Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Heavy rain plagued the streets of Soho. Mist and fog obscured the buildings as they climbed towards the sky like gouache on a grey wash. The torrential downpour blurred the structural lines of the surrounding architecture into something soft and impressionistic. Those pedestrians who found themselves caught up in it were trying to escape in wisps of undefined black umbrellas and coats flapping in the harsh wind. Charcoal gestures. Central London had become an immersive watercolor.

Despite the weather, most of the stores remained open. The sidewalks were crowded with bodies huddled up underneath the shop overhangs, and people were calling friends or taxis to pick them up. The harsh light of phone screens was a shock against the muddled neutral tones of wet concrete and darkening brick. The low rumble of the storm and occasional slushing of a passing car were enough to drown out the cacophony of irritated conversations.

A black Bentley swerved into an available parking spot on the street, sending up a wave of water as it did. Crowley stepped out of the vehicle and stared up at the sky with a harsh scowl as if he had just now noticed the weather. He brought his coat up over his head and hopped onto the sidewalk. Once under the overhang, an older man admonished him on his reckless driving.

“You should be more careful, young man. You nearly drenched us all!”

He looked him up and down and gave him a quizzical look.

“You’re already wet. Everyone’s wet. Haven’t you noticed?”

The old man was at a visible loss for words at his response. Crowley continued on without further comment or courtesy and into the restaurant just a few feet away.

A bell over the door rang to announce his presence. He pointedly turned his head to stare up at it as if it had personally insulted him. Bad weather usually put him in something of a foul mood, and any small thing could cause him a great bit of irritation when he got like this.

“Welcome. Please, sit anywhere you like.”

A clear and well-enunciated voice ushered him in. He lowered his eyes again to look for the source. There was a gentleman behind the counter in the back reading a newspaper, the latter having been folded and lowered as he rose to his feet. Crowley didn’t get much of a look at him before he sank into a booth near the entrance. He took a moment to peel the wet jacket from his shoulders and toss it onto the cushion beside him. A menu appeared before him and he took it without glancing up.

“Our special today is duck à l’orange with a bigarade sauce on a bed of sauteed greens. The soup-”

He looked up at the waiter with the intention of cutting him off, but was too surprised to properly do so. The man beside him did not look to be wearing any sort of uniform, in fact his camel-colored trousers were slightly mismatched to his worn beige waistcoat and cream tartan bow tie. His hands were clasped calmly in front of him and he still wore his reading spectacles low on his nose. He could have been some ordinary bloke from the antique store next door who had just wandered in to tell him the specials.

He did so with no urgency. His voice had the same smoothness and warmth as two fingers of whiskey.

“What do you recommend?” Crowley asked cooly once he was done, giving the menu a very casual once-over. He’d initially thought this was a French restaurant, but there were some menu items from other regions listed too. Bit of a confusing aesthetic.

“Well, on a day like this,” the waiter said softly, turning to regard the rain with lidded eyes, “I would go for something comforting, wouldn’t you? The coq au vin is quite popular.” The man turned to him and delivered a smile so radiant he briefly forgot it was pouring outside. Crowley surprised himself by twitching a compulsory smile back and handing over the menu.

“That, then. And a double espresso to start.”

The man took back the menu and returned to the kitchen, and Crowley checked his watch. It was just past one, and he didn’t have to be anywhere for another few hours. He swiveled in his seat to throw his arm over the back of it and get a better view of the venue.

Everything was dark wood and mahogany and white crown molding. Burnt sienna brick and exposed beams. The sconces on the walls were iron-wrought candle holders, and overhead there were a few small chandeliers in the same style. Overall, the lighting inside was dim, and the blue tones from the rainy windows seemed bright in comparison.

The furniture was all mismatched; Crowley sat in only one of three uniform booths along the wall. The rest were well-used armchairs and loveseats pushed against tables of different heights, some tucked away in nooks and surrounded by bookshelves. Initially, he'd thought he was alone in the restaurant, but who knew how many students crunching for finals or snoozing old ladies there could be hidden in these secret crannies. There were a series of brick archways that divided the restaurant in half, and past it appeared to be more seating, or perhaps an event space. He couldn’t tell from his current angle.

The whole place had a very comfortable feeling to it. Traditional, but cozy. Cluttered, but organized in its chaos. He’d seen pictures online in his brief search, but nothing compared to seeing the real thing for oneself.

Moments later, the waiter (he assumed must be the maître d') came by with his espresso in a demitasse cup and set it down with a smile. He continued his observation of the space before he grew bored and sipped at his espresso while watching the people outside.

Five minutes turned into ten, and then twenty, and about half an hour passed and he hadn’t seen or heard anything about his food. The waiter hadn’t returned for him to even inquire about it. It was almost two when he finally got his meal.

“Thank you so much for your patience,” the maître d' said to him softly as he placed his plate in front of him. “I hope you enjoy it.” Somehow, that had been the most genuine delivery of these words Crowley had ever heard. It was almost suspicious; in fact he briefly wondered if the food had been poisoned. But he brought a forkful to his lips, and even if it was he couldn’t stop himself from taking a second bite. And a third.

He closed his eyes. The braised chicken nearly melted in his mouth, and the wine cooked down with garlic and onion and mushrooms had such depth. It was transformative. Something else was giving it a bit of unctuousness. A fourth bite, and he determined it must be bacon. More importantly than the taste, it was exactly what the waiter had promised: comforting. He'd tasted dishes like it, but hadn't felt similar to this in a long time. He was transported somewhere, no longer sitting in a small restaurant in Soho, but a little French cottage where a distant but loving relative had just finished slow-roasting a bird for his arrival. This dish was made with care, and with love.

He opened his eyes again and turned to look behind him. The waiter was back at his seat behind the counter and had already picked up his newspaper again. They were surprisingly lax here. He wasn’t even pretending to look busy.

Crowley traced one of his canines with his tongue for a moment in consideration before he grabbed his plate and stood up, walking towards the counter in the back. The gentleman in the waistcoat looked up in mild surprise and lowered his paper.

“Oh! Is there a problem with the food?” he asked in concern. Crowley shook his head casually and pointed to a bar stool.

“Nope. Quite the opposite. May I?”

“Of course,” the man’s whiteblonde curls trembled as he busied himself to put away his paper and wipe down the counter with a towel he procured from behind the bar.

Crowley sat and resumed his meal, staring up at the man across from him.

“How long’ve you been working here…?”

“Aziraphale.”

“Aziraphale.” He finished his question, staring up at the man he intended to make small talk with.

“Oh… since it opened.”

Crowley whistled and stabbed at a carrot. “That long, huh? You and the owner must be close then.”

Aziraphale chuckled and nodded. “As close as can be. I am the owner.”

It was Crowley’s turn to snicker as he finished the carrot in his mouth while pointing his fork at the other. “Y’know, I knew it somehow. You had that look about you. Like no one’s ever told you to wear a uniform in here.”

Aziraphale seemed confused for a moment. He looked down at his clothes and smoothed his hands over his front. “Why would anyone do that? This is perfectly acceptable dress.”

Crowley’s only response was to raise his eyebrows quickly once, and he went back to his food. From this new angle, he could see past the brick archways and into the second space. The walls were lined with shelves crammed with books, and squished in between a few of them was a very worn looking antique couch. There were several tables in the middle of the floor, and towards the window there was a baby grand, which even from his distance he could see didn’t get much attention. There was a layer of dust on it, a few piles of books on the lid and even a couple on the fall board.

“Live music?” He mused curiously, jerking his head towards the piano and returning his eyes to Aziraphale. The man stared at it with an unreadable expression.

“Not so much anymore,” he said with finality. “Can I get you another espresso?”

“Nah, got a long day ahead of me, don’t want to be too wired.”

Still, Crowley could sense the desire to change the subject and he did so smoothly. They chatted about small things here and there while he finished his meal. Aziraphale was not only the owner, he was a certified sommelier. Crowley confessed that he didn’t know much about wine, just that he liked it. Aziraphale very kindly wrote down the names of a few of his favorites for Crowley to try sometime, assuring him that he wouldn’t be disappointed. The redhead answered any questions about himself in a very noncommittal way; the most he’d let slip was that he was an only child and had a degree in Marketing but worked in a somewhat unrelated field.

The restaurant was entirely quiet save for their semi-hushed voices. Even the storm outside was muted from where he sat. It came to a point where he felt it would be nice to have an excuse to linger, so he asked to see a dessert menu. He scanned it and pursed his lips.

“Not a ton to choose from.”

“I’d like to change that someday, dessert is one of my favorite courses,” Aziraphale admitted with a small smile. “But for now, this is what we have.”

Crowley reached into his pocket to take out a cigarette and stick it between his teeth, which earned him a tut from Aziraphale.

"No smoking in here, if you please."

"You're going to make me go out in this horrible rain to enjoy a cigarette?" He replied, a weak attempt to pull a heartstring.

"If I must. I would prefer it if you didn't enjoy it at all. Terribly bad for you, those things."

To his great surprise, Aziraphale reached over and plucked it from between his lips and set it on the napkin beside his hand. No one in his entire life had done that before, and yet this gentleman did so with a courteous smile and the air of doing him a favor. He was awestruck.

After a length of silence, he picked up the menu again and cleared his throat.

“No chocolate anything. That’s surprising.”

“I’m afraid not, but I’m partial to the crepes. The third from the bottom has a hazelnut spread and cognac. It’s my personal favorite.”

“You’ve convinced me.”

The blond nodded and disappeared behind the kitchen doors again. Crowley waited for him to come back out to continue their chat, but he didn’t return. He wondered idly if he had been irritating the owner by wanting to have a conversation. He’d certainly been on the other side of that before too, so he could empathize. Or maybe he'd offended him more than he let on with the cigarette thing. Just as he’d considered sauntering back to his original booth, Aziraphale returned with the crepes and set them down.

“That smells amazing,” he conceded, putting his face down closer to get a whiff.

Aziraphale brightened and set down a fresh fork and napkin for him. “Please enjoy.”

He did, and while he ate the owner asked a few questions of his own. Just some gentle, unintrusive things, such as whether he’d seen any good films lately and if he had seen that new television show based on that book from the forties. By the last bite of his crepe, he really felt like he was catching up with an old friend. He had come in just to check out the restaurant, yet he would be walking away with an experience he would remember.

“Just the check will do me,” he conceded when Aziraphale tried to tempt him with a glass of wine he’d mentioned earlier. Clever man, trying to get a few more line items on that tab. He resisted. “Be sure to give my compliments to the chef. That was delicious.”

Aziraphale took the leather check presenter back and beamed at him. “Oh, thank you, my dear. It is always appreciated.”

Crowley stared at him, then past him at the kitchen doors. There was no sound coming from them, and hadn’t been the entire time they’d conversed. He glanced around the restaurant more fully and realized there weren’t even any other waiters or waitresses. Not even a bus boy.

Realization dawned on him. It took almost an hour to get his food. He turned to stare at Aziraphale in bewilderment.

“You’re the head chef.”

“Yes, I am.”

“And the owner.”

“Correct.”

“And the front of house. And the sommelier.” Crowley could have laughed in his disbelief. “No one else works here?”

“Ah, well, I do have a janitorial service that comes three times a week. Tuesdays, Thursdays and Sundays.”

Aziraphale handed him back his change, which he accepted dumbly. Unbelievable. How could one person run and operate a restaurant by themselves? It wasn’t possible. He recovered soon enough, leaving a decent tip in the leather fold.

“Do you think you’ll ever add something chocolate to your menu?” He asked as he rose from his seat.

“Oh, I don’t have plans to at the moment.”

Crowley nodded and went back to the booth to grab his jacket. “That’s a shame. I might just come back anyway. We’ll see.” He teased the man who followed him to the door to hold it open.

“I’ll look forward to it. Have a wonderful rest of your day.”

In the middle of one of Soho's busiest streets, there were only two restaurants that could call themselves "restaurants" in the capacity that they served food and alcohol. There were coffee shops and snack stands, but only two buildings that could satisfy the itch of craving a full meal. On the east side of the street was a quaint little French bistro (or something of the sort, the aesthetic was a bit confusing) called "The Gate". The rumor was that the head chef was classically trained at Le Cordon Bleu and had at least one Micheline star. No one really knew for certain, given that the chef didn't particularly care for interviews and the restaurant had no website or social media presence. The most they had were some reviews online and a health rating sign in their window (it was an A).

Directly across the street from The Gate was a restaurant called "Ripe". It was entirely counter to The Gate's philosophy in that it lived on social media. The chalkboard out in front of the door had the happy hour specials listed with a hashtag underneath. Their health rating sign had "people love us on Yelp!" stickers, Instagram decals and familiar blue bird silhouettes trying to obscure the B rating. That didn't seem to deter the customers, who lined up every evening around four when Ripe reopened for dinner. Aziraphale always heard loud EDM blaring from their doors as he swept his small patio every night, and always clucked judgingly as the door occasionally opened and someone inevitably screamed. Too noisy over there.

Understandably, the two establishments were not on the best terms with one another. It hadn't always been this way, and it wasn't clear who threw the first stone, but at some point it was obvious that people had a choice to make about where they went to spend their money. Ripe announced "Wine Wednesdays" around the same time The Gate started doing wine tastings. The Gate set up some small speakers on the patio to play gentle classical music and soft lounge jazz in response to the thundering bass on the other side of the street. It had been small, petty things of this nature, until now.

Aziraphale was watering some of the small plants that lined the patio, humming along to Debussy as he did so. It was nice to feel the sun on his face after so many days of rain, and he was sure his hydrangeas felt the same. The sound of tires screeching alerted his attention to the street and he stopped what he was doing to look up. A black Bentley parked quickly but neatly across the street, and out of it clambered a familiar looking redhead. Oh! It had been about a week since he'd seen him. Perhaps he was back for another meal already? With no small amount of delight, Aziraphale raised his hand to wave in the man's direction, but he must have not seen him. Instead, he walked away from his shop in the direction of Ripe's doors, to his incredible remorse.

It got worse. He pulled out a set of keys from his pocket and opened the doors.

Aziraphale lowered his hand in confusion and mild hurt, but the sting grew to be unbearable as the door closed behind him and he saw the picture and large sign underneath:

"TRY OUR NEW CHOCOLATE SIN CAKE"

Aziraphale brought his watering can to his chest slowly. Here he thought he had just been making pleasant small talk with a handsome stranger. He felt like such a fool. The hurt in his chest soon bristled into justified irritation, and he rushed back inside with a curt click of the front door.

This wasn't a small, petty thing like Wine Wednesdays. This was personal. This was a declaration of war.

Chapter Text

Crowley had made two mistakes. The first was putting the new Chocolate Sin Cake sign on the door facing The Gate. He should have angled it cleverly on the chalk sign in front of their shop instead, facing away from the other side of the street. The second was stepping into Aziraphale’s restaurant again.

“I’m sorry, but we’re quite closed.”

Crowley froze where he stood and did a rather comical double-take at the sign in the window, which had read “open” from the street quite definitively.

“That’s… confusing, because your sign says you’re open.”

Aziraphale didn’t look up from what he was doing- folding napkins into elegant flowers. He had a nice little pile of white lilies at his elbow, and was slowly adding to it. The silence stretched on, and Crowley eventually cleared his throat.

“I can flip it if you like.”

“No need for that.” Aziraphale set both hands heavily on the napkin he had just been manipulating. “How dare you come back here. Looking for more ways to cause trouble, I assume? Well, I have nothing else to say to you.”

“Sorry, what—?”

“Oh, don’t act so innocent,” Aziraphale continued. “I know you work over there, you… you serpent!” Insults must not come easily to him, Crowley thought. The owner continued to fold napkins, muttering to himself. “Any plans to put chocolate on the menu? Please. I feel perfectly foolish.”

Crowley’s brows rose sharply over his sunglasses and he whirled around on his heels. He stared out the window towards his own restaurant, and at the blatant sign in the window.

“Oh. Oh no, that’s— that’s really not what it looks like.”

“I said good day.”

“Actually, no you didn’t. You said ‘I have nothing more to say to you’ and then continued on to say—”

“Well I’m saying it now!” Aziraphale snapped, standing up and staring right at him. “I reserve the right to refuse service to anyone, now please leave.”

“Okay, I will,” he conceded, not wanting to rile up the man any more than he already was. “But can I just explain first—”

“Don’t make me… make you!”

“What are you going to do, throw a napkin at me? Look, before I go I just want to clear—”

To his great surprise, Aziraphale did throw a napkin at him.

Due to it being made of cloth, the projectile fluttered in a slow arc and puffed daintily against his chest. It wilted to the floor and landed between his black snakeskin boots. Crowley stared at it in disbelief, and when he looked back at Aziraphale he had an expression that clearly read ’and don’t make me throw another’.

They stared at each other in silence. Crowley slowly raised both his hands in all seriousness, as if Aziraphale had him at gunpoint. About as quickly as a molasses leak, he knelt down to pick up the napkin. He waved it loosely with two fingers. A white flag, a sign of surrender.

“Truce?” He asked quietly. “I wasn’t trying to cause trouble for you, I swear. If anything I was trying to do the opposite.”

Aziraphale scoffed, but his indignant expression had cooled moderately. He was listening.

“I mean it. I was getting heat from my boss to add a new dessert to the menu for weeks. I didn’t want to step on your toes, so I picked something I knew you wouldn’t have.”

The blond looked like he still didn’t believe him, but wanted to. He set down the napkin he had been wringing anxiously with both hands and attempted to smooth it out.

“So you weren’t… intentionally trying to sabotage my business.”

“No. If I’d wanted to do that, I would’ve added a crepe and made it better than yours at a cheaper price.”

“No one makes a crepe better than mine,” Aziraphale promised with a weak smile. “Not this side of the pond, anyway.” Crowley smiled too.

“Probably not. But that’s what I would’ve done. Okay?”

The owner lowered his gaze to the counter where his lilies sat waiting to be placed on tables. Crowley’s eyes traced him. Now that the anger had simmered out of him, he just looked tired. Those blue eyes that sparkled when he’d gotten to the subject of his favorite wine were now lackluster. Was it because of him? He felt a twinge of guilt in his chest. He should have just told Beelzebub to fuck off and made a sundae instead of a cake.

“Help me with these, would you?”

Without a second to consider it, Crowley moved forward to take the lilies and distribute them along the tables quietly. Aziraphale started in the front, leaving Crowley to handle the space past the brick archway. There were a few odd turns, bookshelves obscuring the view of a table and a divider or two that threw him off and made him rethink whether he’d gone this way already or not.

“Like a fucking labyrinth back here…” he muttered as he slapped down the flower napkins. The piano was his north star, and he kept it in his line of sight to make sure he was walking back the correct way. Towards the far wall, he noticed a stairway that was cordoned off with a rope, and he stared at it curiously. Probably just the bathroom.

“Do you need more?”

Aziraphale appeared at his elbow, holding an armful of flowers. Startled, Crowley jerked his head back and glared down at him. He shook his head and put the ones he had left over in Aziraphale’s arms as well, giving them a pat to secure them.

“Why did I help you with this?” He puzzled out loud, as if he’d just snapped out of a reverie.

“Because you have a guilty conscience?” Aziraphale teased with a small smile. He leaned in to whisper to him. “Perhaps you aren’t so bad after all.”

“I’m pretty bad,” he grumbled back. “Don’t tell anyone otherwise.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it. You’ve earned a table. Have a seat.”

“I prefer the bar.”

Now placated, Aziraphale served Crowley exactly what he requested: the chef’s suggestion for the day. Today, it was grilled salmon on a bed of orzo with an arugula side salad. It had a lemon vinaigrette that begged to be eaten with the fish in the same bite, which he did.

Crowley was more willing to talk about himself this time around. Aziraphale asked a few more pointed questions, and he answered them honestly. His name was Anthony J. Crowley, friends just called him "Crowley", and he was the executive chef at Ripe. Technically, he was also the marketing manager, but not on paper. He did all the upkeep for their internet presence, registered them for booths at shows and food fairs and essentially got the word out. He promised he had nothing to do with the music choice, and swore that was all Hastur and “the other front of house guys”.

He also did most, if not all, of the menu conceptualization. He was prone to molecular gastronomy, and a lot of his dishes were “high concept”. He made a lot of foams, and deconstructed dishes, and mentioned that his best dish utilized his favorite component to date: a whiskey-infused smoke that he’d developed himself.

“I’d love to see some examples.” Aziraphale said, and it didn’t sound to Crowley like he was just being kind. The redhead shrugged.

“Come to Ripe. It’ll be my treat.”

Aziraphale made a face. “No, thank you. It’s too… well, it’s not really my style.”

Crowley nodded slowly. No, it wasn’t really his style, was it? Ripe was loud, and it was crowded and high-energy the moment it opened its doors. A lot of people standing, elbows bumping, screaming cheers at televisions and drinks getting jostled. He wasn’t sure a guy like Aziraphale could survive five minutes in an environment like that.

Honestly, just getting past it all to the kitchen sometimes pissed Crowley off, too. But he wasn’t about to admit that.

“Well, I still owe you something, just to prove there’s no bad blood, yeah? What if I buy you dinner somewhere else?”

Aziraphale, who had been dusting the wine rack behind the counter, turned around to give him his full attention now. He held the duster in both hands and twirled it idly. Crowley became aware of the fact that he was holding his breath waiting for his response.

“I work rather late…”

“So do I. Lots of places stay open late.”

“I-I don’t know…”

Crowley’s hopes deflated a little, but he didn’t let it show. His expression remained as calm as before the offer was politely set aside, and he shrugged it off before the silence could get awkward.

“It’s no big deal either way. If you happen to feel up to it, give me a ring and we can go from there.”

He took a pen out of his breast pocket and wrote his number down on the back of his receipt. He slid it over to Aziraphale and thanked him for the meal before heading out.

A few days passed. Regrettably, Aziraphale didn’t see many customers within that time. There was of course the group of older women who came religiously every Friday afternoon. They didn’t seem to mind the wait for their food. Occasionally a university student or an aspiring writer would wander in to order a drink and linger for hours. Aziraphale didn’t have the heart or the constitution to ask them to order something or leave. It wasn’t like it ever got busy enough for him to need those tables back anyway, he thought morosely.

He thought a lot about what Crowley had said earlier. Social media, websites, trade shows… were these things that he should be considering? It was all so intimidating. He didn’t even have a smartphone, he had a flip phone which he had dropped several times but still worked just fine. Where would he even begin with all of that? What did he do, just… type his restaurant name into a search bar and then it would make him a website? He hadn’t had many dealings with the internet before, and genuinely had no clue what to do. He had set up an email when he was in college though, and checked it occasionally on his archaic laptop in his flat. But that was it.

