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For the most part, Aziraphale is a creature of habit. He has spent the past several thousand years working very hard to Not Stand Out, ever since humans started to fear anything that was different (which was a shame, because he had thought the way his skin glowed softly was quite lovely, and he did miss being able to see Crowley's eyes when they had their talks… even if their last conversation had been some time ago now), and he has the tendency to follow the paths of least resistance.
Which, in many ways, means presenting himself to the human world as a man.
Oh, there’s nothing wrong with that, not really. It’s allowed him to travel alone without anyone questioning him—a complaint he had heard more than a few times from Crowley when the demon was in a more feminine composition of self—and it was most helpful in opening up the bookshop in 1800. And the clothing had always been so stylish as well, appealing to his small shred of vanity that is not angelic in any way, but clothes make the man, as they say.
But, honestly? Since The Fight—and such an event is noteworthy enough to think of it in all caps—Aziraphale hasn’t felt… comfortable, he supposes. That was back in 1862, when Crowley all but tore the world out from beneath his feet with that request, and it’s just gone 1912, and yet for the past fifty years something has been off.
Oh, certainly, the angel has managed to keep himself busy, frequenting a discreet gentleman’s club and learning the gavotte, traveling to Paris and Rome and Athens and back again to procure more misprinted bibles for his collection, finding new restaurants to enjoy… but there’s been something missing throughout all of that. In the moment, he can only think that things are fine but not quite right; it’s only afterward, when he has returned to his shop and settled in once more, that he misses Crowley.
They haven’t talked since that day. For heaven’s sake, Aziraphale hasn’t even set eyes on the demon in that full span of time. For all he knows, Crowley sauntered off to the continent with no intention of returning until Armageddon.
So, in short, Aziraphale has refused to change. He’s updated his wardrobe slightly, of course he has, because even if he’s ever so slightly distraught, he still has standards. Which includes keeping somewhat updated on current fashion. He still has the coat he wore the last time he saw his adversary-slash-friend, and he’s kept it in top quality condition for the past fifty years. If necessary, he’ll keep it that way for the next one hundred and fifty as well, if it’s the only thing he has left as proof that they were ever even acquaintances.
But one can only stagnate for so long before boredom sets in, and so Aziraphale finds himself covertly keeping an eye out both for his wayward nemesis and something that appeals to his sense of style.
He finds it in the smooth lines and crisp tailoring of one young lady’s traveling suit as she slips in with her husband, looking for something to take to her mother in America as a present. He spots it on the cover of a fashion magazine while he’s out for a morning walk that may or may not take him around by Mayfair. He sees it on the street day after day, week after week, in most every woman who walks past, and he thinks to himself, oh.
Oh, of course. I was looking in the wrong place.
Aziraphale takes a little time in coming to the decision, because such a change is daunting after five thousand years of habit. He takes a trip to Southampton in April to watch the launch of that new ocean liner from the White Star Line, using the opportunity to pick and choose what looks most appealing to him before stopping by the shops to look a bit closer at some of what is on offer.
(To be honest, the angel had given about fifteen minutes of thought to using a small miracle to get a spot aboard the liner. A change of pace was needed, and for a moment he considered that traveling to America might be the way to go. He only changed his mind because one, it was a bit too spur of the moment even for him, and two, he had no idea if Crowley may have had the same thought, and as much as he misses the demon? There’s no way in the universe that he would subject himself to the cold shoulder on a seven day journey. Later, when the news of the ship’s fate became available, Aziraphale would wonder whose idea it really was that the angel not undertake the journey, especially since She hadn’t spoken to anyone in quite some time. Why would She be concerned with a mere Principality, anyway?)
Soon enough, the angel is back home in his bookshop. He’s not actually made any purchases as yet, because why spend good money until he knows for certain that this is the choice he’s going to stay with? After all, the whole experiment could be a failure and he’ll decide to just venture off to South Africa instead for the next thirty years.
The first thing Aziraphale does, after closing up the shop and posting a sign saying that they would be closed for an undisclosed length of time due to an emergency, is sort through their wardrobe and pick out items they won’t mind losing if the garments can’t be miracled back to the way they were previous. The 1860s coat is put aside safely, but a few suits made from top quality fabrics and several undergarments are pulled out for this venture. While certain parties who have sodded off for half a century might just miracle their clothing from the ether, Aziraphale prefers to work with existing materials and just… alter them a bit.
The angel spends a good several hours shifting and altering and modifying the garments until they’re satisfied with the results, then sets about changing from the simple shirtsleeves and trousers they’d been wearing until this point. The new undergarments are a unique challenge they hadn’t anticipated, but they sort them out soon enough. The rest goes on over that, mens-styled blouse and skirt and somewhat fitted waistcoat because again, standards.
Something still isn’t quite right, so next Aziraphale focuses on aesthetics. Eyelashes darken a little, and lips grow a touch pinker, but already soft features don’t need to be softened further. Pale hair grows out longer, curls a bit unruly for a moment or two before they manage to twist it all up into a simple bun. Some of the curls still manage to escape, but it looks nice. It looks…
It looks right, for the first time in at least a decade.
Aziraphale studies their reflection for a long moment, turning a bit to check every possible angle. Finally, a satisfied smile crosses her lips.
Yes, she thinks to herself as she smooths out her skirt and turns to work on altering the remaining clothing she has pulled out for that purpose. This is exactly the change I needed right now.
The year is 1912, and for the foreseeable future, the residents of Soho will believe that A.Z. Fell & Co. Booksellers is being run by one Azalea Fell, grand-niece to the original owner. And after ‘Azalea’ leaves, it may just be Adrianna or Zahara in charge, but that’s for further in the future. For now, all is well in the angel’s world, except for the glaring exception of a missing demon, but she’ll sort that out later.