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It was raining. No, scratch that; it was pissing it down. Sheets fell from the sky as if they were doing their damn best to ruin Anthony Crowley’s day. His suit was new and expensive, and it was being. Fucking. Ruined.
He’d lost his umbrella a street back when the wind had quite literally snatched it from his hands and blown it into the goddamn sky.
Crowley was about to go on a killing spree.
It didn’t help that he was stuck in Soho of all the miserable places. He hadn’t wanted to meet the client, anyway, had been even less keen on the restaurant location. Still, he hadn’t gotten where he was now by turning down wealthy, international clients, so he’d thought: fuck it, you know what, it might be apocalyptic outside, and I might hate Soho, but I’ll be damned if I don’t go.
So, he’d gone.
And—of course. Of fucking course—his bloody client hadn’t bothered to show up, getting his secretary to give some flimsy excuse that wouldn’t hold up in a court of law.
So, now Crowley was stuck. Because the entire world was against him, there were no taxis about. It had just passed eight o’clock, so the shops were shut, and Crowley was not in the mood to face a bar right now. Especially not a bar in Soho. They were too lively, and he was too pissed off.
He should have just driven. He cast a longing thought to his precious Bentley, locked away in his garage where at least she, unlike her owner, was protected from the damn miserable weather.
Fighting a losing battle against the wind as he tried to make his way towards the tube, Crowley happened to notice the lights on in what appeared to be a bookshop. It would be closed—of course it would be—but Crowley still couldn’t help but fight his way to it. Standing between the two pillars that marked the entrance, slightly protected from the rain (which was redundant as he was already soaked), he peered at the glass in a desperate search for some form of a sign marking the place open or closed. He found it just above a sign which proclaimed the weirdest opening hours Crowley had ever seen:
‘I open the shop on most weekdays about 9:30 or perhaps 10 am. While occasionally I open the shop as early as 8, I have been known not to open until 1, except on Tuesday. I tend to close about 3:30 pm, or earlier if something needs tending to. However, I might occasionally keep the shop open until 8 or 9 at night, you never know when you might need some light reading. On days that I am not in, the shop will remain closed. On weekends, I will open the shop during normal hours unless I am elsewhere. Bank holidays will be treated in the usual fashion, with early closing on Wednesdays, or sometimes Fridays. (For Sundays see Tuesdays.)’
If that wasn’t an indication that something was up with the place, Crowley didn’t know what was. Still, he tried the handle and was pleasantly surprised to find it opened.
Inside, it was eclectic chaos. There were books everywhere; books tucked horizontally on the shelves, books piled sky high, books crammed into shelves so full they shouldn’t have fit… They were old books, too, and not awful romance paperbacks. This wasn’t any generic bookshop. This was clearly one of London’s hidden gems, and had Crowley not been soaked to the bone and pissed off, he might have been inclined to explore.
The place certainly had a charm that even Crowley could admit to, despite being a lover of minimalism and sleek, modern décor.
He stood dripping in the doorway. For perhaps the first time in his life, he was being considerate, not wanting to ruin the old bookshop despite having no idea why he gave a damn.
“Oh. Hello,” a prim and proper voice said. Crowley glanced over at the cashier desk where a head of lightly curling blond had just poked up from behind. “I’m afraid I was just about to—Oh, heavens! Is it raining outside?”
Crowley felt water drip down his cheek from his hair. “What gave it away?” he asked stoically.
“Let me get you a towel, my dear fellow,” the man said, standing fully. Crowley swallowed, feeling his face flush a little. The man was cute and yet, entirely ridiculous at the same time. He looked un-ironically like a university professor, complete with a bow tie and what appeared to be a pocket watch. Little round glasses perched on the edge of his nose but did nothing to hide his piercing blue eyes. He was maybe a little tubby, but Crowley would have died before he let anyone suggest the man lose a stone or two.
Somehow, he managed to jerk his head in a nod as the bookkeeper wandered off to what appeared to be the back room.
What was happening to him? He usually had more game than this. He’d seen people he quite liked the look of before but had never had this reaction to it. Besides, this man wasn’t his type, not even remotely…
“Here you go.” A well-manicured hand held out a towel, and Crowley jumped, having not noticed his return. He looked at the man’s face only to be dazzled by the most brilliant smile he had ever seen.
Christ alive, he wasn’t going to survive the hour at this rate…
With a slightly trembling hand, he accepted the towel. “Thanks,” he somehow managed to say. “Uh…” he hesitated, not sure what he had been about to say, but the man obviously thought it was a prompt for an introduction, for he extended a hand.
“Aziraphale,” he said happily. “Aziraphale Fell.”
