”

“I’m a demon,” Crowley reminded him amicably, mouth shifting to a lazy grin. His stuck one hand in his pocket, his Red Bicycle purchase dangling from his wrist, all mischief and angles as he stared at Aziraphale.

“Well, thank you for telling me,” Aziraphale said, a little sharper than he’d intended. Crowley peered at him quizzically. Aziraphale sighed. “I had no idea,” he admitted, “I was simply buying tea.”

Crowley dropped his arm. It swung by his side and slipped past Aziraphale’s hip twice before resting. “Consider it a favor, then. Wile, thwarted.” He winked, spun on his heels, and left.

Aziraphale went to the counter with his heart aflutter and a mood that couldn’t decide if it was better or worse after the unpredicted run-in. After glancing at the way Crowley had gone, he cleared his throat. “A bag of the cinnamon, please.”

She tapped the register keys guiltily, her lips pressed together like a woman comforting another human in mourning. “Sorry, Mr. Fell, but we’re all out.”

He could have cried. The weather outside was beautiful, he had an appointment with a rare book dealer that afternoon, and yet his shopping worsened by the minute. “Out!” he exclaimed, tentative and indignant while doing his best to remain cordial. The result was a mere squeak of a sound. There was another throat clearing. Then, “You’ve only just opened. How could you be out?”

She had the decency not to laugh. On the contrary, she looked solemn, her eyes darting from Aziraphale to the door and back again. After a moment more of this clandestine behavior, she whispered, “I wasn’t supposed to tell. Your boyfriend bought it all up, I s’pose as a Christmas gift.”

“My apologies, um, my--?”

“Boyfriend, ‘scuse me, Mr. Fell, the ginger fellow? Called you a pet name, he did, and I assumed...” She blushed, then smiled, radiant as sunshine. “Stupidly romantic, he was, exactly like my parents. He told me that you couldn’t find out, though it’s been months since you ordered the cinnamon, so I assumed you’d come asking, and I’m no liar.”

“I appreciate the honesty,” he replied, distracted. What was Crowley doing buying Aziraphale’s favorite herbal? What was Crowley doing insinuating they were boyfriends? No doubt he had concocted a selfish, diabolical plan of some sort. Perhaps it was an extra injury to the evil he had warned Aziraphale to cancel out. Though the whole boyfriend thing was cancelling out a lot of misery and filling Aziraphale with a lot of champagne-bursting happy. He was lost in this collection of conflicting thoughts when a flowery voice brought him back to reality.

“Will you be wanting anything else, then?” the girl asked, clearly a little confused by his silent staring.

Aziraphale’s shoulders slumped. A final, depressed, “No, thank you,” had almost escaped him when a different thought sent it whirling away. His feet steered him down the counter to where the most expensive dark roasts were bagged and displayed.

“Coffee, Mr. Fell?” she inquired. “Not your usual, certainly.”

“I indulge on occasion,” he replied distractedly. With a good deviled egg, or breakfast with a friend.

He inhaled, expecting bitterness, and found instead a rich smoothness, something almost intoxicating. The bag that made him most lightheaded he took carefully into his hands and back to the register.

“But this is a gift,” he said, and smiled.

Chapter Text

Aziraphale met Crowley outside the bookshop. They’d both been given a reprieve from Warlock’s care and groundskeeping as the Ambassador traveled with his family to China for the week, and Aziraphale fully intended to use that time to at least attempt some wile-thwarting--in addition to simply enjoying being away from the Antichrist, even if he wasn’t as draining as Aziraphale had imagined he would be.

He checked his watch. It was past 10, so of course Soho was still lively, if not becoming a bit livelier. Aziraphale had enjoyed its evolution into a more residential area in recent years--it meant more regular customers at the shop--but the city never lost its more vivacious heart.

Catching sight of ginger hair, Aziraphale waved happily. As he came within earshot, he hummed curiously. “What are you wearing?”

Aziraphale cocked his head to the side, observing Crowley’s unfortunate fashion choices from head to heel. His hair was done in some sort of a false mohawk, most of it gathered in the middle with the sides unusually short. Aziraphale knew how Crowley liked to alter his hairstyle, so that was less a concern than the leather jacket, sheer mesh shirt, red jeans--very tight red jeans--, and combat boots of all things.

Crowley looked down at himself. He pulled on that sorry excuse for a shirt and frowned. “You don’t like it?”

