Work Text:
Outside— the rain poured delightfully heavily, leaving the tarmac slick and hazardous as rainwater accumulated by the curb faster than it could putter down the storm-drains.
To Crowley, a dapper young man fresh out of college and practically scrounging for spare change to pay his rent every month for his one bed, one bath apartment nestled in a tight little corner of Soho, the rain was the least of his problems.
To Aziraphale, who was even younger and living comfortably with a large sum of money and property inheritance from a rich uncle of his, this was quite possibly one of the worst things that had happened to him this month. His penny loafers and tweed overcoat were quickly spoiling in the torrential downpour— as it turns out, made rich does not mean made particularly resilient to stress. The same could be said about Aziraphale, who was practically breaking down at the feeling of his bouncy blond curls matting to his face.
Aziraphale was a nice man. A wonderfully nice man, actually— it was one of his best qualities, and the one he was most remembered by and gave off at first impression, besides ‘southern pansy,’ that is.
Well-fed, well-groomed, and living in an extremely spacious library-adjoining-apartment, most people came to one of three conclusions about Aziraphale at first glance:
- That he was pompous and a little bit stuck-up. Not so much as in a malicious way, but rather a ‘will debate openly and passionately (and typically unprecedentedly) about how How to Kill a Mockingbird is in fact, a bad novel’ kind of way.
- That he was gayer than a tree full of monkeys on nitrous oxide.
- And that he was a bit of a priss and would fight tooth and nail to get what he wanted, which usually wasn’t much more than a macaroon.
While these assumptions— all correct, match up with the very core of Aziraphale’s personality, none of them went through the barista’s mind on that rainy day. No, Crowley formed exactly three observations of him the moment he stepped through the doors:
- That he was very wet.
- That he was rather frazzled.
- And despite all that—that he was oddly cute.
Crowley did his best to put on his most cheerful ‘customer service’ smile, leaning languidly against the counter, a gaudy green apron hanging off his slender frame like it knew it was a strikingly horrendous addition it was to Crowley’s all-black outfit and was bowing its head in shame. He’d heard once on Fashion Week that all-black outfits were flattering and never ceased to take that advice since. Because of this, and his brooding look, many people came to the assumption that Crowley was a bit emo.
The dripping man walked soppily to the counter, leaving small ringlets of water in his trail and looking downright pitiful as he gazed blearily up at Crowley and mumbled:
“One vanilla chai latte please...with extra whipped topping,” he added, the hesitation creating the illusion that he was ever really considering not getting whipped topping, the slight softness of his belly squandering that illusion just as quickly.
Crowley nodded deftly, flashing one of his characteristic side-grins, all teeth, and roguish charm. Aziraphale didn’t react— an odd occurrence for Crowley, who liked to consider himself England’s ass, but then again, the man before him looked as though he was shell-shocked from the cold.
“Well, nyep,” he said, to no one in particular, tossing a paper cup in the air and catching it in one hand, sunglasses slipping down his nose, which he promptly righted before getting to work.
After a few moments, he was holding a warm, sickly-sweet smelling drink, brandishing a permanent marker to write the customer’s name on it.
Oh, he realized, I never got his name.
A smirk settled over his face as an idea came to him. In splayed, messy writing, he scrawled ‘Angel’ on the cup, adding a small heart next to it.
He sauntered over to the man, who was currently (fruitlessly) trying to pat down his shirt with a napkin, frowning to himself.
“Forgot to tell me your name, Angel,” he drawled, leaning against the opposite end of the table and plonking the cup down in front of him, startling the man.
“Oh! Heavens,” he huffed, “I’m sorry, I’m a little scatterbrained today.”
“No, no,” Crowley said lazily, almost pensively. He grinned to himself, gearing up to poke fun at the man, “right as rain.”
Aziraphale hummed, before realizing the pun and frowned up at Crowley, “There is nothing right about that rain! My coat got wet...”
“Oh,” Crowley said, pouting in mockery of the man, “well, that’s no good, is it?”
“No,” he said, sipping his latte, looking rather petulant, “it’s not.”
Crowley sighed, untying the leather jacket from around his waist and passing it to the man, who raised his eyebrows higher than what seemed physically possible until two seconds ago.
“Oh— oh no, I couldn’t—“ he protested.
“Just take it, Angel,” Crowley rolled his eyes, “can’t have customers dying in here, s’company policy.”
Aziraphale cautiously accepted it at this, “It’s not really my style,” he protested.
“I suspect neither is your disheveled state right now. You’re used to being taken care of, aren’t you?”
The man flustered at this, not directly responding, but instead saying, “Well, I can’t just...keep it.”
Crowley shot him a shy smile, “Then you’d better make sure we cross paths again.”
Aziraphale went to protest, but the man had already left. As he went to throw his cup out, he noticed what he had written on the cup— ‘Angel <3’ and underneath, Crowley’s number. Aziraphale blushed profusely, sparing one last glance at the counter before stepping back out into the rain, the leather jacket wrapped around his shoulders. As he walked back to his home, he realized that he had never even paid for his drink. He’d have to make it up to him, he decided.
Little did Aziraphale know, they would cross paths again a lot sooner than he imagined.