Crowley would know where to start. It was all so easy for him, he would be able to help.

He had placed Crowley’s number on his register, and was tempted by it every time he rang up a customer. But whenever he thought to dial the number, his fingers recoiled. This could all still be some sort of elaborate trick, he warned himself. Remember how much it hurt the first time. That was only after one meeting. Don’t let him get close, it will be so much worse the second time if he actually is up to something.

But he wanted to believe he wasn’t. He wanted so badly to think that this man just wanted to spend some time with him. He was a chef too, a professional chef. He lived in this culinary world with Aziraphale. They had so much in common, and he had so few friends now that his life was basically tied to the restaurant. He couldn’t go out much; there was no one to look after the shop for him. But here was this tall, rather handsome, smooth-talking redhead who had just waltzed into his restaurant and left him his phone number like they were in some sort of rom-com. It all seemed very unlikely.

"Aziraphale."

The owner nearly jumped out of his skin upon hearing his name. He snapped out of his quandary and stepped away from the register. He knew that voice well, and at this particular moment he was not too thrilled to hear it.

"Gabriel! What a surprise… my, is it Tuesday already?"

"It is not." Gabriel replied with a smile as sharp as his dove grey suit. "I thought I would drop in for a little surprise visit."

He started to show himself to the back room and Aziraphale quickly followed after him. It was in his nature, having been practically raised in hospitality, to offer wine whenever he had guests. Even Gabriel was no exception to this rule. He deftly plucked a bottle from the wine rack behind the counter.

"I've just received a Pinot Noir from Gevrey-Chambertin this very morning--"

"None for me," Gabriel cut him off as he took a seat at the small wooden table in the cramped office. "I've got a full schedule today. You know how it is."

Aziraphale felt he hid his disappointment rather well. He smiled briefly and set the bottle on his wooden desk against the wall. He piped in an agreeable, "yes, of course" before he took a seat as well. He folded his hands together in his lap to keep them from worrying in front of him. It was a shame, a glass of wine would have helped to calm his nerves. But he wasn't desperate enough to drink alone in front of company.

"Weather's finally cleared up, huh?"

"Yes, it has."

Oh no, they were going to engage in small talk. As artful of a businessman Aziraphale knew Gabriel to be, he had never been very personable. He knew all of the motions, the set phrases and charming smiles, but nothing ever landed. His words lacked heart, they lacked substance. They were just a means to an end.

"About time, am I right? Get that temperature back up. Hey, speaking of numbers going up," here it was, the planned segue, "how have things been over here?"

"Ah, well--"

"Good, I hope?"

"Oh yes. Well, it's been… I certainly wouldn't say it's been bad."

Gabriel put this hands out in a very affected motion that said 'I have a suggestion'. Perhaps it was meant to look spontaneous, but Gabriel was not an actor. He was a businessman.

"Why don't we peek at the sales report a little early? Have ourselves a consultation."

Aziraphale felt like he had swallowed a rather large stone.

"Of course…"

He stood to do so, wringing his hands on the way to the filing cabinet. It wasn't as if he had been lying. Things weren't bad. He was managing his inventory responsibly, nothing ever overstocked and he rarely had to make adjustments or mark things off. His regulars were still coming in, and those new customers that happened to stumble in were quite happy with his service if he did say so himself. The quality of his food never suffered, despite fourteen hour days six days a week, and everyone that dined at The Gate left with a smile.

Smiles didn't pay the bills, though.

Aziraphale placed the folder down on the table and took a seat again. Gabriel picked it up and leafed through it in silence. He started with the summary and went on to the detailed report. He closed the folder with a sigh through his nose, folded his hands and looked squarely at Aziraphale.

"Frankly, this is not good."

"Well, but it's not bad, is it? We aren't closing in the red."

"No, but you're not making any profit either. You're barely making cost-- I don't know how you're managing to pay the lease with numbers like these."

With a little help from personal savings, Aziraphale thought glumly.

"Look. Aziraphale."

Gabriel set his palms flat on the table and leaned slightly forward.

"You're our affiliate. We all want you to succeed. I want you to succeed. And you know we can help you."

"I know."

"You're sitting on a prime location here. And with just a few simple changes-"

"Gabriel, I--"

"You wouldn't even have to do any of it. Just agree to make Miracle Ltd. the majority shareholder and we would take care of everything for you."

"Gabriel, please."

The man finally quieted after he'd said his piece, waiting now for Aziraphale's answer. The latter sighed shakily.

"I understand that you wish to make The Gate a subsidiary," he said in a measured voice, "However, at this time, this is not an avenue I am considering."

A weaker man may have withered under Gabriel's intense gaze, but on this point Aziraphale was able to steel himself.

"All right."

Oh. He wasn't expecting Gabriel to drop the subject that easy.

"For now you're not considering it. I get it. I mean, this place is your baby, right?"

The more he spoke, the more uncomfortable Aziraphale became.

"But I want you to consider something. This offer is on the table now, from us, to you. Come Tuesday, this report," he patted the manila folder heavily, "is going to be passed out of my hands and higher up the chain. And they're going to see these numbers, and maybe reconsider this offer. They might even reconsider holding stock in this place altogether, I don't know."

Aziraphale lowered his eyes. That Pinot Noir was looking irresistible right now.

"What I do know is that if you let me talk to them, I can make some negotiations. You could still be chef de cuisine, and I could probably convince them to leave you full autonomy over the menu. Because let's face it, your food is good. We both know that."

Gabriel laughed. Aziraphale didn't.

"So, I want you to give it some thought." Here Gabriel pulled out a business card while he stood up, and a pen to jot something down on the back of it. "This is my direct line. Call me when you have a change of heart."

The card was pressed into Aziraphale's hand before he could extend it. He walked Gabriel to the front door and assured him that he would keep his number close by.

It was nine thirty by the time Aziraphale finished his cleaning and prep work for the next day. He sat in front of his register, staring at the two phone numbers in front of him. His resolve had been worn down over the course of the day, and he had come to terms with the fact that he needed to take a chance. You couldn't be afraid of risk if you were an entrepreneur, in the same respect that you couldn't be a chef if you were afraid of fire.

He took out his flip phone and dialed a number.

It rang… and rang…

When his call was answered, he abruptly held the phone away from his ear. The volume of the background noise had startled him: a dissonant roar of clanging, sizzling, shouting and dull music.

"I said steak in two! Yeah, heard, fuck off-- What?"

"Oh!" Aziraphale deeply considered hanging up. "Is this… is this Crowley?"

A pause.

"Aziraphale?"

"Yes. Um… I'm sorry, is this a bad time?" He realized belatedly that it was a Saturday night, and probably prime time for a restaurant like Ripe that catered to young, energetic clientele.

"No, no. Give me a second. I'm talking my ten-- hey, that lamb in three, let it burn and I'll skin you alive."

There was a rustling sound and a door slammed, and suddenly it was much quieter.

"Hey. Sorry, I didn't have your number so I didn't know it was you calling… so…" he sounded out of breath. "What's up?"

Aziraphale's resolve was deteriorating.

"I'm sorry… I really can call back later. I feel rather silly, I've just had a bit of a day and I wasn't sure who else to call…"

There was another pause, much longer this time. Had Crowley hung up on him? Just as he was about to quietly check, he heard the bell chime over the front door.

Crowley sauntered in and hung up the call, alluding to a wave with his other hand. He was dressed in a black chef's coat, and his normally tousled looking red waves were restrained in a half-bun. He was visibly sweating.

"Hey."

He came to the counter and sat down heavily. In a fluid motion he removed his wrist watch and set it on the surface in front of him so he could see the digital face.

"Sorry, I've only got about eight minutes, but I'll take a glass of… whatever you recommend."

Aziraphale stared at him, mouth agape.

"My dear boy! Are you-- did you come here in the middle of service?!"

"Yep." He raised his eyebrows expectantly.

"...Just because I called you?"

"No, for a glass of wine and a chat," Crowley clarified pointedly. He tapped the wrist watch on the counter. "Seven."

"Oh! Right."

Aziraphale brought out the Pinot Noir he had been excited to try earlier that morning and poured a glass for Crowley and himself. He started talking about its features while Crowley took his first sip, and he couldn't stop himself from delving into the details of the soft tannins and velvety smooth texture. Crowley didn't interrupt him, even when seven minutes became four right in front of their eyes. He just watched him with a small smile.

"So," Crowley began, his hand on the base of his glass as he swirled its contents. "Do you want to tell me about this day you had?"

"Not particularly," Aziraphale admitted. "It's a bit complicated… I was mostly hoping for a distraction."

"Ah! Well you're in luck, I am a very distracting person."

They both laughed. Aziraphale asked him a few details about his day, and Crowley ranted about his coworkers for a while. He talked about the dish they were featuring and how he had wanted to make it sous vide but Beelzebub harped on him to make it doable in less time. He finished his drink and began to put his watch back on. Aziraphale found that he was sad to see him go.

"You gonna be okay?" The redhead muttered with nonchalance, but although his head was bowed under the pretense of checking his watch, he met Aziraphale's gaze directly. His eyes were a beautiful amber color. They were like watching the sunset through a curtain of honey.

"Of course."

Even though Crowley wouldn't admit it, Aziraphale's heart was warmed to think that this man had run over to sit with him during what precious free time he had in the middle of a busy service. No one in his adult life had ever allotted their time to him like that.

"Crowley?"

He caught the other's attention before he could leave. The man stopped at the door, fingers lingering on the handle.

"Yeah?"

"Are you free for dinner tomorrow night?"

Crowley smiled at him, and for a moment Aziraphale couldn't remember the details of his bad day.

"I am."

Chapter Text

For all of the years that Anthony J. Crowley had been on this earth, the thing he struggled with most was not knowing exactly what he wanted.

This is not an uncommon problem in the human condition. Many individuals enroll in higher education institutes with “undecided” majors, or try on leather jackets and floor-length dresses in changing rooms and stare in the mirror at the potential of what they could be. Many people go to pubs after nine-to-five desk jobs, stare into their beers, and wonder what legacy they are going to leave behind.

Crowley was not unique in this dilemma. What set him apart was that he wasn’t aware of it. He was under the impression that he knew exactly what he wanted all the time, and actively pursued it.

In college, he didn’t dither. He chose to go into marketing because he knew he was imaginative. He was creative, endlessly clever, and he enjoyed talking to people. Well, no, he enjoyed convincing people, and he was good at it. It was the perfect combo for the industry, and a bright-eyed twenty-something Crowley had it all figured out. He got his degree. He landed a corporate job. He earned a lot of money. He had won the game.

Only, he hadn’t.

He soon discovered that he hated his job. There were too many handshakes, too many mandatory lunches and way too many forced smiles. He was allowed some creative license in his work, but it was all regulated closely by those around him. He could have ideas, as long as they were inside a box carefully drawn by upper management.

Regardless, he stayed at this job that he disliked for years. He bought expensive clothes. He took cooking classes to satisfy the creative itch his job wasn’t scratching. He found a classic Bentley, a car he’d wanted since high school, and after years of saving was able to claim it as his own. He persisted in this manner stubbornly, because how could someone who dressed as nicely as him and someone who drove a car as nice as his not be winning?

He was fired from his job. He had disregarded his supervisor’s critique and shown his client something a little too extraordinary. He’d lost a very important account and the trust of his coworkers, and he was shown the door. He did not leave gracefully; he had a lot to say about a lot of people as he was escorted carrying his banker-box full of belongings to the elevator down.

He decided, rightly, that he had never wanted to be in marketing anyway.

So he fell back on his hobby and let it become a full-time occupation. He became a sous-chef under one of his old instructors, but it was all the same pattern. Everything had to be done her way, with no variation or room for interpretation. But Crowley’s curious mind and innovative hands couldn’t be sated. He experimented with untouched tools in the kitchen. He used liquid nitrogen to spherify juices. He used the rotary evaporator to make extracts. He experimented with anti-griddles, thermal immersion circulators, dehydrators, and found he was particularly drawn to hydrocolloids. He would occasionally present his findings, if he thought they were good, to his mentor. She always said they were very “stylish”.

It wasn’t the reception he had hoped for, and it never earned him a spot on the menu.

Then along came Ripe. This new, trendy restaurant was looking for a forward-thinking executive chef. They didn’t want traditional, and they certainly didn’t want boring. They were flashy, and gimmicky, and looking for something fresh and never before seen. Crowley heard about this through the grapevines and applied straight away. He got the job and full control over the menu, pending the owner’s approval. They were usually pretty hands-off when it came to the details; they would bark an order here and there, and he was left to fill that order in whatever way he saw fit.

Crowley settled into this position for nearly a decade. He finally had a true creative outlet. He had decent pay. His coworkers were dreadful, but the reviews he received on his dishes were predominantly favorable. He appeared in interviews, and was a very, very small-scale local food celebrity. He was no Gordon Ramsay, but the culinary world in central London knew him. He had a nice flat, expensive plants, and a private 401k plan. He was back to winning, back to knowing everything he wanted, and getting it.

Until that rainy Wednesday afternoon, when he’d stepped into that quaint French bistro and an angel plucked an unlit cigarette from his lips with the softest smile he’d ever seen.

At that moment, for the first time in his life, Anthony J. Crowley felt the void. He stared into those endlessly kind blue eyes and saw something that made his chest ache with actual desire, not the desensitized pull of checkboxes that lead to a standard definition of success. He very keenly felt what he was missing by being gifted a taste of it. It was just a spark, hardly noteworthy, but enough of a sensation to eventually grow and spread through him. Enough to leave him daydreaming in his car, and enough to make him notice the empty space in his queen-sized bed more acutely.

In a rare bit of introspection, he began to wonder if maybe he’d been totally wrong about what he wanted in life all along, until now.

They had agreed to meet at ten for a reservation at ten thirty. This gave Crowley just enough time to speed home like a bat out of hell, inhale half a cigarette, take a shower, slap on some cologne and rush back to Soho. It was hot in his kitchen, and he always managed to work up a sweat running around during service. He didn’t fancy the idea of being a disgusting mess for their dinner date—

Nope, not a date. On their “dinner”.

Their normal dinner, at a normal place, the purpose of which was just to show Aziraphale that there were really no hard feelings between Ripe and The Gate.

As he leaned against his car and waited, he wondered if he should have grabbed an espresso or something to mask the cigarette he’d had. It would probably be better to taste like coffee instead of an ashtray, just in case things went a certain way.

But it won’t, because it’s not a date, Crowley thought blandly even as he popped a mint into his mouth.

The familiar chime of the door opening caught his attention. Aziraphale acknowledged him with a nod before turning to lock up the building. He wore a camel-colored coat over his already predominantly beige wardrobe. Crowley wondered if the other man even owned an article of clothing that dared to be anything but neutral.

“Don’t you look stylish,” Aziraphale commented. Why did Crowley suddenly feel self-conscious in his Hugo Boss?

“This old thing?” He quipped back with a grin that was returned. They both sank into the car and he started it up. “Where are we headed?”

“I hope you like sushi. There’s a new restaurant that opened up earlier this year a few miles away. It’s called “Kaisen”. Have you heard of it?”

“I have.”

They drove mostly in silence. Crowley let the radio persist to fill it. Occasionally, he would hear Aziraphale gasp under his breath, but he wasn’t sure why. He found some street parking in front of the restaurant and walked beside Aziraphale, who was decidedly a shade paler than he had been before getting in the car, to the host stand.

The two chefs were both fortunate in that Kaisen was one of the few restaurants that stayed open until midnight on a Sunday. Their ten thirty reservation caused no problems for anyone, and they didn’t even receive a single annoyed glare from the staff on their way to the table.

“Have you been here before?”

“No,” Crowley answered honestly.

“Ah, first time for both of us then. Truthfully, I don’t find many opportunities to go out like this.”

“No? Maybe we can change that,” he said in what he hoped was a casual comment.

Crowley’s eyes never left Aziraphale, even as he was handed a menu. The blond across from him took one as well with a very polite glance up to the waitress. The way he delicately laid the menu flat on the table and traced his fingers down the descriptions, like it was some sort of treasured document, made Crowley ache unexpectedly. His hands were well-manicured, but not without the callouses and small incidental scars indicative of being a chef. Worn, but so careful in their manner. Did he treat his food as lovingly as this menu? Gently, but with purpose? Would he use them in this same way if they were to run up Crowley’s chest, or through his hair—

”— good to you?”

Crowley blinked a few times, fully surprised. That wasn’t an avenue he’d intended to go down, but his thoughts had been on autopilot.

“What was that?”

“I said we could always order a few things to share family-style. Does that sound good to you?”

“Oh… yeah. Sounds perfect.”

The waitress returned and Aziraphale leaned towards her to ask about a few different rolls while Crowley stared at the table and rubbed at his forehead idly.

Sure, he’d been intrigued in a very distinct sort of way upon first meeting Aziraphale. And he had been eagerly waiting for him to call after leaving him his cellphone number (he had answered so many robo-calls in the time it took Aziraphale to do so). But perhaps he had underestimated just how interested in the other man he was.

Would it be bad to let Aziraphale know? He didn’t see a ring on his finger. They could just see where things went… but as far as he could tell, this wasn’t likely a feeling that was reciprocated. Just a few days ago, he’d been shouting at him to get out of his restaurant. Maybe he would see how things went and mention it after dinner. No point in making it awkward early on.

“And for you, sir?”

“Uh. Two of whatever you recommend.”

He handed off the menu and was surprised to see Aziraphale grinning at him knowingly.

“Do you always do that?”

“Do what?”

“Ask for the recommendation. You’ve been to my place three times now, and each time you’ve done the same. I suppose I understand, though. It’s easy to be indecisive when there are so many good looking things on the menu. Hard to know exactly what you want.”

“I know what I want,” Crowley answered decisively. “I want the best thing on the menu. It’s not about indecision, it’s about trust. I trust the waitstaff to know what sells, and what’s good. They would know better than anyone else.”

Aziraphale looked delighted by this response.

“Oh! What a lovely notion.”

They were able to converse about this and that in the space between ordering and receiving their food. Crowley found out that Aziraphale really had studied at Le Cordon Bleu, and admitted he was a touch jealous. He hadn’t studied in any official capacity past taking night courses he’d found in an advert, and now that he was interested in food science he would love to have that kind of formal education.

Crowley realized not long into their conversation that they didn’t really have that much in common. Aziraphale liked classical music, Crowley liked rock and alternative. Aziraphale preferred reading, and he preferred movies. One preferred cutting-edge technology and having the newest model smartphone on his hip, and the other really couldn’t be bothered to keep up and vastly preferred doing things on paper and snail mail, of all things. Even when it came to food, they both came from very different backgrounds and had strong opinions in opposite directions. The only thing they could really agree on with certainty was that, when their food arrived, the eel was the best out of all the things they had ordered. Crowley feigned being too full to finish so that Aziraphale would take the last one.

Despite their differences, neither seemed to irritate the other. Crowley was enraptured watching Aziraphale talk about his favorite composers. And when Crowley got around to comparing Apple to Android, Aziraphale didn’t complain and even asked him a few questions of his own with a measure of naive curiosity. The evening was full of kind smiles, friendly teasing and easy laughter. It wasn’t something Crowley was used to, often hanging around a much brasher crowd.

The question of dessert came up, and there had been a gleam of desire in Aziraphale’s eyes that made Crowley request a menu. He ordered an espresso while the other man decided to try their annin tofu. The conversation had quieted down. Most of the patrons in the restaurant had left, and Kaisen’s background music filled the silence.

Aziraphale’s lips pursed in thought.

“Crowley?”

“Hm?”

“I wonder if I might ask you something… I hope it isn’t too inappropriate, seeing as how we’ve just met.”

Crowley hadn’t been aware that his posture had slipped during dinner, until now. He sat upright in his chair and leaned forward to stare intently at Aziraphale. Was he going to beat him to it? What else could he be talking about that might be inappropriate? He nodded very slowly, as if there was something in the air so fragile it might break if he made any sudden movements.

“Go on.”

“Can you keep a secret?”

“Absolutely,” he breathed. His throat felt dry. His palms had become clammy in anticipation.

“All right… well, I don’t know much about marketing and branding like you do, and I was hoping you might be able to… give me some pointers. The Gate isn’t doing very well, and… oh, why am I telling you this...”

Crowley felt a tingle of embarrassment in his chest. He had been a moron to get his hopes up.

“Yeah… yeah, ‘course I can help.” He leaned back in his chair again as the waitress brought them their last course, and he picked up his coffee to stare down at it. He did his best to swallow his disappointment down with his first sip. “But y’know, if my boss finds out I’m helping you even a little, they’re gonna throw me out on my ass.”

“Yes, I understand it is a bit of a conflict of interest for you… Is there something I can offer you in return? Something you would like?” Aziraphale questioned hopefully.

You, Crowley thought loudly as he took a second sip. I want to know if you moan when you kiss the same way you do when you try something delicious. I want to know if your lips taste like Zinfandel.

“Yes, actually.” He set down his coffee cup, twined his fingers together and set his hands on the table. “How about this, I’ve got a proposal for you. I’ll help you with The Gate’s brand, and you to teach me all the fancy shit you learned at Le Cordon Bleu.”

“That’s— well, of course I would be delighted to show you, but— I studied there for many years, Crowley.” Aziraphale snuck a few thoughtful bites of his soft almond flavored dessert in the space between. “It would take some time for me to teach you everything.”

“That’s my offer,” Crowley said with a shrug. “I’ll help you with what you need, everything you need, if you can do that for me.”

Aziraphale fiddled with his spoon before he extended his hand. Crowley accepted it. Just as he speculated earlier, it was calloused but quite gentle.

“Deal.”

The drive back to The Gate was about the same as the first; quiet and uneventful (save for Aziraphale yelping whenever he took a sharp turn). When Crowley parked, he hopped out to walk around and stroll with Aziraphale to the front doors.

“You can’t possibly have more work to do. It’s almost midnight! Let me drop you off at home.”

Aziraphale looked up at him in patient understanding. “My dear boy, this is my home.”

He pointed up vaguely and Crowley tipped his head back. Above the restaurant there were several windows, currently dark. He’d never noticed them before, probably because they blended in with the rest of the multiple-floored buildings surrounding it.

“Your flat’s above the restaurant?”

“Yes.”

Crowley recalled the stairs that had been cordoned off and felt like he had witnessed something personal that he shouldn’t have. So, those stairs lead to Aziraphale’s home. Huh.

“Right. Anyway, I’ll come by tomorrow and help you set up some things. Talk shop.”

“That would be lovely.”

Aziraphale’s hand rested on Crowley’s bicep in a kind gesture.

“I really can’t thank you enough. It’s such a relief to have your help.”