With few other choices (since when did he care about appearing rude?) Crowley accepted his hand, shaking it. Aziraphale’s hands were so soft that, for a heartbeat, Crowley wondered what they would feel like running across his skin…
“Crowley,” he said in response. “Um, Anthony Crowley. But I, uh, mostly go by Crowley.” God, he was rambling. This was embarrassing.
Aziraphale seemed entirely unfazed. “It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance Mr Crowley.”
“Just Crowley.”
If possible, Aziraphale’s smile grew even wider. He looked like an angel, Crowley thought. “Crowley.”
Their hands were still clasped, but Crowley couldn’t bring himself to pull away, and Aziraphale seemed entirely unconcerned. The towel hung loosely around Crowley’s shoulders, and he was vaguely aware that he was still dripping everywhere. It was the prompt he needed to finally break contact.
Gathering up the soft white towel, he rubbed it against his hair.
“Come dry by the fire,” Aziraphale prompted, a hand already on Crowley’s back and gently guiding him forward. Crowley’s protests died in his mouth, and he allowed himself to be shepherded through the bookshop.
“Tea?”
“Got anything stronger?” Crowley was joking, but Aziraphale gave another radiant smile and nodded.
“As a matter of fact—” A moment later, the angel of a man had procured a bottle of vintage red. This had to be a bloody expensive bookshop for him to have brought that out for a stranger with little prompting. Then again, Aziraphale was already striking Crowley as the overly generous type. The sort who wanted to help little old ladies do their shopping and offer advice to troubled teens. The kind who invited strangers into his bookshop and offered them towels and wine while they waited out the rain…
Crowley couldn’t imagine being so kind.
As they sipped at their wine, Crowley found himself telling Aziraphale about himself and his reasons for being in Soho.
“Well, I’m sure the chap will make it up to you, my dear,” Aziraphale said positively. “It sounds like he’d be crazy not to proceed in this merger.” Crowley was sure Aziraphale hadn’t understood anything about the business side of things, but his positive attitude was oddly endearing, even if it was utterly misguided.
Entirely without meaning to, the pair finished the bottle and cracked open another. By then, Crowley had learned that the bookshop he was in dealt in rare and collectable bibles and books of prophecy (Crowley had snorted at that). Aziraphale had inherited the bookshop from his father but didn’t quite have the same business-savvy attitude as his old man. Namely, Aziraphale hated to part with any of his precious books. He sold just enough to keep the place afloat but otherwise refused every sale he could. Crowley felt a wave of mild dismay at the very notion. As a businessman himself, Aziraphale’s laidback sales attitude was appaling. It was, however, also oddly endearing, if not a little terrifying, to think of how much longer the man would be able to keep it up before he was snowed under.
“Sounds like you should be running a library,” Crowley commented.
“Oh, heavens no! Can you imagine all the damages and stolen copies?” Aziraphale sounded mortified at the very notion. Crowley couldn’t help but laugh at his reaction. He received a pout for it, but that pout quickly morphed into another angelic smile. Crowley felt his heart palpitate and realised with horror that he was quite smitten with this awkwardly dressed, bookish stranger. He choked on his wine, spluttering and wheezing until Aziraphale gave him a couple of hard smacks on the back.
“Are you quite alright?” As Crowley struggled to contain his ragged breathing, forget-me-not blue eyes suddenly levelled with his, and he started choking again. “Oh, dear.”
Eventually, Crowley managed to get a hold of himself. He cleared his throat and then took a careful sip of wine. “Sorry about that,” he said. “Went down the wrong hole.”
This whole situation was incredibly embarrassing, but he would not let this beautiful stranger see just how flustered he truly was. Crowley was going to play it cool, and if he were lucky, he would leave this odd bookstore with a new number in his phone. The choking fit was a minor hiccup, but he could recover. He had this.
…Crowley did not have this.
Aziraphale hiccuped, his cheeks flushed from the wine, and Crowley instantly realised he was in too deep. This had never happened to him before. He had never been so drawn to someone, never wanted to find excuses to stay with a new person. He was in uncharted territory and wasn’t sure he liked it. At the same time, however, he did not feel the desperate rush to return to familiarity. There was something about Aziraphale and his bookshop that felt safe, familiar. Crowley almost felt like, for the first time in a very long time, he was home.
The problem was he wasn’t sure Aziraphale was feeling any of this.
It was pretty obvious that the blond was gay. He wasn’t worried about that. That was the only certainty he had, however. After that, it was impossible to tell whether this stranger was being nice because that was how he treated everyone or because he fancied him.
It was all making Crowley feel more than a little anxious.