“I’ll get used to it, I suppose.” Aziraphale rolled his eyes and shifted in his own three-piece suit, wondering idly if he ought to have gone with his knit cardigan for the evening. In addition to Crowley, the other beings walking along Old Compton Street were dressed exceedingly casually. Aziraphale saw his fair share of bare breasts--of the male, female, and ungendered and multi-gendered variety.

“I feel like we forgot something.” Crowley watched a group of six very keen men in leather run past, their faces jubilant and covered in all the colors of the Almighty’s lovely rain-bow. One of them winked and made a lascivious gesture toward Crowley; Crowley just smirked and kept sauntering down the street. “Ah, yes. London Pride is today.”

The Party in Soho Square had been going on for a decade now, and it never failed to bring throngs of the most interesting, passionate, and festivity-oriented Aziraphale had ever seen. Most years, he and Crowley had retired to the bookshop by this point in the evening. It wasn’t that they didn’t enjoy the people--quite the contrary, Aziraphale enjoyed the rushes of affection exuding from the area--but the crowds were something else entirely. And not once had any of the dances included the Gavotte.

“I’d hoped for somewhat of a peaceful evening stroll.” The complaint had no substance to it, though; Aziraphale was simply reaching for something to say to distract him from the overwhelming feelings of love assailing him. He was close to tears. His chest swelled with each step, and he was grinning so widely his cheeks ached.

“What’s wrong with you, then?” Crowley asked. He came to a full stop.

“It’s just,” Aziraphale clasped a hand against his ribs, right over his heart, tears pricking the corner of his eyes. “For Heaven’s sake, I can hardly believe you don’t feel it.”

Crowley raised his eyebrows at Aziraphale. “Do you need to sit down?”

“I’m fine ,” Aziraphale insisted, because he was. Better than fine. There was a heat in him, spreading to the farthest points in his body, and he inhaled deeply to soothe it. His breath caught and he gasped, close to doubling over as the dizziness washed over him. One arm flailed sideways, and when it caught onto Crowley, the world jumped back into focus. His mind was racing, heart beating at an erratic tempo, because there was a full-fledged war raging between the two. One told him to release Crowley immediately. The other whispered to him to hold on tighter, pull him closer, just one taste wouldn’t hurt…

Aziraphale wrenched himself away before standing back to his full height. He cast his gaze around, hoping the night masked the color high on his cheeks. “Oh, look at that.” He smiled and gestured toward the first distraction he noticed: a woman wearing a rainbow feather boa as well as handmade, full-sized, vibrantly-colored angel wings. It made him long to unfurl his. Hers made a fwoosh sound as she walked and Aziraphale smiled at the marvelous handiwork of the costume wings until he felt something tickle his back.

“Crowley!” Aziraphale yelped. Beside him, the demon had completely opened his black wings, and they were encircling the both of them in a beautiful display of freedom and power. Aziraphale hissed through his teeth. “What the Devil are you doing?”

“Relax, angel.” Crowley laced his fingers through Aziraphale’s hand and squeezed reassuringly. Before he let go, someone whistled piercingly from behind them.

“Those wings look like they’re tough to get off. I can give you a hand at my place tonight if you like.”

The man came around Crowley’s side, eyes tracing every single inch of the demon’s body. When he got to his hand, still firmly entwined with Aziraphale’s, he sighed, held his hands up in surrender, and stepped away. “Ah, bugger. Sorry. I couldn’t see your boyfriend there.” He inclined his head toward Aziraphale. “You’re a lucky man.” The man gave Crowley one last appreciative once-over and turned on his heel, disappearing back into the throng of people.

“Well, I never!” Aziraphale released Crowley’s hand immediately, the blush on his cheeks returning with a vengeance. He coughed, hoping his forced protest wasn’t too obvious. “What a line! And-and-and I’ll tell you what, humans assume the most from the smallest of things. Hand holding and suddenly we’re--we’re--”

“Boyfriends,” Crowley breathed. He was looking at his palm intently.

Not that it would be the worst thing in the world, Aziraphale thought. Perhaps the exact opposite.

Aziraphale briefly entertained the notion of saying it out loud. But when he opened his mouth, the words that came out were different. “I am in the mood to get fantastically drunk.”

Crowley’s head snapped up. “What? Oh, yes. Yes .” He flung his arms up fervently, triumphantly. “Let’s.”