His heart was doing summersaults. It was after dinner now; he should tell Aziraphale how he felt. But was it too much too soon? Now that he had agreed to work with Aziraphale in his downtime in a pseudo-professional capacity, would it be too awkward if he said no? It might— no, it definitely would be. It was probably better to feel things out a little more. If he got any indication that his interest was reciprocated, that was probably the best time to make a move. Until then, he would just… wait and see.

“Yep.” He answered lamely.

“Drive safely. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Crowley watched Aziraphale disappear behind the door and walked backwards to get to the Bentley. He arrived at his flat, inhaled a cigarette, took a shower, and dressed for bed, now with the luxury of taking his time to do so. He watered his plants, brushed his teeth, and crawled into bed, lying with his face buried in his black satin pillow.

In all of his years on this earth, Crowley had never known what he wanted so painfully clearly until now.

Chapter Text

Ripe was closed on Mondays. This wasn’t something Aziraphale had been acutely aware of until Crowley walked through his doors at ten in the morning with a slim laptop tucked away in the nook of his arm.

“Somehow, I thought you would be here a little later,” Aziraphale explained when the redhead approached the bar.

“I can leave.” His tone was friendly and teasing, but even still Aziraphale hurried to amend his statement.

“Don’t be silly, it’s a pleasure to see you.”

They smiled at each other, and Crowley pointed to an empty table in the corner.

“May I?”

“Oh, yes, anywhere you like.”

The other man found a table that was tucked away to the side, surrounded by bookshelves and backed against the far wall. It was close enough to the bar that they could see each other and ask questions of one another if necessary. Admittedly, that was one of Aziraphale’s favorite spots to sit and have a glass of wine on Tuesdays when The Gate was closed. He watched Crowley settle into the worn armchair, set up his laptop, and start typing.

Aziraphale went about his day as usual. He saw the odd customer here and there, tended to them, disappeared into the kitchen to fire up their meal, and returned to the front. In the downtime between customers and cooking, Crowley would occasionally pose a question to him without looking up from his screen. They were simple questions that were easy to answer, such as “what’s your email address?” and “this is taken, but what do you think of this for a username?”. For the first hour or so, things proceeded in this fashion.

But as the day grew late, he got up from his seat and started poking around the restaurant. He took pictures here and there, and Aziraphale couldn’t help but wonder just what he was up to. Suspicion grew in him, but it wasn't untrusting. He was hopeful that Crowley wasn’t doing anything malicious. What would Ripe want with a couple of pictures, anyway?

However, soon he started talking with his customers. Aziraphale wasn’t close enough to hear any of the conversations he had, but he wasn’t entirely pleased with the man going around and chatting with the people he knew to be regulars. Don’t scare them away, he prayed internally, they’re all I have. He kept a curious eye on the slender man as he lingered by armchairs, pointed to dishes, and even took a few pictures on his cellphone. Aziraphale’s brows furrowed and he mindlessly cleaned a few glasses that were already spotless.

Crowley went back to his laptop not long after that, and back to his rapid typing. He had his smartphone out on the table next to him, which would occasionally light up and buzz, and he would tap it without looking away from his keyboard. Aziraphale belatedly realized it had been a few hours and Crowley hadn’t eaten anything, so he disappeared into the kitchen. He put together a few things that would be easy to eat while working. Smoked salmon, cream cheese, lemon, and capers bruschetta and a selection of fruits on the side. He came by the others table with the plate and set it down in front of him. The redhead finally looked up from his screen.

“What’s this?”

“I thought you might be hungry,” Aziraphale offered, clasping his hands in front of him with a smile. “It’s salmon lox bruschetta. I like to make this for myself on my days off. Maybe you’ll enjoy it on yours?”

"You're an angel."

Aziraphale beamed in sincere joy at the pet name. Oh, what a nice surprise that was! He bowed his reddening face and left Crowley to his work before he could let it get to his head.

He busied himself by checking his inventory, only stealing the occasional glance to the man in the corner. He was eating his food, he could tell, because every time he checked there was less of it on the plate. At some point he had swept his fiery hair back into a bun, but there were still some loose waves that brushed his high cheekbones defiantly. Aziraphale's eyes followed down the lines of the man as subtly as possible. Down his defined jaw and long neck, and those collar bones that stood out particularly in this low-cut v-neck he wore. The desire to trace them with his fingertips was palpable.

He shook his head and tutted to himself. He couldn't be thinking about that now. He had to do inventory.

He was at peace with what was going to happen tomorrow. There was nothing to be done at this point. He had a meeting with Miracle Ltd. at noon to go over his numbers and assess the terms of their relationship. He knew Gabriel was going to push that subsidiary offer on him again, and he already knew what his answer was going to be.

He had put so much love, time, and money into The Gate over the years he’d had it. He had hand selected pieces of furniture that he felt a fondness towards from the antique store next door (he and the owner were on very good terms, and she gave him a steep discount for buying so many things in bulk). The bookstore he’d visited frequently on his days off donated a lot of their unwanted, old or irreparable texts for him to fill the shelves as thanks to him for catering local book clubs and reading events. The butcher’s wife was a watercolor painter, a very pleasant older woman who met with her friends every Friday at The Gate, and she made several pieces just for Aziraphale. They hung proudly along the walls of the dining area, and a few that he felt partial towards were in his flat. Even the interior was a collaborative effort: he’d lamented to a young customer, a History major studying for her finals, about being closed for a week to paint the walls himself, and was moved to tears to see that same customer with a group of friends show up the next day to help him. He’d only had to close for two.

This restaurant was full to the brim of memories he had made in this community. Everywhere he looked, he was reminded of a friendly interaction or a kind gesture. He wasn’t going to give up ownership, even if it meant losing a hefty financial support.

The sun began to set. The hours marched on, and Crowley remained in his corner armchair. Aziraphale swept the floors, cleaned the table tops, flipped the sign in the window and went into the kitchen to do some dishes. When he came back out, Crowley was seated at the bar.

“Okay,”

The redhead gently placed his laptop on the surface. He turned the computer towards Aziraphale, who unrolled his sleeves down his forearms again and buttoned the cuffs. Crowley reached into his pocket to bite a cigarette and Aziraphale tutted.

"No smoking."

"Is that really still a rule?"

He fixed Crowley with a pleasant smile, plucked the cigarette from his lips, and tucked it back into his breast pocket with a pat.

"It is. Now show me what you've been working on."

“I set up a couple of things for you. This is your instagram account, which should get you some younger customers. I put up a couple of product pictures already,” he scrolled down and Aziraphale leaned in to look closer. He pointed at them in disbelief.

“These were just from today? You took these on your phone?”

“Yep. I told you about the camera on this thing last night, maybe now you’ll believe me.”

“The lighting is beautiful!”

“Yeah, well. You’d be surprised what a couple of filters can do.”

He continued to show him how to make posts and made him put one up before moving on. He showed him his new Facebook page and Twitter, and most importantly, he showed him how to cross-post.

“I got the OK from a few of your customers to put up some testimonials too, so that’ll give you some credibility. Soon, new customers will be doing it on their own, and you can retweet it or share it to your own story.”

Aziraphale’s brows had come together slowly over the whole explanation. Apparently his confusion was evident, because Crowley backpedaled. “I know it’s a lot right now, so just focus on posting. Try once or twice a week. Any more and people will get irritated, any less and people will forget about you. Oh, almost forgot—”

Crowley pulled out his phone and held it up with a wiggle.

“Can I take your photo?”

“Mine?”

“Yeah. Do a little ‘about the chef’ sort of thing.”

“And this… photo would go up on the internet? For strangers to look at?”

“Well, yeah,” Crowley shrugged at the rather obvious deduction. “Is that a problem?”

“No… I suppose not.”

“Trust me. It makes the page a lot more personable.”

Aziraphale couldn’t argue with that. He smiled nervously and smoothed his hands over his waistcoat.

“Wait, go put your whites on. It’ll look more professional.”

Aziraphale did as he was instructed, trusting Crowley’s expertise on this subject. He ducked into the kitchen to grab his chef’s coat and slipped it on. It was a simple white coat with white buttons and light blue piping at the collar. He came back out to the dining area and Crowley stared at him for a while. He did a little spin and was able to draw a laugh out of Crowley, who whistled.

“Look at you. Belle of the ball.”

“Don’t tease me.”

Aziraphale swatted at him with a towel, and he laughed again.

“No no, it’s good. Perfect. Here, stand in front of the wine rack.”

He did so, and when prompted, he smiled at Crowley’s phone. The redhead looked at the photo for a moment and tilted his head.

“...Maybe one without the coat too, just for options.”

“Oh. All right.”

He took it off and did the same. Satisfied, Crowley pocketed his phone.

“Okay, great. I’ll add a blurb about you later. But enough internet stuff, let’s talk public appearances. Do you have a booth at the farmer’s market?”

“Of course not. You know I don’t have any employees, I couldn’t go to the market and have the restaurant open at the same time...”

“Close the restaurant, then.”

“Wh— Are you insane?”

“Look.” Crowley made a couple of gestures on the marble countertop. “You specialize in lunch and dinner, right? You open at ten. How many customers do you typically see on a Saturday morning? Between ten and two.”

“Well…” Aziraphale looked down at his hands, which were folding over each other anxiously. “Perhaps… ten.”

“Okay. So you have ten customers. The farmer’s market, on average, has hundreds of attendees. Even if you only get five percent of the attendees to buy something from your booth, you’re making back those ten customers you’ve lost from closing the restaurant. And even people who don’t buy from your booth, they’re gonna see you. And they might take a business card. They might take a picture, tell their friends, or say “not today, but maybe next week I’ll try the crepes”. There’s so much potential in putting yourself out there.”

Aziraphale couldn’t deny Crowley’s logic, even if it did sound intimidating. He catered before on occasion, but he’d never spent a day cooking at a booth outside. He wasn’t prepared for that sort of thing at all.

“I’ll give you some contacts I have if you need to rent equipment,” Crowley mentioned while tapping his phone a few times. Aziraphale felt his pocket buzz and he realized he was texting him. “Get a booth. Close the shop for the morning, you can still open up after you get back. It’ll be a long day, sure, but I promise it’ll be worth it.”

“... All right,” Aziraphale conceded quietly. He felt tired, in the way that people felt when they had to process a lot of unfamiliar information in a short amount of time. “Thank you for your help,” he said with a forced smile. Crowley, to his credit, dropped the subject with a simple nod and looked around the establishment.

“The salmon was really good.”

“Ah… I’m glad. Thank you.”

“...You can tell me to fuck off whenever, you know,” Crowley said lightly. “We can go over this another time if you’re sick of me.”

“No! No, no, my dear boy,” Aziraphale rested his hand atop Crowley’s on the counter. The other man had slim hands with long fingers. He’d be an excellent pianist, Aziraphale found himself thinking as his palm rested over his knuckles. “I don’t mean to give you that impression at all.”

Crowley was unmoving, and his expression was unreadable with those sunglasses on. Aziraphale sighed and shook his head.

“I meant what I said last night; I really know very little about all of this. It’s just not what I’m used to, and it will take me some time to process it all.”

Very slowly, Crowley nodded. He didn’t move his hand from under him. “I get it. No more business tonight.”

“Thank you. I’m sorry… I have a rather stressful meeting tomorrow with some investors, and I’ve been preoccupied with that all day.”

“Oh?”

Aziraphale didn’t particularly want to talk about it, even though Crowley leaned in to hear more. He smiled wanly and lowered his eyes. In his distraction he felt the others hand shift underneath his. It turned palm up and curled around his own: a surprisingly intimate gesture. The voice that followed was hushed.

“Whatever it is, I’m sure you’ll do fine.”

Aziraphale felt warm under the collar. Gabriel might have said he wanted Aziraphale to succeed, but he'd never been able to believe him. Crowley's supportive comment, however, came from a place he felt was genuine. He felt… relieved, in a way he hadn't experienced in a long time. Like maybe everything would be fine.

“Thank you, my dear. Oh— when would you like to have your first lesson?”

Crowley shook his head and withdrew his hand. “No more business tonight. Remember? We’ll talk about it later.”

Aziraphale pursed his lips. This man had spent the entire day here, working on a project that was solely for Aziraphale’s benefit. It didn’t feel right to not give him anything in return tonight.

“Well… neither of us have eaten dinner yet. How about a nice steak au poivre?”

“That,” Crowley said with enthusiasm, “sounds divine.”

Tuesday’s meeting went exactly as Aziraphale had expected.

Gabriel showed up with a handful of other Miracle Ltd. representatives around noon. The back room was too cramped to fit all of them, so Aziraphale had prepared a nice table in the event space in front of the baby grand (which he had carefully dusted earlier that morning). They got the obligatory small talk out of the way, discussed Aziraphale’s numbers, and went over his options once again.

Not only were his sales mediocre, they were consistent, which was not good at all. This wasn’t a fluke; it was the same story the month before, and the month before, quarter after quarter. The depth of concern on everyone’s face was enough to send Aziraphale into a cold sweat.

“Honestly, Aziraphale,” Micheal said as the folder came her way, “the performance is one thing, but the lack of a plan going forward is the most worrisome. Your business has become stagnant.”

In the middle of Michael’s critique, he lifted his eyes to the window. He saw Ripe’s neon sign across the street and clenched his hands under the table.

“But I do,” he answered resolutely. “H-have a plan, that is.”

The finely dressed representatives across the table from him stared patiently. Gabriel, in his typical fashion of trying his best to appear personable, gave him an expectant smile.

“Great! Lay it on us. What’s your plan?”

“It’s…” His heart was pounding. He had never been interested in the business aspect of owning a restaurant, which was the main reason it was in jeopardy in the first place. He always got nervous giving speeches or talking in front of large groups. Especially when those large groups were already visibly disappointed in him.

“Well, I’ve made an Instagram page. And a Facebook, and a Twitter.”

Aziraphale had hoped that would be enough, but they continued to stare expectantly.

“A-and I registered for a booth at the upcoming farmer’s market. You can see that, uhm, my morning sales are low already, and the market is open from eight to two. On average, hundreds of people go to these markets, and… well, if even f-five percent of them were to come by our booth, we would make those numbers back… and we would be putting The Gate out there for the public to see. And there’s a lot of potential… doing that...”

This seemed to satisfy the group to some degree. He saw some quick smiles and nods, and he only felt slightly guilty for borrowing Crowley’s words. He probably wouldn’t mind.

“That’s a good place to start,” Gabriel said after some consideration. “Well… we’ll certainly pass this on and discuss it at the next board meeting.” He rose to his feet, and the others followed suit. “But I have to say, Aziraphale, if we don’t see a notable improvement by next month’s meeting… I think it goes without saying that the decision is out of our hands at that point. We can’t continue to support a place that’s hemorrhaging money, right?”

Aziraphale made a face. He didn’t like the word ‘hemorrhaging’ anywhere near his restaurant.

“Don’t worry. You will see improvements on a very real level.”

“Let’s hope so.” Gabriel patted his bicep a little too firmly, and when the group left Aziraphale rubbed the spot gingerly.

Well, now he really had to register for that market.

Past the brick archway there was a narrow stairway that was cordoned off to the public. And up that narrow staircase there was a narrow door, and through this narrow door was Aziraphale’s cozy apartment. One bedroom, one bathroom, and about six or seven hundred square feet if one was being generous in their measurements.

The kitchen was more of a kitchenette, which was fine. He did most of his cooking downstairs anyway. He used the kitchen in his apartment to make tea and assemble something quick like a sandwich when he didn’t feel like making a proper dinner or a bag of popcorn to watch a film. The living room had a well-loved brown couch, a mismatched dark blue armchair, and a boxy television set against the wall. It was currently switched on to the local news with the volume on low while Aziraphale worked.

His pocket buzzed. He set his ancient laptop aside to pull out his phone.

Aziraphale only received text messages from two people: his service provider, telling him about his monthly bill (he didn’t know how to unsubscribe to these notifications), and now Crowley. He smiled and reread the text.

Crowley (11:06): howd it go
Crowley (11:06): your big important meeting

He began to type his answer out, although it was slow going. His phone had number keys only and, if you clicked the numbers several times, it would change to letters. If you pushed it too many times, it would skip the letter you’d meant to choose, and heaven forbid you wanted a letter that shared a number with the previous letter. You had to wait about three seconds for it to select the letter before hitting the button again… it was one of the reasons Aziraphale hated texting.

Hello, Crowley. It went well, thanks to you. -Aziraphale

Crowley (11:09): what do you mean
Crowley (11:09): you dont have to sign off every time by the way
Crowley (11:09) I know its you

He supposed that made sense. He could see Crowley’s name and time stamp next to his messages, so of course it followed that the other could see his.

Everything you did for me yesterday went over very well with the investors.

For as long as it took Aziraphale to type everything out, Crowley’s responses were almost immediate. How was he so fast?

Crowley (11:12): wasnt trying to impress them, was trying to impress you

Aziraphale chuckled. He glanced up to the television to see that it was now playing some sort of travel guide program called “Hidden Gems of London”. He was in the middle of considering what to say back to Crowley when he realized the program was filming on their street. Ripe’s neon sign took up most of the screen, followed by shots of a very sleek, modern looking dining area. A dichotomy of dark cement and wood, exposed bulbs and decorative glass with LED lighting on the walls and under the geometric-looking bar. Very urban-chic. The interviewer was now on camera, standing beside a familiar face. Aziraphale smiled and reached for the remote to turn the volume back up.

“—with the executive chef, Anthony J. Crowley. How long have you been with Ripe?”

“About ten years now.”

“Wow, and can you tell us a bit about the menu?”

“Absolutely. Ripe’s aesthetic is all about ingenuity. We want to push our customers to try something new, get them out of their comfort zone, and to taste something they might’ve never tasted before. It’s about having an experience, y’know?”

He was quite charming, even on camera. Aziraphale wished he had even an ounce of that charisma.

“Of course. Do you have a favorite dish?”

“Oh yeah. The whiskey-smoked halibut, hands down. It’s like sex on a plate.”

The two laughed and it cut to shots of the plating. Aziraphale reddened and looked down at his phone. He’d missed two messages.

Crowley (11:20): that was embarrassing so do me a favor and ignore that
Crowley (11:22): Im taking your silence as a yes

Sorry for the delay. I’m watching you on the telly.

Crowley (11:24): yeah? how do I look

Aziraphale tapped out what he wanted to say, Handsome as always. and stared at the words. What harm could it do? Even if the man was taken or just didn’t have any interest in him, everyone liked to hear that they were handsome, right? He hemmed and hawed before hitting send.

Three dots appeared and disappeared on the bottom of the screen. It happened again, and again, and he wondered if Crowley was having as much trouble with his keyboard as Aziraphale had.

Crowley (11:26): sounds fake, probably movie magic

Take the compliment, please.

At some point, Aziraphale had fallen back onto the couch to continue texting Crowley. When he would finish typing out his comment, he’d set the phone on his chest and stare up at the dark ceiling with a little smile while he waited for it to buzz again and would excitedly snatch it up to read the new message. He felt a bit silly, like some sort of giddy schoolboy, but it was just nice. It felt good to have a friend he could chat with late at night, and sometimes even tease. Crowley didn’t seem to mind, and would shoot that same harmless elbowing right back at him.

He hadn’t noticed how late it had gotten until he realized the television show had changed yet again to infomercials. And those only came on after midnight.

I should go to bed, it’s quite late.

Crowley (12:17): yeah me too
Crowley (12:17): good luck with reg and prep for the market
Crowley (12:17): lmk if you need any help with it
Crowley (12:18): Ive done it so many times I could do it in my sleep now

What does lmk mean?

Crowley (12:20): means let me know, angel

Aziraphale nearly gasped to himself in the quiet of his living room. There it was again. Crowley had called him that yesterday, hadn’t he? Angel. His face felt impossibly warm, and a peculiar tingle spread in his chest all the way to his fingertips. Was it embarrassment, or delight? Hope? He hadn’t dared to think that their back-and-forth texting had been flirtatious, but scrolling up he wondered if maybe they had been walking that line. His fingers traced his lips in thought. This was… a development.

He realized he hadn’t said anything back and quickly typed something perfectly neutral.

Thank you, I will.

Crowley (12:22): night then

Aziraphale felt a rare bit of courage take over his fingers as he typed out a response.

Goodnight, darling.

Chapter Text

Despite Soho becoming more residential in recent years, it still had an active night-life. There were theaters, night clubs, and all manner of specialty adult shops open until the small hours of the morning. Neon signs attracted pub-crawlers and thrill seekers to come and stay a while. Ripe’s sign, brilliant red and printed in a stylized, sans serif and tubular font, often attracted enough people to form a line out the door.

True to its advertising, Ripe offered something fresh and exciting to Soho. The interior was all geometric, futuristic and on-trend. No old-school sconces or chandeliers, only LEDs and exposed bulbs, blacklights and neon tubes. The visibility was low once you stepped inside, which was a shame, because Crowley’s plating was his strong suit.

There were only standing tables for crowding around and booths tucked away for intimate (and occasionally shady) conversations. The noise level was always a few decibels above comfortable, thanks to both the diners and the blaring speakers. The pulse of steady house music could be felt in the tabletops, the plates, and the hearts of the patrons (literally, not figuratively; it was like having catchy arrhythmia). There was always a cloyingly sweet smell in the air; grapefruit vodka, floral body spray and cigarette smoke. Heady, potent, overpowering.

Another shame, because Crowley liked to play with smoke and aromatics in his dishes and that really muddled it.

The bar was an endless stretch of sleek black granite against the far wall. Diffused lights trimmed the edges and changed color in a slow gradient in time with the music. The stools were metal and uncomfortable. It was to discourage loitering, Beelzebub had mentioned. Regardless, sometimes Crowley chose to linger in them.

The kitchen closed earlier than the restaurant, which had bar service until three-ish. When he had first started working at Ripe, he would stay after his shifts to have a drink, mingle with customers, egg people on to do jello shots off one another (mostly because he knew it pissed off Hastur, who always had to deal with a sticky bar afterwards). That sort of thing. Nowadays, the most he would do was enjoy a cigarette for five minutes and bolt. He was chasing forty now, and he didn’t have the stamina he used to. He was bone tired after a full day on his feet.

But after long shifts, or on nights when he didn’t want to go home to a quiet apartment and think too hard about something, it was nice to let the music do his thinking for him.

Darling.

Crowley let a puff of smoke lull over his tongue and out his mouth languidly, fully aware that he was directly contributing to the atmosphere that ruined his cool smoke-infused dishes. He watched the electric blues and hot pinks from lights around him mingle and refract in the smoke before it dispersed into nothing. The constant stream of EDM filled his ears like some kind of bizarrely pleasant headache. But even with the low thrum of synthetic music, he could still hear the word as if it was being directly broadcasted into his thoughts.