As he got drunker, his anxiety started to dissolve, but so too did any small ounce of cool that he might have possessed. He found it didn’t matter, though, as Aziraphale was just as drunk and clueless as he was. The only difference was that on Aziraphale, it was adorable.
The fire burned down to embers as they talked and drank, and eventually, Crowley became aware of just how late it was. He wasn’t sure he wanted to leave, but even through his drunken haze, Crowley knew that being lovesick was not a justifiable excuse for not showing up to work. Even if he was the boss, regretful though it was, he had to get home and have at least a couple of hours of sleep.
“Sounds like a right dick,” Crowley said when Aziraphale finished telling him about an awkward customer of his—some American by the name of Gabriel. Crowley already hated him, and he’d never even met the bloke.
“Yes. Yes, I suppose he is rather,” Aziraphale said and giggled as if he’d just said something terrible but remarkably freeing. Crowley smiled at that, his resolve faltering.
Finally, he said, “Well, I best be off.”
“Oh!” Aziraphale was startled as though he had entirely forgotten himself. “Oh, yes, it is rather late, isn’t it? Or early, I suppose. Let me call you a taxi, my dear.”
Crowley watched Aziraphale as he drunkenly stumbled over to a very old-fashioned telephone, the sort that you had to wind to dial rather than press buttons. It was the sort of phone Crowley’s grandmother had had when he was a child but promptly replaced when a better model had come out. Somehow, it suited Aziraphale. He was living in the wrong time, but Crowley was glad he was here. Knowing Azirapahle existed in the world simultaneously as himself warmed Crowley in a way the blazing fire hadn’t.
Once he hung up, Aziraphale peered through the blinds to the dark streets outside. They wouldn’t be dark for much longer—the sun would surely soon rise.
“It’s stopped raining,” the blond announced. “I do hope I haven’t caused you any trouble. I’m afraid I got quite carried away.”
“Oh no, not at all,” Crowley waved him off. “I enjoyed this.”
“Me too,” Aziraphale beamed. “Quite a lot.”
“Well…” Crowley’s fine clothes had dried stiffly, and he shook his legs before walking towards the door. He was still drunk and had to grab the shelf of a nearby bookshelf to steady himself after he stumbled. “Thank you. Uh, for everything.”
There was a beep outside. The cursed taxi driver had arrived in record time. No doubt he had been waiting around the corner for people to crawl out of the bars. Why had there been no one around when Crowley had needed saving from the rain, but now that he didn’t want to leave Aziraphale and his out-of-time bookshop, they were there in a heartbeat?
“I better go,” Crowley said awkwardly, running a hand through his hair. “Sorry for keeping you up.”
Aziraphale was looking at him expectedly. Crowley ran his hands through his hair again, not really sure what else he was meant to say. Other than to ask to see him again, of course. Somehow that didn’t seem very appropriate, though. Aziraphale had probably just been being nice. Just because Crowley was pretty sure it was in love at first sight, that didn’t mean any of it was reciprocated.
“Well, goodbye,” Aziraphale said stiffly, his attitude suddenly entirely different than it had been moments before.
Confused, Crowley muttered another bye and reached for the handle.
“So, you’re really not going to ask for my number then?” Aziraphale asked as the door creaked open. Crowley froze, the door slightly ajar. It took him a good moment to turn around, and when he finally did, he was like a deer in headlights. A soft smile appeared on Aziraphale’s face at the reaction. “I guess it falls to me, then. Jolly good.”
He walked over to Crowley until he was directly in front of him. Crowley blinked, startled.
“Here,” Aziraphale said, and Crowley’s gaze dropped to see he was holding out a small business card. He could just make out the words A. Z. Fell and Co. written across it. “The store number is on here. You’ll be able to reach me here.”
“You—” Crowley swallowed, his mouth suddenly quite dry. “You want me to call you?”
“Oh, good gracious, yes,” Aziraphale said. “Do you really think I stay up until three AM and crack open my best wine for just anybody who walks in off the streets?”
“Uh, I kinda did, yeah,” Crowley admitted. His heart was hammering in his chest, and he was pretty sure his palms were sweating.
“Oh,” Aziraphale’s face fell only for a second, and then he was smiling again. There was almost a devilish glint in his eyes as he said, “Do I need to give you some incentive to call?”
Before Crowley could find the words evading him, Aziraphale leaned forward on his heels and planted a chaste kiss against Crowley’s lips. He was gone again almost before Crowley’s brain could catch up with what was happening. “I do hope you’ll call,” Aziraphale said. “Now, you should probably leave before your taxi drives off in frustration.”
Crowley managed a stiff nod and allowed himself to be ushered from the bookshop, all the while clutching Aziraphale’s business card close to his heart.