Chapter Text

Their walk back to the bookshop was decidedly less pleasant than their walk to the Ritz. Aziraphale had warmed to a more public intimacy during their lunch, touching Crowley’s wrist and knee as they spoke about all the things the future held, all the things they could do now that they no longer had miracles and temptations and paperwork holding them down. Crowley had blamed his blush on the champagne.

As soon as they decided to return to the bookshop, Aziraphale closed himself off. Brow furrowed, Crowley stared sideways at Aziraphale as they made their way there, his sauntering stilted considerably while he worried after his angel. They had just saved the world, but Aziraphale was still finding reasons to fuss.

Crowley took a long step forward, turned on his heel, and stopped Aziraphale in his tracks. He ducked his head, letting his glasses slip down his nose just enough to make perfect eye contact with Aziraphale; Aziraphale looked shocked for a moment before sniffing and straightening his back.

“Yes?”

Crowley frowned and cocked his head to the side.

Aziraphale sighed, his entire torso expanding and falling with the action. “It’s just… There’s this thing I have been meaning to tell you, for-for some time now, and perhaps it seems so difficult because I’ve been around, well, them for so long,” he gestured widely to the humans mingling around the street and sighed once more.

The angel did not speak again until he and Crowley had entered the bookshop and closed the door firmly behind them. Aziraphale hung his coat. “Of course, it should be exceedingly easy to tell you now, given the circumstances. Our averting the End Times.”

Once Aziraphale began to pace, Crowley decided on an intervention. “Well it’s not likely to try to end again with whatever it is you’ve decided to say now.”

Pressing his lips into a firmly unamused line, Aziraphale wrung his hands together in front of his stomach and looked down at his feet as if they'd suddenly become the most interesting thing in the whole of London.

“The thing is, I-I. Hm. Well, I love you, Crowley. I think I’ve known since--well, you remember that delightful evening when you bombed those Nazis and saved my books?” He laughed quietly; it was a fond memory. “And…”

“And?” Crowley echoed, breathless. He crossed the space between them in an easy stride, leaned down in an imitation of his earlier interrogation pose--though he stripped his glasses off completely this time--, and caught Aziraphale’s gaze. They both grinned. Aziraphale looked up, his eyes fixed on Crowley’s lips.

“And I would very much like for you to kiss me.”

For Crowley, that was a very easy thing to do. He slid his hand against Aziraphale’s cheek, tipped the angel’s head back, and pressed their mouths together. Crowley most certainly was not thinking it was divine , not at all, and Aziraphale would not have described it as hellishly good .

But it was.

Aziraphale gasped when Crowley pulled away. Eyes wide, he reached up to touch his lips and smiled brightly. “Well.”

Crowley licked his lips. He smiled in kind, and then it faltered; his mouth opened and closed dumbly, starting the same thought in a different way until finally he settled on: “You-what, oh, hol-hold on, er, you realized it when?”

“Pardon? Oh! Realized that I loved you? ”

It sent a thrill straight through Crowley, to hear it again. He rested his forehead against Aziraphale’s. “Say it again.”

“I love you,” Aziraphale practically giggled. “You... softie.”

Crowley released a half-strangled grunt that morphed shortly into laughter. “It took you long enough.”

“I suppose you’ve loved me since before the invention of the wheel, then?” Aziraphale chuckled at what he thought was his own joke, but Crowley scrunched his nose and nodded a few times.

“Ehh, you know,” he stammered. “Possibly.”

“Possibly!”

“Possibly from Eden. It would have been, well, when you told me you gave away your flaming sword.”

Aziraphale blinked repeatedly. “You could have told me.”

Crowley sighed. “I thought I did, sometimes. But that’s not the point. The point is. The point is I feel this is becoming a rather repetitive conversation, angel. Look. I don’t feel like we’ve wasted any time together, do you? Knowing or not knowing doesn’t make any difference. Every moment’s been the same.”

“Less kissing,” Aziraphale remarked, shrugging a little.

“Well, maybe, but we’ve got plenty of time to make up for that.” The whole sentence was said in such a low, sultry rush of sound that it was almost one word.

Crowley crashed into Aziraphale, pushing him into the desk behind them and pulling him closer all in the same movement. Any complaint Aziraphale had about the books was swallowed up in Crowley’s mouth, and turned quickly to a delighted moan. Crowley found himself practically in Aziraphale’s lap, kissing him for the 6000 years he hadn’t. It was unfortunate his corporal form needed oxygen--he could have otherwise gone on kissing Aziraphale for double that amount of time.