Crowley rubbed his forehead with the same hand that loosely cradled his cigarette and was gratified to feel that his fingers had a bit of a chill to them now. It was hot in the kitchen, but near freezing in the dining area. It felt nice to cool down.

Dagon came by to brush a towel deftly over the counter. It was more of an impulse than a sanitary action.

“You gonna order something or just take up bar space?”

“Yeah, an ice water with three ice cubes.”

“Fuck you.”

Crowley replied in kind with a grin and the finger. Of all his coworkers, Dagon wasn’t the worst.

Someone shrieked near him and he lazily turned his eyes to the source. These sounds were not uncommon near the bar, and admittedly he had become desensitized to them. Two women were doing jello shots off one another, and one had spilled hers. They were both laughing tipsily, and just past them he could see Hastur staring at them from across the dining area. He shot Crowley a glare. The redhead shrugged and mouthed “wasn’t me”.

Dagon returned with a glass of water with four ice cubes in it. Crowley smirked and leaned in.

“Hey,” he started, musing with a finger for the other to come closer. “What would you do if someone called you ‘darling’?”

Dagon seemed to mull this over thoughtfully for a while, eyes squinting and head tipped to one side, before answering with assured clarity:

“Punch them in the face.”

Why did he think Dagon would be any help here?

Crowley exhaled through his nose and raised his eyebrows. “Enlightening. Thanks.” He put out his cigarette and grabbed the black chef coat off the back of his stool.

“No problem. Night darling.”

Crowley sent Dagon the finger for the second time on his way out, which earned him a wheeze of laughter just barely audible over the techno.

If pressed, Crowley would say he certainly had game. He hadn’t been “in” the game for a few years, past drunkenly taking someone home for a one-night stand on a blue moon. But he had it. He knew how to use words, body language and suggestive glances to communicate what he wanted. And, just as important, he knew when to use them.

There was an art to knowing how much space to leave between interactions. Too much, and you were disinterested. Too little, and you were desperate. Crowley didn’t want to come off as either. If you measured your interactions correctly, you were suave. Interesting. So he waited.

He had been pushing it to text Aziraphale about the meeting, he knew. It was directly on the heels of spending two nights with the guy in a row. Contacting him on the third night should have been the death knell. But he hadn’t been able to help himself, and Aziraphale didn’t seem to be put off by it. Now, though, he really needed to wait for the other to contact him first.

Easy in theory. Much, much harder in practice, considering Aziraphale had left him with a goddamn pet name.

Darling.

Crowley stared at the glowing phone screen in the dark of his apartment. He kept going back to it. His fingers itched for his phone after watering his plants, after taking a shower, and now after ten minutes of trying to fall asleep. He would go back and forth between their text conversation from a few days ago to the picture he’d taken of Aziraphale in front of the wine rack.

The word “darling” followed him closely over the next few days. It sucker punched him while standing in line at the ATM, snuck up on him when he was filling his car with petrol, and tapped his shoulders while he was in the shower. It was driving him crazy not to follow up on that very obvious term of endearment. He subconsciously checked his messages every ten or fifteen minutes, and was disappointed every time he saw no new notifications.

He’s busy with the restaurant, obviously.

He’d reprimand himself for anxiousness, and became irritable with himself for being so impatient.

A full week had passed (very slowly) with no word from the other. At this point, Crowley was second guessing the word "darling" altogether. Maybe it was just another tagline, another "dear boy", similar to how diner waitresses in America call everyone "honey". Maybe he'd misinterpreted the intention this whole time, and it made him feel ridiculous to come to that realization.

So he started to look at things in a different light. Flirting had certain unspoken rules that it was best to abide by. But friends could contact each other whenever the hell they wanted. And if they were just friends, it wouldn't be breaking any rules to go see him again unprompted.

There were countless markets to choose from in the area. The South Kensington market, the Pimlico Road market, one in Wimbledon, one in Brockley, the Borough market at London Bridge, one at King’s Crossing… the list went on. They met at varying frequencies and on varying days. It would have been like trying to find a needle in a haystack to know which one Aziraphale had settled on of the comprehensive list Crowley had left him. Fortunately, Aziraphale had taken his advice and posted, for the first time without his assistance, on social media:

“Hello all,
The Gate will proudly be selling at the Brockley Market this Saturday from 8am to 2pm. I am looking ever so forward to seeing you all there. Be sure to bring your appetites!
-Aziraphale”

Crowley rolled his eyes. He would have to remind him that his posts didn’t need to be in the format of a letter.

Saturday morning came, and he rose early for the occasion. The charming thing to do, he knew, would be to show up while Aziraphale was still setting up his booth with his favorite drink. The other would titter cutely and say “How did you know?”, and their hands would brush when he passed him the cup.

That was a very normal thing for friends to do for each other. It wouldn't raise any eyebrows.

Only, when he arrived at the coffee shop and reached the front of the line, he realized he had no idea if the other preferred coffee or tea. How did he not know that by now?

“Um,” he said smartly, squinting at the menu overhead. “Fuck, just a sec.”

He checked his conversation thread with Aziraphale for any clues. He’d only ever seen the other drink wine and occasionally water. Someone behind him grumbled that he was holding up the line, and Crowley told him a few creative things he could shove in a few specific places before ordering.

He decided to just get one of each, breakfast tea and coffee, with the cream and sugar on the side (and lemon? Why not, maybe a packet of honey too). Whichever one Aziraphale didn’t pick up, he’d take.

It was still early enough that the sun hadn’t risen, but the promise of it was right on the horizon. When Crowley stepped out of the Bentley, it was cold enough that he could see his breath. There was still a bit of that morning chill in the air. Crowley had never really been much of a morning person, and he certainly wasn’t fond of cold weather. Give him warm summer nights any day.

Still, he persisted.

When you walk with confidence, you can get into almost anything. He held up the drink container with purpose, nodded to the staff posted at the corner of the market, and they nodded back as he stepped past the orange traffic cones and into the vendor space.

With about an hour to go before the market opened, most of the sellers were still setting up. People walked back and forth with pallets of produce and stainless steel containers covered in cling film. He slithered down the aisles casually, craning his neck to see if he could spot the blond he was searching for. He found him after minimal searching and snuck around the back way so he could make the hand-off without the table display in the middle of them. He pushed the tarp back and peeked his head in.

“Morning.”

“Oh! Crowley!”

If only he could bottle the delighted way Aziraphale said his name and save it for rainy days.

The blond turned from whatever he was fussing over and came to him in a hurry. Past the offering of hot coffee and/or tea, he set both hands desperately on Crowley’s shoulders. He nearly dropped the drinks.

“I’m so relieved to see you.”

Crowley gaped wordlessly as he was guided by his elbow further into the booth. He quickly set down the drink carrier on one of the side tables with his off hand.

“It’s all a bit of a mess, I’m afraid,” Aziraphale started as the two of them lowered their eyes to the prep station. Crowley couldn’t see what he was talking about, everything looked decidedly not a mess. “This morning, I was an absolute butterfingers and I dropped a half-tray of my canapés on the way to the truck, so I had to throw them out. And then, when I checked the packing slip, I realized there was only one burner in the rental equipment but two on my invoice! Should I alert them now, or wait until after…? Oh, I hope they don’t charge me for lost equipment…! And I don’t know if I have enough pancetta to make another full batch of canapés…”

Crowley, an outsider to the hectic morning Aziraphale had had, was able to offer him some clarity calmly.

“Okay,” he said evenly, looking up from the food to the other man. His blue eyes were focused on him intently, pleadingly, and he understood in that exchange the gravity of the other man’s nerves. Perhaps he took his own experience in the fast-paced corporate world for granted; not everyone could survive in a catering environment, he supposed. Even worldly chefs with culinary degrees could feel pressure when running a booth for the first time, and here Aziraphale was doing it alone. Crowley always had a team.

He smoothed his palms over Aziraphale’s shoulders and looked him straight in the eyes.

“None of this is a problem,” he assured him. “You don’t have enough pancetta, so cut your portion sizes in half and take a couple pounds off the price. Or hey, it’s a farmer’s market, make a vegetarian option. People go ape shit for that.” Aziraphale laughed weakly and nodded. His nerves were slowly settling, he could tell. “You’re a brilliant chef, so just make it work. Now, let me take care of this,” he let go of the man to pluck the packing slip from his hands, “and you just worry about the food.”

“Oh, no, I can handle it, really. I just don’t know if I should inform them now or--”

“Trust me, I know these guys. You gotta be mean, and you’re too nice.”

Aziraphale smiled at him in sheepish gratitude and mouthed a quiet ‘thank you’ before reassessing his available ingredients.

Crowley walked out of the tent and was about to step away before he quickly popped his head back in.

“Oh, almost forgot!”

“Yes?”

“I brought coffee. Or tea. Both.” He pointed to the drink carrier off to the side. “Take one.”

Crowley disappeared from the market entirely to have a phone conversation with A-List Rentals about an invoice. If one paid close attention, they might notice a flock of pigeons near a black Bentley take off in a hurry, properly spooked. He returned in a blink to assure Aziraphale that not only would he get his second burner in about thirty minutes, he had a twenty percent discount on his next rental.

“Once again you’ve come to my rescue,” Aziraphale said with laughter in his tone. He looked much better now; less frazzled. It was good to see him like this again. The blond approached him and set a hand on his arm once again, much more gently this time. "Thank you so much.”

Crowley reddened and looked anywhere else, muttering something to deflect the praise. Aziraphale left to stand by his display and gaze at the other booths. Crowley missed the warmth of his hand.

"I haven't been to a market in so long, you know. They're always in the mornings on days the restaurant is open." His expression had an edge of wistfulness to it. Crowley mustered up a casual shrug.

"Maybe if you finish early, we can walk around a bit?"

"Oh! Yes. I would love that. If I finish early, that is."

"Yeah."

The sun had risen properly now and pedestrians were allowed to peruse the aisles. They had already started queueing for certain booths that had a strong following. A woman stopped by to ask if they were open yet, and Crowley gave Aziraphale's shoulder a little pat.

“Anyway, I’ll leave you to it. Good luck, you’ve got this.”

He grabbed the styrofoam cup that was left over on his way out and took a sip. It was coffee, and he made a mental note.

As luck would have it, Aziraphale did finish early. He sold out of his goods around noon and began to break down the booth after locking his very full cash box with satisfaction. He had all of the rental equipment mostly packed up by the time Crowley came back around.

"Aw, you should have called. I'd have helped you with teardown."

"You've already done so much for me this morning." Aziraphale slipped out of his chef coat and folded it neatly on top of his station. "Oh! Speaking of that," he opened the cooler and produced a carefully folded napkin with a bit of string around it to keep it closed. "I saved this one for you. It's just a small thing, but I hope you enjoy it."

Crowley quickly reached into his pocket for some money. Good, he had been worried when he saw the empty booth that he'd missed his chance to support Aziraphale's first time at the market. But the other man pressed his hand away and shook his head.

"Please, dear boy, it's a gift."

Crowley made a little half smile and accepted the napkin. He plucked at the string and the impromptu package unfurled in his palm. He popped the pancetta morsel into his mouth and closed his eyes.

"Damn," he said at length, "that's delicious."

"Such language," Aziraphale chided, but he seemed happy with the reception. He moved around to the other side of the booth and they walked down the aisles together.

Aziraphale was more talkative than Crowley had ever seen him. He told him every detail about his morning, the people he'd met and the small mishaps he'd had to manage. He mentioned that a woman asked him to cater her wedding in a few weeks, which was going to be a cozy gathering of family and close friends. It sounded manageable enough, and Crowley agreed but gently pressed him to hire some help. Catering a wedding alone, however small, sounded like a nightmare.

Aziraphale was easily distracted from his stories by the stalls around him, and often trailed off to look at something that caught his eye. Flowers, custom teas, organic coffee, a variety of pickled vegetables, olives, artisan cheeses, sustainably raised meats, nuts, fruits… there was so much to see in every direction, including some local artist booths. One had a display of scarves draped over the prongs of a coat rack, and he tugged Crowley towards it.

"Oh, aren't these lovely. The patterns are so unique." Crowley lifted one that caught his eye. It was mostly overlapping shades of cool grey, but with a few stripes of red through it. A modern color palette but a nod to a classic pattern. He liked it.

"Huh. Soft."

"And look! They're all hand-woven by the seller. Isn't that darling?"

Crowley swallowed thickly. "Yep. Darling."

"Do you like this one? May I?"

Crowley barely managed to get a "what?" out before Aziraphale had the scarf in his hands and was looping it over the back of his neck. He was a bit taller than the other man, and so Aziraphale had to lean in close to do this. Crowley lifted his eyes to the heavens and held his breath- it was a great display of willpower that he didn't rest his hands on the man's hips, which were so close to his own. Friends don't touch each others hips.

"Yes, that's perfect. You look rather fetching." Aziraphale stepped back to admire it and Crowley shrugged.

“I’ll take your word for it. No mirror.”

“Ah. Here.” Aziraphale took out his phone and took a picture of the redhead before he could resist and showed it to him. He whistled.

“You’re right, who’s this handsome bloke?”

Aziraphale laughed and pulled out his billfold. "Let me buy it for you."

"Wha- no, no come on, you shouldn’t-"

"Please, I want to. The booth did better than I expected today and I'm feeling extravagant. Besides, you're red from the cold."

The man left to make the purchase and Crowley lowered his face until his nose hit the soft wool. Well. Even if it was just a friendly gesture, Crowley allowed himself to revel in the moment all the same. When Aziraphale returned after the transaction was finished, he muttered an embarrassed “thank you” and they continued down the row of vendors.

Aziraphale wanted to try a bit of everything, and his enthusiasm was infectious. It didn't just reach Crowley, it hit the people queueing next to them and sellers he would chit chat with. He was like walking sunshine; no one could refuse him a smile no matter how grouchy they were.

They stopped at multiple stands, ordered a great deal more food than they probably should have, and always fought each other to be the one to pay. Crowley had the advantage of height and being more assertive and less afraid to get into people's faces. His money was often thrust out more firmly and aggressively, which meant his was usually taken over the polite offering from Aziraphale. The blond had a habit of swatting him lightly on the chest in outrage when he won that battle, and Crowley couldn’t get enough of it.

They sat at one of the many tables under a parasol and shared everything they purchased. They laughed, and teased each other, and occasionally laid innocent hands on one another’s forearms. They made arrangements to see each other again: plans for coffee at a place they had both heard of but never tried, plans to go to a holiday market they'd seen a flyer for at one of the stands, plans for Crowley's first cooking lesson that coming Monday.

Plans that friends would make, Crowley reminded himself.

Little known fact about Hastur: he had award-winning roses.

It was strange, perhaps, to think that someone so viscerally unpleasant could produce something so traditionally beautiful and lovely. If you asked him why he grew roses, he would tell you to bugger off and that it was none of your business. If you asked someone who knew why, they would tell you that Hastur's neighbor grew peonies and he wanted to have a better front yard than him.

Hastur hated his neighbor.

Sometimes, despite everything, the product of a vile motive can still be beautiful. Hastur's roses were the best in Brockley.

Hastur knew a secret to raising roses: coffee grounds. A cup of coffee grounds mixed in with the water lowered the pH of the soil and made it more acidic. It added a nice amount of copper, nitrogen and potassium, and loosened the soil. It attracted worms, too.

He had a ritual. Every Saturday morning, he would stop by the junction of St. John's Vale and the A20 before the weekly market opened. A friend of his who ran the organic coffee booth would trade him a bag of coffee grounds for a bag of oranges. His fruit trees were not as bountiful as his rose bushes, but they did their best and got the job done. Perhaps they knew they were just a tool for the roses' success.

Hastur blew on his hands to warm them while he waited for his coffee grounds. Booths were still setting up around him, most of which he recognized. That one on the corner was new, though. He squinted at the sign that read "The Gate" and snorted.

So that guy across the street was doing farmer’s markets now, was he? Good luck with that. From what he'd heard, the service at The Gate was slow and the ambience was boring. That place was dying. Still, it might be worth mentioning to his boss. They could angle to get some booths across from him and put the nail in the coffin. He took his coffee grounds and handed off the oranges when we saw a flash of copper hair out of the corner of his eye.

He knew that redhead anywhere, and that flash bastard was going into The Gate's booth with a tray of coffees. Hastur lingered, watching in suspicion, and a few minutes later Crowley exited the booth with a yellow packing slip in hand. Hastur’s nails dug into the bag of coffee grounds.

"Bloody hell."

Chapter Text

Aziraphale had a culinary degree, this was true. But he had never taught anyone what he knew before, and that was a little intimidating. Especially when that someone was already an executive chef. He’d even appeared on television shows, for goodness sake. What could he teach Crowley that he didn’t already know?

But no one knew absolutely everything in their field. Especially with cooking; it was a rapidly growing industry, and new techniques and “food trends” were being born every day. These days, you could become a chef easily without necessarily knowing the basics. From what Crowley had told him of his menu, he showcased a lot of unconventional techniques. He certainly knew a lot about food science, how to change the viscosity of things and so on. But did he know the fundamentals?

Well, he decided upon reflection that the best way to teach Crowley something worthwhile would be to find out if there were any gaps in his knowledge.

“What’s this?”

“Just a couple of questions.”

Crowley frowned and stared down at the packet in his hand. He set down his knife bag and flipped through it. His brows came together tightly and he stared up at Aziraphale over the paper.

“This is a test. You’re giving me a test.”

“No, no, not a test. It’s just to help me find out what I should be focusing on. I don’t mean to insult you, I hope it isn’t too easy.”

Crowley made a sour expression and flipped the packet closed again.

“I’ll save us both some time. I don’t know any of this. I mean, Explain the difference between esp...espagnole and velouté?” He stared at Aziraphale. “I couldn’t even tell you what either of these are. Types of stock, maybe?”

“Oh dear.” He rested a hand on his chest. “Forgive me for asking this, but how did you become an executive chef without knowing the mother sauces?”

Crowley fixed him with an unkind look, and he realized he shouldn’t have said that.

“I told you, I’m not classically trained.” He hissed. “I focus on what I like. I never bothered with this fancy stuff that didn’t interest me before. That’s why I want your help.”

He tossed the packet on the counter distastefully. He knew a lot about many different types of foods, and reactions certain ingredients would have when incorporated with one another. But he didn’t know much of anything about “haute cuisine”. If you asked him to make a bearnaise, he would flip you off and make you a lemon sea-salt foam instead.

“I see,” Aziraphale said quietly, disregarding the paper on the counter for now. So much for that approach. He supposed he had a bit more room to stretch, though, knowing Crowley was basically a blank slate.

“Why don’t we focus on sauces today, then,” he said softly. He held the kitchen door open for Crowley and the other picked up his knife bag again.

Aziraphale started off slow, talking about the five mother sauces in traditional French cuisine, then branched off to talk about some of the secondary sauces (or daughter sauces) that could be derived from them. He listed a few and what categories they belonged in, and asked Crowley to tell him which ones he knew how to make and which ones he didn’t. It turned out that he did actually have a lot of hands-on knowledge, but didn’t know the technical terms for many of the things he could make (the phrase “oh, I guess I do know what that is” came up a lot, to Aziraphale’s relief).

Aziraphale was worried that he had offended Crowley at the beginning of the lesson, but the redhead had relaxed considerably as the night progressed. They spent half their time at the steel prep table, hunched close together and comparing notes, jotting things down and making little diagrams, and the other half on their feet cooking over a couple of simmering pots and pans. Throughout the night, he had Crowley make a bordelaise, a velouté, and bigarade sauce (separately, not all at once).

While he did, Aziraphale watched him closely, and he wasn’t afraid to give him some stern instructions when he strayed. He didn’t have any sous chefs of his own and so he wasn’t used to the unknown variable in his kitchen, but Crowley was good. He was a fast learner, observant, and quick to correct himself. He’d earned Aziraphale’s hum of approval a few times, and when he dipped a tasting spoon into his bordelaise for Aziraphale to try, he even got a little moan. This was one of his favorite sauces in particular, it was rich and tangy and had a lot of depth to it when done correctly.

“Perfectly reduced,” he nearly purred, straightening back up. “Your flavors have really married together well in this one.” It seemed like a waste to throw away the sauce, so Crowley quickly sauteed a couple of steaks for the bordelaise. While he did, Aziraphale worked on a sabayon that was finished around the same time. “Just a little something for later”, he mentioned as Crowley craned his neck to see what he was doing. They put together an impromptu late night dinner and Aziraphale grabbed some fresh fruit to go with his cream sauce for a simple dessert. Two dishes were set on the stainless steel prep counter, and while Crowley plated the food Aziraphale frowned in thought. Crowley paused what he was doing and looked up at him.

“What?”

“Well… this is a very nice dinner.”

Crowley waited for him to continue, light amber eyes darting from the steak to Aziraphale’s face in confusion.

“Yeah?”

“And… well, this kitchen is a bit cold, isn’t it? Not “cold” but, well, not comfortable. All stainless steel and industrial… it’s not an ideal dining environment.” He unbuttoned his chef’s coat slowly and folded it with some care.

“We could take these up to my flat, if you were of a mind? It’s nothing impressive, but the couch is quite comfortable.” He could feel Crowley’s eyes on him, even though his own were focused on the two very lovely plates of steak on the table beside him. “I could open a bottle of wine. Merlot would go wonderfully with this.”

“I-- yeah, yeah I would love that.”

Aziraphale hadn’t realized that his shoulders had tensed up while he was talking, but the muscles relaxed with Crowley’s answer. He couldn’t think of a time that he’d had proper guests in his small apartment above the restaurant (the electrician who came by last summer to fix his A/C didn’t count), and Crowley was something of a VIP in his eyes.

“Perfect,” he replied, wondering if he’d spoken with too much enthusiasm just then. “I’ll take these up. Could you grab the bottle of Trefethen Merlot?”

He collected the plates of food before Crowley could reply, locking him into the task. He wanted to get a head start to tidy up the living room, just in case anything was out of place. And he suspected it might take Crowley at least a few minutes to check the labels of all the wine bottles in the rack.

Perhaps that was a little devious of him.

Aziraphale set the plates down on the living room table and put the bowl of sabayon in the fridge for later. He assessed the room with a judging eye and made a few adjustments: folded the tartan throw and set it on the arm of the couch, moved his laptop to the wooden desk against the wall, and put a few books back on their shelves. He tapped his cheek thoughtfully and also went to the (very dated) radio to select an album and play some light classical music to fill the silence of the room. It took him wondering whether or not he had any candles for the table to realize why he was being so fussy in the first place.

“Oh, dear boy,” he muttered to himself sadly, “this isn’t a date.”

No, that was silly. The sushi dinner hadn’t been a date, Crowley was just being friendly. The steak au poivre hadn’t been a date either. And the farmer’s market certainly hadn’t been either, even though his heart had been aflutter the entire time and Crowley had been so thoughtful to surprise him with tea that morning.

Crowley was a professional acquaintance of his. A friend, at most. He was suave, interesting, sleek and lux. He wore expensive clothes and drove a fancy car. The life he lived must have been fast and flashy. If he’d had any interest in Aziraphale, a struggling business owner who was partial to staying in on weekends and had owned the same camel coat for decades, he would have said so by now. He glanced at the two dishes waiting for them on the table and felt a sudden sadness in the pit of his stomach.

He pocketed his emotions just as there was a knock at the door. He opened it and smiled perfectly placidly at the other chef. Crowley held up the bottle of Merlot with a lopsided grin.

“Weird for the sommelier to make someone else grab the wine, but sure.”

“I had faith in you.”

Aziraphale showed him in and shut the door behind him. He calmed his racing heart by telling himself that it didn’t matter what Crowley thought of his apartment because he was just a friend.

“Nice apartment. Gives off a real comfortable vibe in here.”

“Thank you,” he said and his heart fluttered stupidly anyway. “Please make yourself at home. I’ll just get something to open this with.”

He was headed to the kitchenette when Crowley called after him.

“Hey, I’ve been wondering this for a while now.”

“Yes?”

“Do you know how to do that thing where you open a bottle of wine with a knife?”

“Sabrage,” Aziraphale said flatly and unenthusiastically. “It’s to open champagne on ceremonious occasions.” He reached the kitchenette and found his corkscrew. He could feel Crowley’s curious gaze still lingering on him expectantly and sighed.

“Yes, I know how. Obviously.”

Crowley sat up straight on the couch with his hands on his knees.

“Will you do it?”

“Certainly not,” he said calmly. “This isn’t a sparkling wine, and I don’t have a champagne saber anymore. I, erm, I gave it away…”

“You had something legitimately called a “champagne saber” and you gave it away?”

“A friend of mine needed it more often than I did, and eventually he just… never returned it.”

Crowley gave him the most affected, put-on pout he had ever seen and he tutted.

“Oh, don’t try and tempt me, you wily serpent,” he said with a smile. “I’m not getting wine all over my own hardwood just to amuse you.”

“So you can’t do it, then,” Crowley said cooly as he stretched his arms and leaned back against the couch.

Aziraphale leveled him with a prideful stare.

Five minutes later, towel down on the hardwood, Aziraphale held a chilled bottle of champagne in one hand (of course he had a reserve of bubbly in his fridge, he wasn’t a plebian) and a chef’s knife in the other.

“You can, technically, do this with a knife as well. Just use the blunt edge.”

He had rolled up his sleeves to his elbows and put a serving towel over the forearm that held the bottle. The knife grazed up the neck of the glass to the body as he readied it at an angle. His eyes flicked up to make sure Crowley was watching (he was, and practically salivating in anticipation), and slid the knife down. It was a smooth, quick motion that swept the head off of the neck (cork and all) as if it had been precariously placed there the whole time and not connected by seamless glass. It made an exciting “pop” followed by a fizzle of bubbly champagne in a slow gurgle, which with a turn of his wrist Aziraphale caught most of back in the bottle.

Crowley let out a shout of excitement and nearly rose from his seat.

“That was brilliant! I’ve never seen anyone actually do that in person, and you did it so smoothly!”

Aziraphale felt a swell of pride and poured two glasses for them. “It’s really just physics,” he deflected, but he was all smiles. “There’s a great deal of pressure in a champagne bottle already, and there are two stress concentrations along the seam and the lip that weaken the glass by about fifty percent. All it needs is a good, steady whack.”

“Well, regardless, that may have been the sexiest thing I’ve ever seen.”

Crowley cut into his steak and Aziraphale choked on his champagne with a cough.

“Wrong tube.”

Despite missing out on a beautiful pairing of Merlot and steak, the two had a very nice dinner together. Crowley made the mistake of asking which composer was playing in the background, and Aziraphel told him for a solid five minutes about Debussy, as well as some of his contemporaries and his opinions on all of them. As the champagne bottle was open and unsalvageable, they finished it off together, which left them both pleasantly tingly and warm, but not quite silly.

“Anyway, I’ve changed my mind,” Crowley decided with clarity at the end of their meal. “I don’t want any more cooking lessons, I just want to learn how to open bottles like that.”

Aziraphale had gone to the kitchen to make some coffee for Crowley and get the sabayon. Crowley brought their dishes in soon after and rinsed them in the sink.

“Well, that I can show you for free. Oh, I can take care of those later, my dear, just leave them.”

Crowley dried his hands on a nearby towel. He saw the sabayon Aziraphale was dropping halved strawberries into and shook his head.

“Dessert? No, no way, I couldn’t eat another bite.”

“Oh, but this is hardly another bite,” Aziraphale assured him, taking out a fork. He snuck a bite himself and closed his eyes in delight. “It’s just fresh fruit, it hardly counts.”

“Aha, no. I saw you with four eggs and a hefty amount of sugar there.”

“Oh, do give it a try.” It was Aziraphale’s turn to pout as he followed Crowley back into the living room with the bowl. He skewered a sabayon-covered strawberry and held the fork out to him. “I add a touch of cinnamon to the sauce. It gives it a little something special, I think.”

He watched as Crowley took a sip of his coffee and set it down on the living room table. The man deliberated for a goodly while, long enough that Aziraphale worried the sauce would drip down to his palm which he held under the offered fruit.

“All right.”

He stepped closer, but instead of taking the utensil, he put his hand lightly on Aziraphale’s wrist. He dipped his head down to put his lips around the fork, and when he drew back, there was no strawberry. He chewed thoughtfully, swallowed, and smiled.

“You’re right. It’s really good.”

Aziraphale twirled the fork nervously in his hands. He had never been jealous of a strawberry before.

“I’m glad you think so,” he said on a breath. There was a beat of silence between them. Crowley looked down at the dessert bowl and cleared his throat quietly.

“Can I have another?”

“Oh, yes, of course.” Aziraphale wordlessly turned the fork to extend handle-out to the other, but Crowley just looked at him pointedly. Something in those hypnotic eyes said it all; he didn’t just want the fruit, he wanted the offering.

Aziraphale slowly skewered another strawberry and bravely held it out.

The man dipped his head once more, and this time his lips pressed against the berry instead of the fork. His tongue assisted the fruit into his mouth and he drew back with closed eyes and a satisfied hum. Aziraphale could feel a whine climbing in his throat, but he swallowed it down. He’s your friend. Don’t have such lewd thoughts.

“One more…?”

Aziraphale obliged, even though he felt he might collapse or combust if he was made to watch that suggestive display one more time. He held out the fork, and the other chef stared down at it. They made eye contact. Crowley passed the proffered dessert.

It happened slowly enough that he could have interjected if he wanted to, but he didn’t. Crowley’s palm was on his cheek, tentative but warm, and the fingertips that brushed the shell of his ear gave him goosebumps. The man had tilted his face to make contact with Aziraphale, who felt frozen where he stood. He closed his eyes and could only hear the pounding of his pulse in his ears as the space between them disappeared.

Crowley’s lips were soft and his touch was surprisingly gentle. Hesitant, or perhaps curious. Aziraphale’s hands trembled out of nerves or excitement or both. The fork clattered to the ground between them, and it took a moment for him to register that it had fallen out of his own hand. The sound broke whatever momentary spell they were both under, and it made Crowley draw back.

“Sorry,” he whispered in the milimeters between them, which were slowly increasing as he realized himself. “Fuck-- I’m sorry.”

Aziraphale was too pleasantly stunned to say anything coherent. He managed a breathy, “Why?”

“Because, we’re-- friends…”

That hopeful, fuzzy feeling in his chest that the kiss had left him with plummeted, but not for long. Crowley was still close; he could smell the mingle of potent coffee and lingering champagne on his breath.

“...and I want to be more than friends.”

Crowley’s gaze was intense. In this moment, there was a vulnerability in those searching amber eyes that Aziraphale had never seen before. Beyond that natural swagger and aloof demeanor, had Crowley also been hopeful that there was something more between them? Had Aziraphale mistaken nervousness for indifference?

He lifted his hands slowly. His fingertips brushed Crowley’s collar bones on the way to his shoulders. He stepped closer where Crowley had moved back moments ago, and the poor man looked like it was taking everything he had not to close the distance.

"Oh, my dear… I do too,” he admitted in a whisper on his way to Crowley’s lips for a second time. The unspoken boundary between them was broken now, and this time they interlocked with a fervor that was new to them both.

Chapter Text

Winter was slowly overtaking Autumn. The change of seasons could be felt most prominently in the morning air, which brought with it a bone-cold chill and low-hanging fog that melted away at the first sign of sunlight. If one happened to be caught out in the dark during this transitional time, they would only be able to see their breath and not much else past five or ten feet.

It was dreadful weather to drive in. Somewhere in Soho, hours earlier, two chefs had decided that it would be absolutely unwise for anyone to make the attempt. Even without fashionable sunglasses, one would have a difficult time navigating the streets like this.

As the night marched on, the neon lights along the buildings went out one by one. The fog settled in, and the city slept.

Crowley’s eyes opened slowly and focused on a ceiling he was unfamiliar with. He felt a weight on his chest, a crick in his neck and a bitter aftertaste in his mouth. It took a few moments for him to realize that the pain came from resting his head against the arm of a sofa instead of a pillow, the aftertaste was red wine, and the weight was from a human. He shifted with a groan.

The source of the weight on his chest was breathing slowly and evenly against his shoulder. Crowley turned his head groggily and felt the tickle of curls against this chin. His eyes had adjusted to the dark enough to see that Aziraphale was half tucked against the couch and half draped over him, with his cheek pressed in the divot where his collarbone met his shoulder. A very comfortable contentment spread through him like a drug to find himself tangled up like this, but he couldn’t recall what had led to it. He let his head lull to the side with a dry grunt.

The wine glasses on the coffee table caught the light left on in the kitchenette. He remembered the sabayon, his fumbled confession, and how well Aziraphale had reacted to it. He could vaguely remember them opening up that bottle of Trefethen Merlot at last, trying (and failing pretty miserably) to feed each other berries again, and deciding that Crowley needed to stay a while to sober up before driving home.

He remembered being wrong. Aziraphale’s lips hadn’t tasted like Zinfandel. They’d tasted like strawberries and champagne.

He smiled to himself and absently rubbed small circles along Aziraphale’s shoulder with his palm, which earned him a content sigh from the man on his chest. Whatever the circumstances were that led to this, he hadn’t woken up feeling so peaceful in a long time. He buried his sharp nose in Aziraphale’s curls momentarily before whispering to him.

“Hey...” his voice was still low from tire. “Rise and shine.”

Aziraphale stirred above him and he realized from the movement that his arm had fallen asleep under the man. He felt pins and needles up the limb as it was freed and Aziraphale, coming to his senses, moved to a sitting position rather quickly. Crowley missed the warmth.

“Oh, goodness.”

The man took quick stock of the situation and tried to smooth out his waistcoat. Judging from the fact that every button was still in place on both their garments, Crowley assumed they hadn’t done any fooling around before passing out. Still, Aziraphale looked distractingly adorable fussing at his clothes while still half asleep. Crowley eventually got up too, leaning back on his elbows and staring unabashedly up at the other.

“Can’t remember the last time I fell asleep on a couch with my shoes still on,” Crowley admitted. “Not since college, at least.”

“Likewise,” Aziraphale confessed while fighting a yawn. “Perhaps we overdid it with the wine.”

Crowley rose to a proper sitting position reluctantly, checking his wristwatch. It was almost four. This had been a wonderful day off, but tomorrow Ripe would be open again and he’d have to get back to reality.

“I should head out.”

They looked at each other in the semi-dark. It was hard to read Aziraphale’s expression, but he felt like there was something left unsaid. He could feel some uncertainty buzzing in the space between them. A minute passed and he felt a warm hand over his cold one.

“Are you sure you’re all right to make the drive?”

“Yeah, it’s all burned off by now,” he answered. “Besides, I don’t live far.”

They collected themselves and walked together down the narrow staircase to the lobby of the restaurant. It was fully dark save for the emergency lights near the kitchen and the diffused streetlights filtering in from the windows with a soft amber glow. The chill from the night was seeping in through the seams in the glass and frosting the edges. Crowley blew on his hands absently as he reached the front door, and he turned to say a proper goodnight first.

“Crowley?”

The redhead’s words were forgotten upon hearing his name, and he regarded Aziraphale with curiosity. He felt a hand on his cheek, impossibly warm in the sterile cold of the dark restaurant.

“Before you go, I-- there is something I would like to talk to you about.”

“Yeah?”

He tried to keep his tone cool, but Aziraphale’s fingertips against his jaw were distracting him in the best possible way. It wasn’t a problem for long, though. Soon they lowered again and the blond sought out his hand in the dark.

“I want to be honest with you. It’s been some time since I’ve been in a relationship,” he clarified in a hush. “And I would like it very much if we could, ah, go slowly. While I try to get my bearings, so to speak.”

Aziraphale hadn’t been looking at him for this declaration. Instead, his kind blue eyes were fixed somewhere in the middle of his chest. Crowley dipped his head to meet his gaze.

“Absolutely. You set the pace, however fast or slow you want to go. I’ll follow your lead.”

Aziraphale seemed relieved and gave Crowley’s hand a squeeze with both of his.

“Thank you, my dear. You’re very sweet.”

“Eugh, don’t tell anyone. It'll ruin my image.”

They chuckled and Aziraphale let go of his hand. Crowley looked off to the side in thought, shoving his hands in his pockets in an attempt at nonchalance.

“...Kissing’s all right, though?”

“Oh yes, the kissing was quite nice.”

“Okay. Good, that’s good to know.”

He leaned down to give the other a slow kiss goodnight.

“Would you do me one more small favor? Text me when you get home. I’d like to know you arrived safely.”

“Will do, Angel.”

Aziraphale’s smile lit up the dim dining area. Crowley stepped backwards out into the dark and the fog, fumbling around for his car.

In the days to come, the things that used to irritate Anthony J. Crowley were suddenly more tolerable. His phone alarm was less shrill in the morning. The cold felt less biting while he waited for the Bentley’s engines to warm up and the frost to clear from his windows (this might also have been thanks to the scarf he would bury his cold nose into while waiting). He was even able to overlook Ligur constantly fucking up his temperatures by opening freezers and ovens to check on things. One small change in his daily routine had been enough to alter his mood.

Crowley’s mornings usually started at six or seven, where he would head to the restaurant to do all of his prep work for the evening service. He always tried to clear out before Beelzebub could come in for inventory, because if he was caught he’d usually be asked to stay for a double shift.

Ripe was technically open from nine to one for brunch (most just came for their deals on Mimosas and Bloody Mary’s, so only line cooks and the bartenders really needed to be there) and would reopen at four for dinner. If Crowley was unfortunate, he might get locked into a thirteen or fourteen hour day. However, if he was lucky, he could get away with just the standard eight hours and have his mornings to himself. These days, he used them to catch up on sleep, because in the evenings he would frequently pop across the street to see Aziraphale for hours on end.

He was developing a Pavlovian response to the bell above Aziraphale’s door. When he crossed that threshold into his angel’s territory, he would get a second wind.

Their lessons were progressing well. Sauces transitioned into different types of stocks. He learned a lot about layering and developing flavors, and gained the necessary knowledge to experiment in that direction instead of just with fun gadgets. They moved on to butchery, which Crowley admittedly wasn’t looking forward to (he was all thumbs when it came to breaking down birds) but watching Aziraphale work was always a treat.

His movements were languid, but not uncertain: calmly measured and precise, and focused in the same way he’d been when he opened that champagne bottle. Never rushed, and always steady. It was satisfying to watch him. His knife moved with fluidity as if it were on a magnetic track and not free-form at all. When he would finish portioning the meat, there was hardly anything left on the carcass.

They didn’t always cook. On the days where Crowley had pulled a double, he would sometimes admit he was too tired to do anything of import and they would just sit at the counter and chat over a glass of wine and a plate of cheese. There were also occasions when Crowley was completely exhausted and would text an apology to Aziraphale in the middle of his shift and head straight home after work. This was reciprocated; he would sometimes get a buzz from Aziraphale midday saying he wasn’t feeling up to hosting and that he would make it up to him.

But the times they did come together were treasured by both sides. The temptation to pull Aziraphale close whenever he smiled demurely behind a wine glass or exclaimed joyously that someone had left him a positive review was nearly overwhelming. But he was good on his word, and didn’t take so much as a step towards the other unless he instigated first.

It was tough, because in truth Crolwey had also been out of the game for a while, and his only real interactions with other people in that respect had involved copious amounts of touching in a very short amount of time. This absence of physical intimacy outside of kisses was a completely new direction for him.

What he was building with Aziraphale was special, though, and he recognized it right away. This man wasn’t a one-time fling. He wasn’t someone he’d just found at a club one lonely night or had a quickie with at a tradeshow with the intention of never seeing him again. This was the beginning of a genuine relationship, and he was just as much of a fish out of water here as Aziraphale claimed to be.

So, he was careful. He checked in to make sure he wasn’t overbearing in his visits, and in truth there had been an instance or two when Aziraphale alluded to preferring to be alone for the evening. Crowley always took the hint. He was finding that Aziraphale, a font of warmth and kindness towards everyone, was more introverted than he might have first suspected. Crowley gave him space when he needed it, fulfilling his own social needs by going out with old friends for the evening or visiting some local haunts of his.

Everything seemed to be going well. He would be lying if he said his more carnal interests weren’t becoming distracting, though.

The first time it had gotten to be too much was when their typical kiss goodnight had lasted a minute or so longer than usual. Even the cold night air or the long drive home hadn’t been able to quell the heat Aziraphale had stoked to life in him. That evening, instead of lowering the shower temperature, he had stepped back against the tile wall to succumb to a little self-pleasure.

That had been less than a week in.

It became more frequent, this habit. He took whatever Aziraphale was willing to give him happily, and if it left him with an edge that was too much to bear then he would excuse himself, go home, and handle it. It worked for him, even if it meant sometimes cutting his evenings with the other a little short.

Weeks proceeded in this fashion. It had almost been a full month when it finally became a problem.

“Crowley! I have wonderful news.”

Crowley let the door close behind him while wearing a surprised look. The blond came up to him quickly, practically vibrating in anticipation to tell him. He hid a smile behind a snarky comment.

“There’s a sale on antique glass bowls?”

“Wh- no!”

Aziraphale gave him a light smack on the shoulder for teasing him, but did side-eye his growing collection of glassware in one of the China cabinets against the wall.

“No. My affiliates were so pleased with this month’s figures that they said they have faith in the restaurant again! They might even be convinced to go back to just the quarterly check-ins if this keeps up!”

Aziraphale, unable to contain himself any longer, flung his arms around his shoulders and Crowley put his hands on his middle for support.

“That’s wonderful!”

“It is! Oh, it really is.”

Aziraphale drew back when the endorphins died down, but he was still flushed with delight.

“This month has been so stressful, what with all the paperwork and the budget adjustments, not to mention trying all these new things, market stands and internet… postings…”

Here his eyes settled on Crowley again, as if he were seeing him now for the first time. He lifted a hand and grazed it over the side of his face. Crowley couldn’t help but lean into his touch.

“I don’t know what I would have done without your help.”

“Didn’t do much,” he deflected. “You did everything I suggested by yourself.”

Aziraphale leaned up to kiss him, and he could have melted. “Not just that, my dear boy… you’ve been here for me.” Aziraphale’s fingers lowered to trace his collar bones lovingly, and his touch left his skin tingling wherever they ventured. Crowley’s breathing became slightly shallow.

They kissed again, and this time Aziraphale allowed his hands a wider range of motion. They travelled slowly down his collarbones, skimming his chest and resting underneath his open coat on his sides. This was the most Aziraphale had ever touched him (save for that night he’d fallen asleep on him), and Crowley was seeing stars. He sighed contently and deepened the kiss, feeling that telltale heat gather and spread in his gut. He let his own hands rest on the small of Aziraphale’s back, but the temptation to move forward and work at those buttons was ever-present. He laced his fingers together to prevent himself from doing anything too fast.

His fingers he could control with a bit of willpower. Other parts of his body, he couldn’t. He was reminded of this by the brush of Aziraphale's thumbs over his hip bones.

They broke away from the kiss for air, and Aziraphale whispered against his lips.

“Why don’t we celebrate with a little champagne?”

Rein it in, Crowley chastised himself.

“I-- should probably go,” Crowley replied in a dry croak. He was nearly dizzy with arousal, there was no way he could sit through a glass of whatever and wait for it to burn off before he could drive home and take care of it.

“Oh…” Aziraphale’s expression fell. “So soon? But you just got here.”

“Yeah, I--” he shrugged noncommittally. “Forgot about something I gotta take care of.”

The blond nodded tensely, and Crowley could immediately tell something was off.

“Just like… last week, was it? And the week before that?”

He couldn’t think of a response to that, and his lips moved wordlessly. But he didn’t have to flounder for very long. Aziraphale’s shoulders set as if he were bracing himself for something difficult, and he took a step back.

“Crowley… do I bore you, my dear?”

“No! What? No, of course not!” Crowley could have laughed at that accusation. How ludicrous it was to even suggest that when his thoughts had been so preoccupied with Aziraphale over the past few weeks. But he couldn’t find his way to actually laugh with that vulnerability clear in his partner’s expression. He had taken off suspiciously early on a few occasions before, so he could understand the misunderstanding there. Still, he put his hands on Aziraphale’s shoulders reassuringly.

“It’s nothing like that. I promise.”

“Then what is it?” Aziraphale posed gently. When he met his eyes again, they were resolute and searching. “I’d like it if you were honest with me.”

Crowley hesitated and lowered his hands. What was Aziraphale going to think of him if he told him the truth? At best, he would think him impatient and selfish. Unable to keep the pace Aziraphale set. At worst… perverted and disgusting, maybe? He opened his mouth and closed it again, not just once but twice. The explanation he wanted to give just wasn’t coming to him. Aziraphale didn’t seem to mind waiting though, his eyes were locked on him steadily.

On principal, Crowley didn't like to lie. He was almost always forthcoming, even when the truth was not exactly the nicest thing to say. The only exception to this was when the truth made him look like a real wanker, and in these scenarios he tended to favor omission. That wasn't nearly as bad as lying, right? He cleared his throat and shook his head.