Aziraphale’s bowtie was undone, his collar askew; his pupils were blown and his lips were kiss-crushed. Disheveled was the nice and accurate word for it, and Crowley loved it, loved the way it made his own body feel.

“That was rather--”

“Good--”

“I’d say,” Aziraphale finished, laughing cheerfully. He wiggled in place beneath Crowley, and then stopped, his eyes going wide as he carefully regarded Crowley’s reaction to the movement. “That is certainly… new.” He wiggled again, and Crowley made a vague humming noise followed by something not entirely unlike a whimper.

Aziraphale stroked his thumb across Crowley’s cheek. “I would argue it’s unsurprising, of course, given how devilishly handsome you are,” he said softly.

Familiar with Aziraphale’s prowess in short-circuiting traffic wardens’ notebooks, Crowley slowly realized he was facing the exact same dilemma as those machines. He stumbled weakly through a thank you, red coloring his cheeks, and that sat silently while his mind tripped over which of the thousand things he’d always wanted to say to Aziraphale he could say in that moment. It wasn’t passing, after all; they had all of eternity--nothing but time.

Crowley inhaled and, pressing his hand against Aziraphale’s chest, offered, “There are just so many things I want to say to you.”

“There are so many things I wish for you to say.”

All at once, that simple truth pulled Crowley out of his own mind and back to the present, where he was alive and with Aziraphale and only breaths away from another kiss. In that precise moment, however, the bell on the bookshop door rang.

Aziraphale pressed his lips in a firm line and huffed. “We forgot to lock it.”

“We?” Crowley replied, voice pitched high with indignation. “I think you’ll find you forgot to lock your bookshop.”

“The bookshop is not locked.” Aziraphale glared, no real anger behind it, and then gave Crowley a pointed look. “Off you go.”

“I’m not helping your customers.”

Aziraphale bit his lip and gave a gentle, almost sympathetic smile. “Off of me, dear.”

“Er. Right.” Crowley used the wall as leverage to push himself away from the desk as well as Aziraphale, and then swayed in place, unsure of what to do with his hands until he remembered his perfectly useful pockets. He shoved his hands into them and then bent his shoulders forward. “To be continued.”

Aziraphale stood, straightened his back, and smoothed his vest. “I look forward to it,” he replied, as if commenting on a particularly good meal he was about to be served. He touched Crowley’s lapels lightly as he passed him.

Lightning crackled in Crowley’s chest. Standing silent for a moment, he allowed the electricity to spread through every vein until it reached his fingertips, which he brushed over his mouth. Then he smiled, cackling with glee.

The room was spinning. Crowley sat himself on the bookshop floor, suddenly breathless. He rubbed at the already wrinkled clothing above his heart. In their 6000 years, Aziraphale had often made him feel similarly with a simple look; the feeling had now been multiplied infinitely. It was the same suffocating and wholly welcome pressure as in Eden when the angel had admitted his less-than-angelic deed.

Everything Aziraphale was saying to his customer echoed and compressed before it found Crowley’s ears and the result was the worst eavesdropping Crowley had ever done. He stood in an attempt to reorient to his surroundings. When that still didn’t work, he decided to join the others.

“So sorry, didn’t realize you had another customer,” the man remarked, interrupting Aziraphale’s thoroughly informative response to the customer’s inquiry for a good, beginner-level cooking book. Aziraphale turned his head to give Crowley another wickedly soft smile that left Crowley weak in the knees.

“Oh, it is no problem whatsoever, Mr. Kingston; he is not a customer. Should we carry on?”

But Mr. Kingston was already crossing the floor to Crowley, his hand extended. “So you must be the ‘and Co.’ of A.Z. Fell! It’s good to finally meet Mr. Fell’s business partner, then.”

Crowley stared down at the hand he was offered. He knew the proper response would be to either play along or correct this Mr. Kingston altogether; so, instead, he simply grumbled, “I don’t even read books,” and shoved the nearest hardcover far away from him for emphasis.

Mr. Kingston blinked, horrified, while his eyes sought an answer from Aziraphale. Crowley turned away, shrugging. He wanted Mr. Kingston to leave. He wanted to hold Aziraphale. He wanted--well, he wanted, and not pesky customers.

Behind him, Crowley heard Aziraphale clear his throat. “Please excuse my boyfriend, Mr. Kingston; he has had a rather trying day.”

Crowley promptly tripped over a table. “That’s right,” he said from where he was sprawled on his back on the floor. “I’m his boyfriend.”

Across the room, Aziraphale smiled.