"It's really nothing, trust me. Just personal stuff."

He kissed the other man's cheek once, twice, and a few more times until he saw the edge of a smile creep up again.

"Come on, why don't you pick out some champagne and tell me all about this meeting you had."

It took a minute of smoothing, but Aziraphale did eventually accept his (lack of) explanation. He dipped his head and murmured something about the Veuve Clicquot Brut Rose that he'd been so looking forward to but never had a proper occasion to open. He went off to collect it while Crowley excused himself to the restroom to splash some cold water on his face and think about dead kittens or something.

Usually, Hastur had no reason to be outside until three thirty in the morning.

You could set a clock to this man. The maître d' of Ripe came in for dinner service, and even though the kitchens closed early the waitstaff stayed on duty until the bar (and thus the restaurant) closed for the night. He took two ten minute breaks, one at six thirty and one at eleven thirty, and during both of those he sat at the bar with a cigarette and micromanaged Dagon. This had been his way for a solid ten years now.

Sometimes things happen, and even regularly scheduled breaks get postponed. Due to a "mixup" with a customer, Hastur's was delayed by at least an hour. He was more than happy to follow the bouncer as he escorted the unhappy customer out by the elbow.

"Next time we will be pressing charges," he assured him quite happily as the drunken man got to his feet and stumbled off into the night. Hastur reveled in his small victory by reaching into his pocket for a cigarette. As he watched the man scurry off to lick his wounds, a familiar shape caught his eye.

Crowley's Bentley was still parked outside.

He took a moment to spit on one of the tires before he realized how strange it was.

He knew for a fact that the redhead had taken off hours ago. He’d watched him saunter out with that cocky swagger and thought to himself “good riddance”. Had he been wrong? Was he still in the building?

He lifted his pitch black eyes to the sign across the street, mostly obscured by the fog.

Beelzebub hadn’t given two fucks when Hastur came to share what he’d seen at The Gate’s booth at the farmer’s market. His words had fallen on deaf ears; it was obvious to everyone that Hastur disliked Crowley, and without proof there was no reason to believe him. Crowley was a walking money-bag, after all. He was the one with the fancy high-falutin menu. He was creative, and Hastur was… a waiter. Head waiter, yes, and had seniority over Crowley to be certain. But still a waiter. He didn’t have as much sway as the other and he knew it.

Bloody redhead, the fucking favorite. Overrated, stretched out, talentless piece of shit.

Curiosity overcame him. He hopped across the street and looked through the frosted window into the dark restaurant. Sure as shit, there he was. That two-timing snake. Drinking wine with the enemy.

What started off as anger turned into satisfaction. This was good, though. Finally he had some proof! Beelzebub would have to believe him now.

He nearly dropped his cigarette in his malicious excitement and turned quickly to go back to the other side of the street and into Ripe’s doors. “Boss. You’ll want to see this.”

Chapter Text

“Just you today, my dear?”

“Oh yes. The girls cancelled on me, I’m afraid. But that would never stop me from getting that delicious crab bisque of yours. Nothing better in all of London.”

“Madame, you flatter me.”

Aziraphale hadn’t needed to leave a menu with the butcher’s wife in years. She came in every Friday afternoon with her friends to catch up, and she always knew exactly what she wanted.

“The usual then? Bisque and the Croque Monsieur?”

“That would be lovely.”

Aziraphale left the woman to her crosswords and prepared her meal. When he returned with a cup of the soup to start her off, she had placed a cigarette between her lips.

“I am afraid this is a no-smoking establishment.”

“Oh! And all these years I thought it was just Adelaide keeping me from smoking in here!” She tittered and removed it with a doe-eyed look of apology. “She has very bad asthma. Hold on a moment!”

She ushered him closer with a wave of her hand as he had been about to excuse himself to make the rest of her meal. He approached with his hands clasped in front of him.

“I nearly forgot to give you this.”

She reached into her purse to pull out a thin package. It was wrapped very casually, folded in brown paper and nothing else. She handed it to the chef, who accepted it with both hands. This style of package was familiar to his eyes, and he knew right away what it was.

“My, you spoil me. Whatever will your husband think?”

“These days, “good riddance” I should guess.”

They shared a good-humored laugh while Aziraphale peeled away the paper.

“Oh, it’s gorgeous. Better even than the last, I daresay.”

“Mm. Yes, I had noticed the hydrangea still-life was absent from your collection,” she commented, looking around at the walls. Her red curls bobbled with the action. “Not partial to it?”

“On the contrary, Madame Tracy.” He replaced the paper over the painting to protect it. “I liked it so much that it now has a place of honor over the mantle in my flat. Perhaps it’s selfish of me to hide away such a treasure in my own home, but I like to covet beautiful things now and then.”

They smiled at each other, but the woman’s soon faded. She placed a hand on his forearm with a newfound seriousness.

“You’re sad…”

It was a statement, definite and clear. Aziraphale stared at her in surprise.

“I’m sorry?”

“No, not sorry. Sad, dear.”

“Yes, I-- I heard you,” he clarified with furrowed brows. “I’m just not sure why you say that.”

“Call it a woman’s intuition,” she explained. “I’ve known you for a while now. I can tell when something is bothering you.”

Aziraphale would argue that they hadn’t “known” each other at all past over-the-top pleasantries that they were both very fond of giving and very few humored them with nowadays. But it was true that they had been in each other’s presence for a very long time, and so he accepted the comment.

“I am afraid you are mistaken. I’ve never been happier, in fact.”

“Oh?”

“Yes. The restaurant is doing better than it has in years. I’ve hired a new young fellow to help around the place, he’ll be starting next week. I’ve got a wedding to cater at the end of the month, and…” he wasn’t the sort to share overly much about his personal life, but she was watching him eagerly and waiting for more details to support this “never-better” claim of his, “...and I’ve met someone.”

“A special someone?”

“Oh yes.”

The woman nodded slowly.

“That’s wonderful, dear. I wonder where this discontentment I sense in you is coming from, then?”

Aziraphale felt a prickle of annoyance and quickly quelled it.

“Well. I don’t want to keep you from your bisque. Do enjoy it before it gets cold.”

He disappeared into the kitchen to make her sandwich, but her words stayed with him. Discontent. Oh please, there was nothing to be discontent about! He was very happy, he had a nice new relationship with a very kind and handsome man. He finished plating her meal and returned to the dining area not long after he’d whisked away. She was still working on her soup when he delivered the food. He set the plate down in front of her and lingered.

She looked up at him, and he turned over his serving towel in his hands.

“It’s just…”

She quickly patted the chair next to her, and he sank down into it.

“It’s just that I worry,” he admitted while she picked up her sandwich. “It’s been so long since I’ve been with someone, and he’s… well he’s very free-swinging. A real venturous sort. I thought I might lose him by asking if we could take it slow at first, if you understand me.”

Madame Tracy nodded sagely.

“So he moves too fast for you?”

“Well, no. No, he’s been a perfect gentleman in that regard.” His lips pursed in thought. It was hard to even voice his suspicions. Somehow, he felt like putting his fears into words would make them more real. Give them life. He took a breath and finally spoke again.

“Have you ever… been cheated on?”

Madame Tracy set her sandwich down immediately.

“Goodness! Dear, is he that sort?”

“No. I-- I don’t know.” He focused on the towel in his hands, which had become wrinkled with the intensity he had been grappling it. He set it down on the table and smoothed it out. “I wouldn’t have said so at all, a few weeks ago. As I said, he’s quite the gentleman. You wouldn’t know it at first, but once you get to know him he’s very sweet. And the way he looks at me…”

Aziraphale trailed off with a smile. Crowley looked at him as if he was the only man in the room at any given moment, and it made him feel remarkable. Even reflecting on it made him turn a shade pinker and a giddy feeling swell in his chest. But that high was soured when he thought of the possibility that he was not the only one Crowley looked at in this way.

“If I may share a few, ah, personal details…”

“Please do!” Madame Tracy was missing her weekly gossip with the ladies, and Aziraphale could tell he was just filling that niche for her. Still, it was therapeutic for him to talk this out with someone, and he liked to hope that at least some of this discussion was coming from a good place.

“Well, we haven’t been… intimate yet.” He cleared his throat. “He told me that I could set the pace, and so I’ve been very cautious. And recently, I’ve finally felt like I was ready to… further our… relationship. But every time I try, he suddenly has somewhere else to be or something he has to do.”

The woman across from him gained a look of pity in her expression, and at that point he knew his fears were justified. He felt his stomach drop.

“And you think maybe he has someone on the side?”

“... I don’t want to think it,” he said in a brittle voice, “but I’m not a fool. He won’t explain where he goes, or what he does.”

They were both silent for a while. Madame Tracy put her hand atop his and gave it a squeeze.

“To answer your question, no, this has never happened to me.” Her voice was gentle and low. “However, I do know someone this did happen to. I won’t say who.”

Here she paused to very clearly mouth ‘Paula’, and he suddenly felt dirty knowing someone else’s very personal secret. Telling all of this to her was certainly a mistake; he was going to be the topic of one of her next meetings, surely.

“And she did share a few things that made her suspicious of it. If you really do think he’s being unfaithful, I could tell you what to look for.”

“I hate to be suspicious, maybe I should just talk to him.”

Madame Tracy gave him a sympathetic look, as if she was trying to explain a very easy concept to a five year old. “My dear, if he’s cheating on you, he isn’t going to tell you outright.”

“...I suppose not.”

She finished her sandwich and placed it the dish aside. With a deft wipe of her hands on her napkin, she took up both of his and gave them a squeeze.

“First, beware of an overuse of pet names.”

“Whatever is so bad about pet names?”

“Nothing, if your man is honest. But if he has another lover, he might not be able to keep his names straight.”

Aziraphale’s mood was quickly darkening. Crowley certainly would never forget his name.

“Second, watch out for forgetting plans or last minute cancellations. He might also be too vague about what he does when he’s away from you, which it sounds like he already does.” Aziraphale felt a sting with her words and wished he could draw his hands away without causing a fuss. ”And finally, if he doesn’t let you look at his phone, that’s a sure sign he’s up to something.”

Once she had finished, he nodded politely and took his hands back at a snail’s pace. No, this was too much. He trusted Crowley. He wouldn’t do any of these things, because he would never be unfaithful.

“I… will take this into consideration. Ah, now I really have distracted you from your meal for too long. Let me get you another cup of soup.”

“Oh no, I wouldn’t be able to finish it. Just the check, my dear.”

Madame Tracy left him with a much larger tip than usual, and somehow that made Aziraphale’s fears seem even more real than the pitiable looks had.

“Crepes?”

“Crepes.”

Crowley gawked at Beelzebub from his reclined spot in one of the booths. The restaurant was still closed, but the owner had dragged them all away from their prep work to the dining area for an impromptu staff meeting.

“That bloke across the street is getting a lot of business lately. And our numbers are becoming stagnant. Do you know what that means?”

Crowley raised his hands in the air in mock bewilderment, then put them behind his head to recline back again.

“People are realizing that Hastur is spitting in their food?”

At the bar across the room, Dagon wheezed in laughter and Hastur scowled at him.

“What difference would it make if I did? Your foamy-whatevers look like spit anyway.”

“Yeah, well you look like someone spit on a-”

“Shut up, idiots.”

Beelzebub cut them off casually with a stern look.

Obviously, Beelzebub was not the owner’s real name. Bea L. Zebar signed their name as such on all documents: invoices, pay stubs, reports, sign-in sheets, and the like. Crowley, in his infinite cleverness, went around the first year he’d been at Ripe and told everyone to “say it out loud! The whole thing! What’s it sound like?” and it just stuck.

The fact that Beelzebub accepted this nickname spoke of their character.

“It means he’s stealing our business.”

Beelzebub fixed Crowley with a pointed look, and he sat up straight again. What was that all about?

“And we’re going to steal it back. With crepes.”

Crowley was glad to be wearing his sunglasses at this point. His eyes widened with shock.

“Oh, c’mon,” he said with a decidedly uncool chuckle. “Doesn’t that just seem desperate? I mean, "come try our crepes, not the ones at the French place literally across the street!” It’s like begging for attention. We’re not about that, right?”

He searched the room for someone to go in on this with him. Dagon and the other bartenders didn’t seem to care one way or another. Ligur and his other sous chefs folded their arms, and Hastur obviously looked quite chuffed.

“I don’t care what we look like. I just want results.”

Crowley sucked his teeth thoughtfully.

“So the guys got a couple of customers! Wahoo, whoopdie-shit, who cares? Let him, it’s not gonna affect us. We’ve got a huge following already without crepes.”

“It will affect us.” Beelzebub walked closer to Crowley’s booth and placed both palms on the table slowly. “It starts with stagnant numbers. And then it steadily drops, and before you know it you’re in quicksand. You can’t spend on anything, no ad space, no trade shows, no events. Repairs and inventory eat all the funding. Preferences change, people get tired of one thing, and paradigms shift like that.”

Beelzebub’s fingers snapped in front of Crowley’s face. He didn’t flinch outwardly, but his soul shook. Crowley wasn’t afraid of many things on this earth, but the restaurant owner really knew how to rattle him.

“I’m putting a stop to it before that can happen.”

There was a warning tone in their voice that made Crowley question how much they already knew. He glanced around the room. Hastur wore the most satisfied, shit-eating grin he’d ever seen. Fuck that guy.

“Crepes. On the menu. By next week.”

Crowley waited until Beelzebub was out of his face to swallow thickly.

“Okay… but are we really married to calling them ‘crepes’?”

One of Crowley’s few hobbies was night driving. Well, it was less of a hobby and more of a method of meditation.

He would take the A10 north a ways, and depending on how much thinking he needed to do, he’d either circle back down once he reached Ponders End (aptly named) or continue on to take a trek down the M25.

It was great. It was just him, the dull hum of the Bentley’s engine, and the night sky. Except during the colder months, he couldn’t really see it past the fog.

He didn’t indulge in this frequently (mainly because it cost him a fortune in petrol). He’d take a trip maybe twice a month, drive for an hour or so, find some greasy spoon he’d never visited on the outskirts of the next town over, and then come back to his flat in Mayfair and be in bed before the sun could rise.

Beelzebub’s staff meeting had set him on the road faster than all Hell.

“Why did it have to be crepes,” he moaned as he thumped the steering wheel under his palms. The one thing he’d said he’d deliberately put on his menu only if he’d wanted to hurt Aziraphale. How was he going to work this one out?

He had two options: he could either put it on the menu, or not. If he did, he could put some kind of fancy marketing spin on it to lessen the blow. It might go over completely unnoticed by Aziraphale. If he told Beelzebub to fuck off with their crepe idea, he’d be jobless in a hot minute. Which wasn’t the worst thing that could happen, but he knew the owner wouldn’t stop there. They would blacklist him faster than he could spit, and he’d be hard pressed to find another job in London.

“Skinny pancakes.” He tapped the wheel irritably. “Slim pancakes. Wafer… cakes…” He shrugged to himself and stepped on the gas once he got to the M25. “Add ‘wafer cakes’ to the list,” he declared to the air, and a tinny voice replied from his phone on the passenger’s seat.

“Adding ‘waiter cakes’ to the list."

“Wait did you say wafer or waiter-- read back the list.”

Nothing. He groaned.

“Read back the ‘Alternate Crepe Names’ list”

‘Bullet one: Thin Batters
Bullet two: Slim Galettes
Bullet three: Waiter Cake’

“For the love of fuck-- delete item three and--”

He was cut off by his ringtone and he cast his eyes to the device to see Aziraphale’s photo in front of the wine rack. He leaned over with his eyes still on the road to swipe the call and put it on speaker.

“Angel, hi.”

“Crowley, where are you?”

“What?” He frowned and checked the clock as if it would tell him what he was missing. “I’m, uh, just coming up to Waltham Abb-- oh shit we were going to do pastries tonight!”

“Yes, we were,” Aziraphale answered. He sounded unamused. Crowley could have kicked himself if he wasn’t driving.

“Waltham Abbey? What in the world are you doing up by Waltham Abbey at this hour?”

“Just driving,” he answered honestly. “I’m sorry, Angel, I completely spaced tonight. Let me make it up to you. Can I treat you to something nice tomorrow? Anything you want, wherever you want to go.”

There was a pause, and he thought for a moment the call had been disconnected.

“I’m sorry, my dear, but I have plans tomorrow.”

Crowley grit his teeth and nodded, knowing full well that Aziraphale couldn’t see this action. He’d really fucked up on this one. Beelzebub had rattled him enough that he’d completely forgotten about their lesson for the evening.

“Okay. Yeah, got it. Well, maybe when you’re free. Whenever.”

“Yes. Lovely.”

Crowley closed his eyes unwisely, and quickly opened them again to head in the opposite direction on the motorway.

“Any chance I could see you tonight?”

“You’re in Waltham Abbey.”

“Say Waltham Abbey again.”

“Waltham Abbey.”

He chuckled, and he thought he heard Aziraphale do the same.

“That’s at least, what, an hour north of here? An hour and a half?”

“I can make it an hour,” he promised, giving the wheel of his Bentley a rub.

“I’d prefer it if you didn’t. This fog is dreadful, just drive safely.”

“So that’s a yes?”

“... In all likelihood I'll be asleep by then. Well. Enjoy your drive, dear boy.”

The call ended before he could say goodnight and he groaned loudly. He was really in hot water now.

Aziraphale closed his flip phone and set it on the stainless steel prep table.

Generally, he tried to be an optimist. He tried to see the good in people, to trust easily and give the benefit of the doubt whenever he could. That was just the sort of person he had always wanted to be. Patient, forgiving, endlessly kind.

But he wasn't. He wanted to be that man, but he wasn't. He had suspicions and doubts, just like anyone else. He felt annoyance as readily as the next bloke and became irritated when he was teased in poor taste. When he was wronged, he remembered.

But he always forgave. Always. Because he chose to.

It was much harder to be a good person when it didn't come naturally, he speculated. His mother had been the sort of person he had aspired to be, but she had been innately good-natured. He was sure she hadn't had a negative bone in her body, or the capacity to even frown. But the older he grew, the more he wondered if she’d also had to work this hard sometimes to be kind. How many of her smiles had also been forced through a dark place?

In moments of extreme distress, he would think of her. Oh, how she had handled negativity with such grace, and how she'd accepted adversity with such strength! If she had been sacrificing any part of herself to be kind, he had never seen it.

He gripped his hands in front of him, closed his eyes, and exhaled slowly.

“My…"

Aziraphale tutted to himself as he pushed the pads of his fingertips brusquely over his wet cheeks.

“What's this? Buck up, now, he's just out for a drive.”

Chapter Text

“Who the hell are you?”

“I-- I'm Newton. Newt. I'll be your server today.”

Crowley glared at the nervous young man who was fumbling through the menus to find the specials list.

“Sit anywhere you like.”

You're damn right I'll sit anywhere I like, Crowley grumbled under his breath. He took a seat at the bar and craned his neck to try and see into the kitchen, but the steel doors were unyielding.

“Can I start you off with-”

“I’m here for Aziraphale.”

“Chef Fell? He’s, ah, he's in the… kitchen…”

Crowley gave him an expectant look.

“So go get him.”

The server snapped to it with an awkward smile and disappeared behind the kitchen doors. Crowley tapped his foot while he waited. Aziraphale hadn't mentioned this new development, how had he missed that he was hiring someone new? Well, he hadn't seen the chef in a few days. And admittedly, he'd been a little preoccupied with his own menu and how to soften the blow of a recent addition.

When the boy came back out he was alone.

“Uh, Chef Fell is unfortunately unavailable right now.”

“What? No, Newtonnewt, go back and tell him it's Crowley.”

Newt hesitated for a moment and Crowley had to irritably bark “today” at him to make him move his feet.

A minute passed and he was overcome with impatience. He stood up to go into the kitchen himself.

“Please don't make me go back out there, Mr. Fell. He's not very nice.”

Aziraphale cleared his throat and Newt whipped around to see Crowley in the doorway. He made a weird sound in his throat.

“Why don't you wipe down the tables, dear boy.” Aziraphale said as he passed the pale server a towel.

Crowley stepped inside and took off his sunglasses to give Newton a particularly sharp stare as the boy squeezed past him. He returned his eyes to Aziraphale and jerked a thumb over his shoulder in the direction he went.

“What's with the kid?”

“His name is Newton. I hired him to help around the restaurant. It's nice to have a second pair of hands. You know what they say: many hands make light work.”

“Okay,” Crowley said, deciding he wasn't interested in Newton at all. “That works out, I guess. I came to steal you away and take you out to lunch. Leave the restaurant in his hands for an hour or two.”

He moved forward to give Aziraphale a kiss, but the other man turned and it landed on his cheek.

“I'm sorry, my dear, but I really do have a lot to do with this wedding coming up.”

Crowley frowned.

“What's going on? Is this about the other night? I really am sorry about the pastry lesson.”

The blond looked up at him with a half smile that didn't quite reach his eyes.

“It isn't about the lesson.”

“Then what is it? I haven't seen you in days.”

Aziraphale was silent, even when Crowley's hands came to rest on his shoulders.

“Give me your phone?”

“Huh?”

“Your phone. I'd like to see it.”

Crowley shrugged and reached into his pocket for the device. He set it in the other man's hands, who looked relieved. But as soon as he tapped the screen to wake up the phone, Crowley remembered his brainstorming list and quickly snatched it back.

“Oh, hang on, let me close some stuff.”

When he finished and looked back at Aziraphale, the man was staring at him as if he'd grown a second head.

“...What?”

"I-- really do have quite a lot to do."

Aziraphale moved past him without any further courtesy and busied himself with a dough he'd abandoned. He folded some cold butter into it, layer after layer, and maybe Crowley would know what he was making if he'd been present the other night.

Crowley didn't leave. He watched Aziraphale's shoulders while he worked with his back to him and glanced down at his phone. He tried to piece together what had upset him, but he just didn't have enough information.

"So I have to guess what's wrong, then?"

Aziraphale stopped and rested his palms on the table.

"I need you to leave."

His voice was so brittle. It made Crowley's heart constrict. All he wanted now was to chase away whatever was making his voice tremble, but how could he help him feel better when he didn't even know what he'd done?

"Angel, please. Talk to me."

Nothing. Nothing, for a very long time. The kitchen was filled with an uncomfortable silence. Then, barely noticeable, he saw the other man's shoulders tremble. He ached to soothe his palms over them, but he knew Aziraphale wouldn’t appreciate that right now, so he stayed planted where he was.

"I know there's someone else."

Newton Pulsifer opened the steel doors to return Aziraphale's towel, heard these words, and looped right back out of the kitchen. No one noticed.

"What?"

Crowley moved his way around to stand in front of Aziraphale.

"What the hell are you talking about?"

"Oh please, just be honest with me. I'm not a fool."

He set his dough aside and rolled his sleeves back down as calmly as he could.

"Suddenly leaving, forgetting plans, being out of town inexplicably… and I'm sure just now you were closing a message from some… some other…"

Aziraphale couldn’t even finish his train of thought, which in a way was good, because Crowley was stuck processing what he had managed to say.

"You think I'm cheating on you?!"

"What else could it be?" he said morosely. "You won't tell me what you're doing when you're alone, and when I try to… seduce you… you aren't interested at all.”

"Okay, hold on, that's so wrong I--"

Wait. Seduce him? No, he'd put a pin in that, he needed to put out some fires first.

Crowley shook his head, trying to get his bearings in this conversation again. He took Aziraphale's hands, who seemed reluctant to let him do so, but allowed it anyway.

"Angel, let me explain--"

"Say my name."

"What?"

"My name. Say it."

This was an incredibly inconvenient time to get aroused, but the sternness in his tone and authoritarian way Aziraphale made this demand sent a tingle up his spine.

"Aziraphale…"

This placated the man, but not by much. He said it again.

"Aziraphale… Aziraphale… I'll say it as many times as you like. Just let me explain."

He waited for a sign, and eventually got it. Aziraphale nodded vaguely, but his expression was still stony.

"Now, I'm gonna tell you what I've been doing, but first I'm gonna say my piece."

He didn't see any resistance to this on Aziraphale's face, in fact there was a bit of hope or something equally curious in his eyes. He was looking at a man eager to be proven wrong.

"This really isn't the place I wanted to do this," he grumbled, "next to a goddamn walk-in freezer and some… shortcrust."

"Puff pastry."

"Puff pastry, whatever. Point is, it would've been nice to do this in a fucking park or after a moonlit dinner or something, but…look, I'm crazy about you. When I'm in the same room as you, it's like I'm on nitrous oxide, and it's potent enough that even thinking about you makes me happier than I've ever been. Y'know what I do when I can't sleep? I picture you next to me. I picture your fingers in my hair, and I'm so relaxed that I'm out like a light."

“I've been chasing this my whole life without knowing what it was; the high that you give me when you look at me. Your touch is a shot of vodka, every time, and I'd walk across hot coals just for another chance to kiss you. I'd drive for hours to hold your hand, I'd leave the middle of service, sweaty and gross, to sit with you for eight minutes. I'd have a million threatening phone conversations with anyone who shorted you on an order. I would literally give the air from my lungs to see you smile. And yeah, I know this is pretty over the top, I can hear it, and I don't care. I want you to know the full breadth of how fucking ridiculous the idea of me cheating on you is.”

“Oh, Crowley…”

Somewhere in the middle of his rant, Aziraphale had softened. His blue eyes had a sparkle of something approaching fondness again, but as much as he wanted to he couldn't stop here. Aziraphale still needed some answers, and he couldn't let him believe that Crowley hadn't done some selfish things in the time he was away.

He wasn't sure which mortifying secret was better to share first, so he chose the one that had come up most recently.

He pulled out his phone and opened the list, passing the device to Aziraphale.

"Alternate… crepe names," he read in confusion. “I don't understand.”

“It's for work.”

"You're… oh, Crowley." His tone was disappointed as he came to understand the situation. "You're adding crepes to your menu." There it was. Aziraphale was going to find out eventually, it was probably for the best that Crowley be the one to deliver the news in person.

"The boss insisted on it,” Crowley said flatly. “Tell me not to, and I won't."

Aziraphale looked up slowly. “What would happen if you told them no?”

"I'd be fired. And probably blacklisted in the food industry like the chef before me. They're pretty spiteful.”

Aziraphale said nothing as he stared back down at the screen. Then at last he shook his head. "…Add the crepes, my dear. I wouldn't want that. Shame I couldn't hire you myself,” he added with a weak chuckle. “Two head chefs, the kitchen would probably explode.”

Crowley dared a small smile at that. He was glad to see at least Aziraphale had it in him to joke.

"You… you can look through my messages. It's just you and my coworkers."

He didn't. He handed Crowley his phone back with a sad expression.

"I'm sorry. I really am…"

“It's all right, dear. I'm sure The Gate will survive it.”

“Yeah…”

“I suppose that's why you've been disappearing, then, developing your menu.”

Crowley pocketed the phone again and pursed his lips. He tipped his head this way and that, but there was no artful ducking around this one.

"No… That's different." He drew in a slow breath.

"So. Okay," he sniffed awkwardly and shifted his weight from one foot to another. "When... when we make out, it's great. I mean, really great. Sometimes it just hits me harder, y'know? And I know you want to take things slow. So when it gets to be too much, I…" he shoved his hands in his pockets on a slow inhale and spoke on the exhale. "Y'know. I go home to take care of it. Myself."

Aziraphale, with his vast intellect, was able to understand Crowley without him having to repeat himself, thank God. His eyes widened and he put a hand over his mouth.

“Oh. Oh, I see…”

“Yeah,” Crowley grumbled in embarrassment. "I should've told you from the start, I guess. Would've saved us from…" he gestured vaguely with a hand in the space between them. "This mess."

“So this whole time, you’ve…?”

“Not the whole time,” Crowley backpedaled defensively. “Just occasionally-- four times, maybe.”

“Four--” Aziraphale was as red as Crowley felt. He took a moment to process this new information and there was an uncomfortable silence between them. Crowley seriously weighed the pros and cons of bolting for the door.

Then, to his surprise, Aziraphale laughed.

"Oh, real nice," Crowley growled, turning red as his hair.

"I'm sorry, my dear boy." Aziraphale touched a tear away from the corner of one eye. "I don't mean to laugh, I'm just-- why, I don't know if I've ever been so relieved!"

He tried to smile, but with the embarrassment he felt it was more of a grimace.

Aziraphale’s hands gripped the fabric of his blazer at his back and he felt the other's curls against his jaw as he was squeezed. He hugged him back, grateful that the contact ban had been lifted. He was already touch-starved, and that was killing him.

“I'm so sorry I doubted you,” he confessed against Crowley's shirt collar. His breath on his neck gave him goosebumps.

He buried his nose against the top of Aziraphale's head and breathed in. He always smelled like a mix of white musk, sandalwood and rose. He was intoxicating in every respect, to all of his senses.

“I'd never do that to you,” Crowley assured him in a low voice. He dipped his head and kissed his temple, letting his lips linger there. “I’ll communicate better from now on. Even if it’s really fucking embarrassing.”

“Or really embarrassing self-fucking?”

“Never mind, we're breaking up.”

Crowley pretended to leave and Aziraphale caught him with a laugh. He ended up snickering too as he was drawn back into an embrace.

“Didn't know you could say fucking.”

“There are still a lot of things you don’t know about me, old boy.”

“Apparently. Like this “seducing” thing, when exactly did that come into play?”

The conversation dissolved into kisses, slow and endearing and only interrupted by sweet nothings breathed against lips. When they rejoined, it was with a special intensity that only immense relief could bring about. Lips parted, tongues delved deep and backs hit stainless steel refrigerator doors.

Newton Pulsifer came in to meekly deliver an order, wheeled back around, and decided to try convincing the customer to have a glass of wine readily available in the lobby instead.

Crowley felt a pair of warm hands on his hips when they broke away. Aziraphale wore a shy expression, but there was a curiosity in his eyes that was far from innocent.

“In the interest of communication… during these four instances you mentioned,” he murmured, still with the pretense of interrogating him for clarification’s sake. “What exactly did you… think about?”

Crowley’s eyes widened. He stared at Aziraphale and ran that question over in his head at least three times. He was sure he'd misheard it.

“I-- what?”

Aziraphale's thumbs traced over his hip bones. His body lit up at the contact, as much as he wanted to tamp it down and get himself back in control. But he was slowly realizing that Aziraphale was goading him on. It became clear that the other wasn’t going to repeat himself, so Crowley swallowed thickly and licked his lips in thought.

“Well-- I mean-- you… obviously.”

Aziraphale kissed his jaw and his eyes fluttered closed.

“Crowley.” He could feel his whisper before he heard the words, breath tracing down his neck where Aziraphale moved. “That's not enough detail, my dear boy.”

“It’s embarrassing,” he admitted with a wry smile, tipping his head back against the refrigerator door to encourage Aziraphale’s ministrations.

“You said you'd share everything, no matter how embarrassing.”

A kiss here and there riled him up to the point he nearly whined. He understood the phrase “weak in the knees” more intimately now than he ever had in his life. Aziraphale was pressing all his buttons without even knowing it. Or maybe he did, the sly bastard.

“Let’s go upstairs, shall we?” Aziraphale suggested, finally taking a step back. “You promised to whisk me away for lunch. We can work on our… communication, and you can tell me about these four evenings you've spent alone in greater detail.”

Crowley’s brain short-circuited.

Newton Pulsifer was having a weird first day.

Mr. Fell had been very kind to offer him a position, even though he didn’t have any actual experience in a kitchen. It was a fair trade, he supposed, because he wasn’t going to be paid very much. That morning Aziraphale had given him a brief tour of the place and went over his duties with him. He was mainly there to help with the diners, but occasionally might be called upon to help with plating or prep work if need be.

That morning, they’d only seen two customers and he’d already managed to break one plate. It would have been nice if that was the worst thing to happen to him that day.

Obviously it wasn’t. A very impatient man had come in and demanded to see Aziraphale, at which point he’d had to play arbiter and ferry messages back and forth. That really wasn’t what he’d signed up for. He didn't have the constitution to fight off loan sharks, no matter how much of a nice fellow Mr. Fell seemed to be.

Mr. Fell had explained to him that the restaurant was tight on funds during the interview process, but he’d had no idea it was this bad. He busied himself cleaning tables while praying that the man in sunglasses wasn’t going to break anyone’s bones. What had he gotten himself into?

I could just leave, he considered as he scrubbed at an imaginary spot on one of the wooden tabletops. Just leave my apron on the counter with a note saying ‘thank you for the opportunity but I’m pursuing other… opportunities’. There’s got to be a better way to word that.

As he pondered synonyms to the word “opportunity”, he scratched the thought. If something happened to Mr. Fell and he found out about it on the telly, he’d never be able to live that down. He had to be brave and wait it out, just in case he needed to call the police.

Eventually he couldn’t justify cleaning tables any longer (they were already clean to begin with) and thought it would be a good idea to check on the man under the pretense of returning his towel.

...

Okay, so he had been very wrong, and this is why we don’t make assumptions. Mr. Fell really hadn’t struck him as the type to have some kind of crazy love triangle drama.

“But that’s none of my business,” Newton chirped to himself as he started cleaning tables again.

He kept up the charade until a customer came in for lunch. He seated them and gave them a lunch menu, all the while staring at the steel doors to the kitchen. Come out, come out, for the love of God come out and just leave without a fuss…

No one came out. The diner ordered a bowl of onion soup and he smiled a little too toothily.

“Let me… go get that for you.”

Fully prepared to walk into a shouting match and see broken plates everywhere, he nudged the swinging doors open and peeked in.

“I’ve got an ord-- okay, yep.”

He backed out so fast he almost tripped (hard to walk when you’re staring at the ceiling, trying not to see anything), found a bottle of something in the wine rack behind the counter and stumbled over to the customer.

“All out of soup but might I recommend the, uh,” he paused to read the label, “Drumheller Cabernet?”

For better or worse, the diner left after two glasses.

Pulsifer sank down into one of the booths, staring at the ceiling. Nothing on this earth could get him to go back into that kitchen until the redhead left. Fortunately, he wouldn’t have to. Aziraphale came out and he leapt to his feet. Did he not know he’d seen them?

“Newton, dear boy,” he sounded breathless. “We’re closing for the afternoon, I have some errands to run. Why don’t you just come back tomorrow?”

“You don’t need me for dinner service?”

Why? Why are you fighting this Newt, you twat. Get out while you have the opportunity.

“No, I don’t think so. Oh, but don’t worry. You’ll be compensated for a full day, as promised.”

Aziraphale came to shoo him out and he barely had time to take off his apron. He skidded to a halt on the sidewalk and Mr. Fell gave him a quick handshake before locking the door and flipping the sign to “Closed”.

Bewildered, Newton made the trek to the bus stop, unsure about whether or not he was going to come back the next day. But if he got paid a full day for only working three hours more often, it was probably worth it.

Chapter Text

The first time Aziraphale had met Crowley he’d thought to himself: Now there’s a fellow who has probably never tripped on his own shoelaces, and if he has he probably looked very stylish on the way down. Some people just have that quality about them: that suavity and rockstar nonchalance as they saunter through life. Crowley had it in spades.

The man started as an enigma in his eyes: all sleek clothes, expensive cars, gorgeous fiery hair, and the newest gadgets. The way he moved, whether it was pulling out a credit card or slipping into a booth, was always fluid and assured. Even the way he held himself, slightly aloof yet always perceptive, made him seem constantly in control. In truth, it had been a little intimidating.

Not to say that Aziraphale thought little of himself. He had a pretty kind opinion of himself and did have a decent measure of pride. But, possessing introspection, he knew that he was fallible. Crowley, he wasn’t so sure about.

Not at first. But after weeks of jokes that didn’t land and accidental spills over dinner (he’d jumped nearly a foot out of his seat when Aziraphale had tried to help napkin some wine off his thigh), he had seen that he could be embarrassed, nervous, or dumbstruck. He was human too, and Aziraphale loved being able to see this side of him.

Aziraphale had sent him up to his flat while he closed up shop. He didn’t need to do much, Newt had done a fabulous job in keeping the front of house spotless. He made sure that everything was locked and put away before he ascended the narrow stairway to his space. When he opened the door, Crowley was standing in the middle of the living room. He turned around when Aziraphale came in, hands in his pockets, hip cocked to one side and smiling just as lopsidedly. He was nervous too.

Aziraphale closed the door and moved closer. They fell back into their intimacies as naturally as breathing. Crowley’s hands came to either side of his face, but they didn’t linger for long. They travelled down to the back of his neck, his shoulders, into his hair. Having someone else’s hands on him was a sensation he hadn’t experienced in a while, and he showed his enjoyment of it with a light trill in the back of his throat.

“Darling,” he breathed in one of the moments they broke apart. “Tell me what you thought about when you… you know.”

Crowley rolled his head back with a weary groan.

“You were being serious?” He asked while Aziraphale took advantage of the new offering and kissed his exposed throat. “C’mon, my pride’s been injured enough today.”

“I want to know,” Aziraphale insisted, pulling back to look up at him. “Is it really that bad?”

“No, it’s not bad, but… I don’t know, Angel, it’s our first time together. You don’t just lay down what you fantasize about on the first go.”

“Well whyever not? It seems like a perfectly reasonable idea to me.”

Crowley opened his mouth and closed it. He had nothing to say to that.

“Try me, my dear.”

Aziraphale took his hands and they found their way to the couch. He’d never seen Crowley stall for so long before. He eased his thumbs over the backs of his knuckles until he was ready to talk.

“Each time was different, so...”

“Well, tell me each one, then.”

“Ugh.”

“Crowley, the way I see it,” Aziraphale reasoned in a calm voice, “You left without explanation four times. That’s four evenings we could have been together.” A bit of boldness overcame him, and he let one of his hands move away from Crowley’s to rest on his knee. “So, in exchange, I’ll take those four back today.”

Crowley stared at him.

“Four… explanations?”

“Not explanations,” he said with one of his kindest smiles. “I’d like to have your four times before you leave.”

Crowley said nothing for a long time, and Aziraphale wondered if perhaps he had gone too far.

“Of course you can certainly say no, my dear--”

“No! I mean, not “no” no, I-- yeah. Yes. I… wow,” he exhaled, sounding a mixture of shocked and impressed. “I didn’t think you had that kind of stamina.”

“Oh, not me, darling. Just you.”

“Just me...” Crowley tried to smile, but it was nervous in nature and wavered. He shook his head. “That’s a lot. I mean, it sounds fantastic. But four? Just today?”

“Oh, I know, darling, but it won’t be all at once. I intend to take my time with you. Consider it your punishment for being so secretive.”

He winked, and Crowley gawked. Aziraphale said this with a joyous smile as if he was telling him about the nice picnic plans he’d made for them.

“Punishment.”

“Yes, but I promise it won’t be unplea-”

“How the hell did you-- I never told anyone about that--”

“Told anyone about what?”

Crowley’s eyes widened in a way that suggested he’d given his own game away. All it took for Aziraphale was a quick retrace of his words to find out what it was.

“My dear, are you fond of that sort of thing? Do you like a... a firm hand?”

“Fuck.”

Crowley rose from the couch and Aziraphale followed after him.

“Oh Crowley, is that what you were embarrassed about?”

“Obviously.” He spun around to face Aziraphale with a strained expression. “Look, that’s-- it’s personal, okay? No one knows about that, not even…” he hesitated and waved his hands around as if he were about to say something and reconsidered. “Just, no one knows about it.” He paced around the coffee table, and Aziraphale gave him some space to let him tread the hardwood. Finally he stopped and shook his head.

“...Don’t tell anyone. Okay? I mean it.”

Here it was, the side of Crowley that could be nervous. Aziraphale supposed he could see why Crowley might be reluctant to let anyone know about this kink of his; a very unkind person could do a lot of harm with someone’s closely guarded and intimate secrets. What he wasn’t sure about was why Crowley would ever think Aziraphale would be one of those people. He approached him now that he had stopped and placed his hand on his cheek.

“Do you trust me?”

Crowley had come down enough from his fussing to grumble. “Of course I do.”

“Then don't feel like you have to hide the things you like from me. I want you to be comfortable with me, and I want to make you happy.”

His hand moved down to cup his jaw and he offered him a brief peck on the lips. It was accepted without comment.

“By all means, keep whatever secrets are too hard for you to part with, but I hope you know that I will protect whatever you do decide to share. You are safe with me, Crowley.”

Another kiss. Crowley was relaxing again; his lips were more pliant and willing the second time. He remained silent, but his hands had found his waist in the interim. Aziraphale continued with his reassurances.

“You don’t need to be so guarded around me. I already think the world of you.”

Crowley smiled at him in a way he’d never seen before. There was a vulnerability in the line of his shoulders, but a gratefulness in his eyes. They tangled together for a moment in a loose embrace, and Aziraphale sifted his fingers through Crowley’s wavy hair.

“Now, admittedly,” Aziraphale led them back to the couch and they took a seat, “I don’t have much experience in this particular arena. But I am more than happy to learn.”

Crowley nodded silently and fell into thought. He was still bright red and wouldn’t meet his eyes, looking across the room at anything else. With this new information Aziraphale had gleaned, a thought occurred to him and he took a chance.

“Look at me, Crowley.”

His tone was even and calm, but imperative. Crowley’s head jerked to meet his eyes, as if he had been stolen from a daydream, and there was an eager tension in his whole form. His eyes searched him in anticipation.

Suddenly, many small things he’d noticed in their time together over the past few weeks made sense. This was the same look he’d received when he’d plucked a cigarette from Crowley's lips, and with the surprising willingness to help him distribute napkins. He’d even seen a glimpse of it after giving him the command to say his name earlier.

“Was… was that all right?” Aziraphale asked with uncertainty.

Crowley nodded, still staring at him.

“Yeah… I’ll uh, I’ll tell you if it’s not.”

“Thank you.” Aziraphale smiled through his own nervousness. He would do some research and be more prepared for next time, but today he was going to have to rely on Crowley to help instruct him.

He scooted closer to the other and took his hand once more with both of his.

“Now then… will you answer me honestly?”

“Yeah,” Crowley managed.

“Good. I want you to come four times before you leave. Will you be able to do that for me?”

A brief pause. “Yes.”

“Perfect.” He kissed Crowley’s cheek. “Now, I’d like you to tell me what you had thought about when you pleasured yourself. Start with the first occasion, please.”

“All right, well… the first time, I thought about our first lesson together.”

Aziraphale raised his brows. “The night we… became a couple?”

“Yeah.”

Was this flattery bubbling in his chest? He couldn’t fight a small smile.

“Goodness-- sorry, yes, go on.”

Crowley licked his lips in thought. “I, uh. I remember we fell asleep on the couch. Right here. And I thought about… what might’ve happened if we’d gone further.”

During Crowley’s explanation, Aziraphale’s hand had left to rub his partner’s thigh. It had started off as encouraging, but slowed now and then so he could listen to him more closely. He didn’t realize how distracting it must have been until Crowley looked down at it and drew in a shaken breath to continue his speech. He noticed, and had a few creative thoughts of his own.

“I thought about you kissing me awake. I’d tried to touch you, but you held my hands above my head. I thought about…”

Aziraphale’s knuckles brush the bulge of his jeans and Crowley’s breathing grew heavy.

“About, uh, you straddling me, and every so often you’d just… grind down, nice and slow, and-- f-fuck--”

While he continued, Aziraphale had unzipped his pants and was currently fondling him lazily through the thin fabric of his briefs.

“Keep going, my dear.”

“Yeah. Um… a-anyway, you’d only do it occasionally. So I’d try and chase it, but when I did you’d stop everything and--” another breath hitched as Aziraphale’s fingertips met skin. He sought out the erection and smeared the precum at his tip along his finger and along the head.

“I’d have to s-sit still and wait…”

Aziraphale was unable to resist kissing his neck while he tried to stammer through his retelling. His own ministrations became more firm, and Crowley’s hips were gradually arching into it. The unfortunate side effect of this was that he’d halted his story. Aziraphale made a pointed hum against his ear and drew his hand away.

“Continue, I’ll start again when you do.”

Crowley let out a string of curses and let his head fall back against the couch.

“That’s it, though-- that’s what I thought about.”

“Well, describe it to me some more,” he insisted, tracing only the most featherlight lines along Crowley’s exposed cock. The redhead made a strangled noise at the teasing. “Were we clothed?”

“No. Well, yes and no… I wasn’t, but you were.”

Aziraphale started stroking him again, earning a gratified moan from Crowley.

“Oh? How interesting. Why is that?”

“I-- I dunno. That’s just what I thought about. But God, it was sexy. You were s-so… mmnh, gorgeous on top of me, pinning me to the cushions, setting the p-pace and I had to… just... f-fuck, I can’t, please--”

There was a desperation in Crowley’s voice that led Aziraphale to believe he was close. He withdrew his hand and the man nearly convulsed.

“All right, my dear. On your back, please. Oh, and take this off.”

Crowley did as he was instructed and threw his shirt to the ground so fast one might suspect it had been covered in ants. Aziraphale rolled his sleeves up as he did so and knelt over him on the cushions.

“Y’know,” Crowley breathed, his eyes fluttering like it had taken some effort for him to climb out of whatever haze he’d fallen into to communicate with the outside world. “You-- you don’t have to give me what I ask for right away…”

“No?” Aziraphale asked with a grin, genuinely curious about what the man below him would enjoy the most. “Well, I could deny you more, if you like.”

Crowley nodded eagerly, wordlessly, and let his head fall back against the cushion with a thump.

“Hands up, if you would. There’s a dear.”

In a reenactment of the other’s story, Aziraphale restrained his wrists with one hand and rested atop his hips. He smiled at the sight beneath him. A slight sheen of sweat covered Crowley’s torso, which was on delightful display with his arms hoisted as they were.

“Beautiful,” he purred, dipping his head down to cherish him. Crowley moaned openly while he kissed and nipped his way down his neck and to his collar bones. Aziraphale’s name was being dropped like a mantra, and he felt Crowley’s hips beneath him rocking more aggressively up against him.

True to his word, Aziraphale took his time with him. He rolled his hips gradually with him, and when he saw the man writhe and tense up taught as a bowstring, he'd move back to sit on his thighs. This earned him the most delicious moans and wriggles, and after a time Crowley would settle back down again panting and he'd start it up again.

"A-Azira-phale--"

"Not yet, my dear. Hold on a little longer for me."

He'd whisper encouraging words to Crowley when he was close with no idea of the effect it was having on him. But seeing the man reduced to a trembling mess beneath him was certainly garnering a response from his body as well, to the extent that he had become inattentive and led Crowley too close to the brink.

"Angel please, please I c-can't--"

Crowley bucked up under him as he came, spilling all over his own stomach and even reaching his chest on the initial shot.

What a sight. Aziraphale reached down to pump him lazily in time with his spasms, and when he whimpered from overstimulation he took his hand away.

"Fuck… Aziraphale, that was-- incredible."

He beamed with delight and placed a few kisses to the man's burning red cheeks. He was crimson from his chest to his hairline, and Aziraphale couldn’t put into words how satisfying it was to know he’d brought him to this euphoric state.

"Oh I'm so glad. I had quite a lot of fun with that," he admitted proudly. He slipped off the man to get to his feet again. "Stay where you are, dear, I'll fetch a towel to clean you up."

He did so, and was surprised to see that Crowley hadn't budged an inch from the position he'd left him in (hands still above his head and all). He sat beside him on the couch and coaxed him into a more relaxed position while he cleaned him with assuring words and fond kisses. Crowley came down wearing the dopiest grin he'd seen on him yet. One of his hands fell to rest on Aziraphale’s lap next to him. He felt fingertips skim his inseam.

“Can I take care of you?”

Obviously, all of this had worked Aziraphale into quite a state. His trousers felt very tight and his heart was still pounding. He smiled at the offer and set the towel aside.

“How long before you’ll be ready for another?”

Crowley shook his head and flopped back against the arm of the couch.

“Me? I don’t know, Angel. I’m not a young bloke anymore. An hour?”

Aziraphale traced his chest fondly and considered his options. “I’ll make us some tea, then.” He rose from the couch and went back into the kitchen to put a kettle of water on.

He came back about ten minutes later with two mugs, already knowing how Crowley took his tea when he chose it, and set both cups on the coffee table.

During this time, Crowley had done up his jeans again and was sitting upright on the sofa. He hadn’t put his shirt or jacket back on, and admittedly walking into a room with the redhead sitting casually shirtless and still flushed from the afterglow of an orgasm made him feel… so painfully fond of him.

“Oh, c’mon. You’re not gonna wait an hour, are you?” Crowley protested as he picked up his tea and took a sip. He seemed to respond positively to the warm liquid, and let out a small sigh of relief. He set the mug down again and mused Aziraphale closer, then put a hand on his thigh.

“Let me take care of you. I’m really good at it.”

“And so humble,” Aziraphale chuckled, raising a hand to trail his fingers through Crowley’s hair. Now that he knew the other thought of this on lonely nights, he was even more tempted to play with his hair than he had been before. “All right, but finish your tea first. I just made it and it would be a shame for it to get cold.”

He’d never seen Crowley attempt to chug a warm drink before, but he did and it nearly made Aziraphale laugh to the point of tears. Crowley showed him his empty cup with a cheeky grin.

“Yes, you’re very impressive.” Aziraphale said sarcastically.

Crowley rose from the couch and settled on the hardwood floor in front of Aziraphale. He grunted in discomfort and grabbed a pillow for his knees. Azirahale parted his legs to accommodate the lanky man between them, and Crowley settled in with his elbows on either side of his thighs.

Nimble thin fingers eased his trousers open and freed his erection. Aziraphale didn’t have much time to be sheepish about his partner seeing him for the first time. Crowley cherished him with kisses along his underside, fond brushes of fingers that sought to memorize his every detail, and murmured words barely audible from his position.

His kisses became more open and heated, and when Aziraphale was fully hard those lips finally placed over his tip. Crowley’s mouth was still delightfully warm from the tea, which made him gasp vocally. He lifted his eyes to shoot him a look that said ‘I told you so’, and Aziraphale had to marvel at how he could look so smug even with his cock in his mouth.

At some point, one of the hands resting at his thighs moved to skim along his testicles while the other disappeared beneath the couch. Aziraphale didn’t notice until he heard Crowley moan rather enthusiastically. The vibration of it was heavenly.

“Crowley, are you touching yourself…?”

The man opened his eyes again and looked up at him. He didn’t free himself to answer verbally, instead opted for a muffled “Mhmm," around him in confirmation.

“That’s what got you into this whole mess in the first place, isn’t it?”

Aziraphale shifted a little so that he could brush his shin along the inside of Crowley’s thigh. The man sighed hard through his nose and his eyes fluttered.

“Mhmm.”

All ministrations had stopped at this point, save for the occasional swallow when Crowley needed to. His eyes stayed on Aziraphale’s face, pleadingly, searching for an answer before he continued. Aziraphale put his hand in the man’s hair and smiled.

“Go ahead, my dear. But if you finish before me, I’m afraid you’ll have to keep going.”

Crowley’s tongue resumed its devious work. Aziraphale could see that the man wasn’t all talk; he really was quite skilled at this. He had him panting in minutes, and he wasn’t sure how much longer he could last himself. Crowley was a vision between his legs, lips red and swollen, cheeks flushed, eyes closed in an attempt to focus through his own pleasure. It was the guttural groan and sudden enthusiasm to suck him harder that was indicative of Crowley’s orgasm, and it brought Aziraphale right to the edge.

“Crowley, I’m-- I’m very close...”

It was meant to be a warning to pull back, but Crowley stayed fixed where he was. He was making some soft, strained whines while he continued to stroke his overstimulated cock as Aziraphale had instructed. When he came, Crowley’s hands sought his hips and he swallowed every drop of him hungrily.

It took a moment for Aziraphale to get his bearings again. He felt the cool air of the room again as his partner drew away from him and rested his head on his thigh.

“What happened to needing an hour?” Aziraphale teased him while running a hand through his hair. “That was fifteen minutes. Twenty tops.”

Crowley hummed groggily. “Dunno. You make me feel a certain way.”

Aziraphale chuckled. Fatigue was already soaking into his limbs, making him feel so heavy, and he couldn’t imagine how Crowley felt. His hand lingered in his waves, tucking a few locks behind his ear.

“Let’s move to the bed.”

“Mmm,” Crowley mumbled against his lap, unmoving. “Sounds wonderful.”

“You’ll have to get up, then.”

“Can’t. Legs are jelly.”

“Oh, come now.”

“Already did.”

Aziraphale pinched him and they rose to their feet. After a bit of tidying up, he led him to the bedroom. It was clean and a bit plain in design; sparsely furnished, but what was there was stuffed to the brim with personal belongings like books and trinkets. The bed was an average size with white sheets and a beige duvet and matching pillows.

Aziraphale urged Crowley to the bed and took off his waistcoat before following him. Sometime later, it would be nice to settle in with him with some real pajamas on, but for now a lazy post-sex cuddle in a state of half-dress sounded remarkable. As soon as he got under the duvet, Crowley sought him out like a magnet. Their arms wound together and a few sleepy kisses were exchanged.

“No work for you later?”

“Monday. Closed today.”

“Ah yes. I’d nearly forgotten.”

“M’gonna need more than a minute for the next one,” Crowley fought through a yawn. “That took a lot out of me.”

“Of course, rest up my dear. As I said, I intend to take my time with you.”

For the second time, Crowley woke staring up at an unfamiliar ceiling.

During his rest, he heard some things that his fatigued brain took note of but promptly disregarded. Things like honeyed words, doors opening, cabinets groaning, showers running and doors closing again. He stretched his arms over his head and wondered why his knees were sore before he remembered what had transpired. He felt another rush of serotonin just thinking about it, and his hand felt around under the sheets for a man that wasn’t there.

He sat up more fully and took stock of his surroundings. It was pitch dark outside, and he had no idea what time it was. His phone was in his jacket pocket in the other room, but the idea of leaving the warmth of the bed was too unappealing.

Instead, he reached to turn on the lamp on the nightstand next to him. While his eyes adjusted to the light, he heard another door shut from the living room. Aziraphale walked in with a pair of plates in either hand and beamed at him.

“Ah, you’re finally awake.”

Something about seeing Aziraphale first thing after waking up made Crowley feel so content. He managed a lopsided grin and put his legs over the edge of the bed. He accepted the plate with an “ooh” and immediately noticed how hungry he was once the smell wafted up to him.

“We never did eat that lunch. Poor dear, you must be famished.”

“I am, and this looks great.”

“It’s just something simple,” Aziraphale deflected as he sat beside him on the bed. “Not even on the menu.”

“Everything you cook is amazing, Angel. Even the simple stuff.” He took a bite and the beef nearly melted in his mouth. “I don’t know how you do it. It’s like… I don’t know, the perfect comfort food.”

“That’s because I cook with love.”

“And butter. And cream, and--”

“Well, they’re the same thing, aren’t they?”

They laughed together and conversed for a little while over their lowkey dinner. Apparently, Crowley was a heavy sleeper and he “could have slept through the apocalypse”, per Aziraphale. He’d tried to wake him to see if he’d wanted to eat several times, and eventually gave up and went to make something for himself anyway.

They set their plates aside and Crowley tugged Aziraphale down back into bed with him.

“Thank you for dinner,” he purred while covering the man’s neck with kisses. “How can I repay you?”

“I can think of a couple of ways.” The blond turned on his side to look at him. “A thought occurs to me that you never told me about your other fantasies.”

“Well,” Crowley stalled, clicking his tongue. “One of them we did already.”

“Yes, I know that one, dear. Obviously.”

“No, I mean the second time.” Crowley wriggled two fingers. “I was really fond of the idea of you putting my mouth to use.”

“Oh, you wily demon.” He felt Aziraphale’s warm hand on his chest again. “Tell me about the other two then.”

Crowley considered it and repositioned himself. He lay on his stomach with his crossed arms underneath him to prop him up.

“Why don’t you tell me one of yours?”

“Mine?”

“Yeah.” He leaned his head down to kiss the side of Aziraphale’s temple. “I want to do something you like.”

“Oh, but I just like being intimate with you.”

“C’mon. No raunchy fantasies or naughty shower thoughts on your end?”

He was watching Aziraphale’s expression which changed to something soft at his words.

“Not really. I mean what I say, Crowley. I like being with you.” Aziraphale reached for his hand and he offered it to him, smiling as his knuckles were kissed.

"Isn't this whole thing about communication?" Crowley teased. "There must be something."

Aziraphale released his hand and rolled onto his back.

“What do I think about… Oh… I think about taking you to Paris. When was the last time I had a proper vacation? Going to Paris with you and actually seeing the city, not just the inside of a classroom..."

Crowley had lowered his chin to rest on the bed, face partially covered from the nose down by his folded arms. He was watching Aziraphale intently while he spoke.

"We could go down to Bordeaux or Provence, do a little tasting at a vineyard or two… How nice that would be. But I don't just think about traveling. I fantasize about taking a real day off from all of this to have a picnic with you, or to go see a play... I think about waking up next to you, and falling asleep to a movie with you. I think about doing dishes and you sneak up behind me to put your arms around me."

Aziraphale met his eyes and donned a shy smile.

"That was too much, wasn't it."

Crowley shook his head, reemerging from his crossed arms to kiss the other languidly. Aziraphale's exposition had made him feel… more than just painfully fond of him. It was a familiar tightness in his chest, one he'd gotten often in the others presence. A feeling that was best not voiced at this point, he knew.

Don't say love. It's too early, you'll scare him with talk like that.

"You make me feel like a pervert, you know. You're over here talking about wine regions while all my fantasies come with a viewer's discretion warning."

Aziraphale burst into laughter. Crowley began to pluck open the buttons of the other's shirt slowly.

"I'd love to see Paris with you," he hummed between kisses down Aziraphale's chest.

It was around 2:15 in the morning when Crowley finally fulfilled his earlier promise to Aziraphale in its entirety. He had earned the freedom to leave for his flat in Mayfair whenever he pleased.

He didn't.

Chapter Text

"New York?"

"Didn't I tell you? I swear I mentioned it before."

Aziraphale wordlessly passed another small plate of cake to Crowley. The redhead pulled himself away from his recline against the stainless steel prep table to take it.

"I did! The Winter Food Festival? I know I did. We were at my place, we ordered Chinese."

Aziraphale turned again and gave him a look of fond desperation.

“Ohh! Those dumplings were divine… That’s right, I do seem to recall you mentioning it. I didn't realize you were attending."

Crowley took a bite of cake and pushed it apart to look at its insides thoughtfully.

"Yeah, I go every year. They usually have a panel or demonstration that interests me." Crowley set his plate down on the table to join several others with similarly dissected cake slices. "This year they’ve got a molecular gastronomer I follow who’s doing a demo on reverse spherification. Wanna come? I bet you'd like it. Lots of free food."

Aziraphale gave him a look that said he already knew the answer to that question.

"Obviously, but I can't just close the restaurant for… how long did you say it was?"

"Little under a week. Show's four days but I'm losing one to travel time."

"Goodness, I'll miss you terribly.”

“You won’t have to if you come with,” Crowley pointed out. “It’s probably snowing right now, and you know I hate the cold. I’ll need someone to keep me warm…”

He snuck closer to slide his arms around Aziraphale’s middle. The other chef laughed and draped his hands around Crowley’s shoulders in turn.

“Is that the reason you want me to go? To be a personal heater?”

“One of them, yeah.”

Aziraphale tutted and dragged him over to the side table. “I can’t, my dear, you know that. Now, what do you think? Tell me honestly."

"Oh I dunno, chef, they're all good…"

Crowley scanned the row of plates critically. He could feel Aziraphale's anxious energy next to him while he deliberated. He tipped his head, dragged a couple plates forward out of the line up, put some back and replaced them for others. At last he was satisfied and mused to his selections.

"These three are my picks."

"Really? Not the raspberry gelée?"

"I like that one, personally, and if it was my wedding I'd be between that one and this one. But look, she didn't list raspberry at all." Crowley grabbed a piece of paper that was pinned to the cork board on the wall. "And she's got at least twenty things on here."

He looked up at Aziraphale who was smiling at him with a peculiar tenderness. Unsure of what he’d said to garner that reaction, he checked for bits of cake stuck to his mouth, but his fingers came away clean.

"What?"

"Nothing! Nothing."

Aziraphale came forward and took the list, looking over it closely as well. The two resumed their comparisons against the bride's list, picking up plates, sharing bites and expressing opinions for and against each piece. Aziraphale conceded that Crowley's picks were probably the best, even though he really was proud of the dark chocolate ganache and raspberry gelée.

"Put it on your menu, then."

"You're suggesting that I add chocolate cake to my menu? Are you sure your people would like that?"

"Oh they'll probably hate it," Crowley agreed, unable to hide a laugh in his tone while he spoke. "But I'm not suggesting it as executive chef of Ripe, I'm suggesting it as your boyfriend."

Aziraphale lit up and lowered his head to bashfully push a bit of buttercream around the plate with his fork. That term hadn't really come up in conversation, but there was no denying that was certainly what they were at this point.

A moment of silence passed between them while they each finished off a piece; Crowley chose the dark chocolate raspberry and Aziraphale favored the lemon white chocolate with vanilla sponge.

“So…”

Aziraphale cleared his throat and Crowley looked up at him. The blond was looking down at his plate, and he could tell the man was trying to keep his tone casual.

“You mentioned earlier… something about if this had been your wedding. Is that something you’ve thought about before?”

Crowley’s eyebrows shot up to his hairline.

“Oh-- no, I didn’t mean-- that was just--”

“Oh! No, no!” Aziraphale laughed nervously, waving a hand between them. “I didn’t either! I don’t mean anything by it. Just, you know… some people say they never want to get married, especially at our age.” Aziraphale had finally met his gaze and was smiling sweetly at him. “I just wasn’t sure if that was something that would be… on the table for you. Eventually.”

Crowley wasn’t sure how to respond artfully, and the moment of hesitation he showed made Aziraphale backpedal again quickly.

“Wish I hadn’t said anything just now, all this wedding prep has really, uhm, got me in a funny way!”

Crowley smiled and looked down at the plate in Aziraphale’s hand. As cute as he was when he was embarrassed, he thought he might throw him a bone.

“If it was your wedding, which one would you pick?”

“Hm?”

“I told you my preference. How about yours?”

“Oh…”

This question distracted Aziraphale enough to pull him out of his flustered state. “Well, I think I would like something decadent. It is a wedding, after all. Ganache is almost a must.”

In a bit of food envy, Crowley moved closer to Aziraphale and took a bite from his plate. The blond did the same.

“So something rich. Any preference on the flavor of cake?”

“Not really, I think it would depend on the other elements. Oh, something with lemon would be nice.”

“Yeah, I agree. Citrus. Great with… ganache. So! Now we both have our hypothetical wedding cakes out there, on the table.”

Aziraphale met his eyes again with a kind smile that read ‘thank you’ without him having to say it.

Once the decision had been made, Aziraphale began to get rid of the remnants and wash the dishes. Crowley snuck his arms around the man's waist while he did so and smiled against the back of his neck.

"When's the tasting?"

"In an hour."

"An hour, huh?" He moved to push the bridge of his nose behind the shell of his ear. "That's plenty of time for me to do something nice for you… let's go upstairs."

"Absolutely not. I can't keep disappearing in the middle of the day to do whatever I wish." He toweled his hands dry and turned around in Crowley's arms. "No matter how much I'd like to. Besides, the bride is always punctual to the point of arriving early."

"Mm, what a scandal that would be. Imagine getting caught in the act…"

"That won't happen," Aziraphale assured him, but still traced small circles down the center of Crowley’s chest. "Now, don't you have somewhere to be?"

Crowley took the hint and let him get back to his prep. He grabbed his coat from the table and slipped it back on.

"Hey, would you be okay to watch my place while I'm gone? I’ve got some plants that need watering.”

Crowley had his hand on the door when Aziraphale spun around.

“Why, of course! I’d be happy to. But I’m afraid I don’t have much of a green thumb.”

“You free tonight? I’ll show you how to take care of ‘em. We can order Chinese.”

The expression on Aziraphale’s face gave him the confirmation he needed, and he showed himself out. Upon leaving, he passed right by Newton Pulsifer, who was red-faced and scrubbing at an already clean countertop insistently.

Aziraphale had been to Crowley’s apartment only once before. Generally, it was much more convenient for both of them to meet at Aziraphale’s flat, considering its proximity to both of their work places. However, on one particular evening, Crowley had insisted on cooking a romantic dinner for the two of them and suggested they go back to his place. Unfortunately, upon arrival, he found that he’d left his cuts of meat sitting out on the counter all day and they had ordered take out instead.

It was a beautiful condo, and a complete contrast to Aziraphale’s in almost every way. It was spacious, and very posh in design. Stark walls, grey wooden floors and black furniture gave the place a bit of a cold feel, but the occasional pops of color such as the vibrant red throw on the couch and the colorful abstract paintings helped to add some warmth. Floor to ceiling windows along the far side made the space seem even larger, and recess lighting enhanced the reflective quality of the floors and the flat surfaces.

All in all, it felt more like a modern art museum than a place one voluntarily lived in. Still, it was very lovely. And it certainly looked expensive.

This was the first time Aziraphale had seen the place since they had slept together. There were a few rooms he hadn’t gone into before (including the room with the plants Crowley had mentioned). He was curious to know if he might get full tour this time, and if that tour might also include the bedroom.

Their dinner arrived fairly quickly, and they ate at the black marble island in Crowley’s open-concept kitchen. The windows to the narrow balcony were pitch black save for a spattering of city lights on the horizon. It was a beautiful view, and for the second time Aziraphale marveled at it. Shame it was too cold to sit outside and enjoy their meal. He’d yet to go out on the balcony, and it sounded delightful to lounge outside with a glass of wine under the string lights overhead.

His curious gaze soon fell to the food between them, or what was left of it. Crowley nudged the last wonton towards him with his chopsticks.

“Are you sure?”

“Go ahead.” Crowley took a pull from his beer and nudged his plate aside. “I’m stuffed.”

Aziraphale didn’t hesitate. “You must be very excited for this event,” he said from behind his napkin after a bit of chewing. “I must admit I’m jealous. I’ve never been to New York. It sounds terribly thrilling.”

“You really should come with me,” Crowley insisted. Now that they were fed and free from making important cake decisions, he could afford to discuss this more seriously. “You’d love it there, I know you would. So many little one-of-a-kind restaurants tucked away. What happened to needing a vacation? This could be it!”

Aziraphale frowned and shook his head. Obviously, the idea was beyond tempting, but he couldn’t. Even if he somehow had the funds to afford to stay abroad for almost a week, the idea of leaving the restaurant for more than a day terrified him. What if something happened? And things were already tight financially, even with the little boost in popularity recently.

“I can’t.”

“Is it money?” Crowley asked quietly, even though they were the only two in the room. “Because I could get your ticket… I’m already renting a hotel, so that’s done.”

“My dear boy…” putting aside how touched he was that the man would offer such an extraordinary favor, he felt like Crowley was missing the point. “Thank you, but it isn’t that. I couldn’t leave the restaurant for that long. I don’t have the proper staff, and even if I did...”

“So close for a few days. It’ll be just like the farmer’s market.”

“No, it won’t,” Aziraphale assured him, his smile becoming a bit tight. “Because this wouldn’t be earning the restaurant any money. It would just be a… selfish venture.”

“So be selfish! Live a little, Aziraphale.” Crowley put a hand on the back of his shoulder. “What harm will it do if you shut your doors for a couple of days? You can make it back.”

“But what if I don’t?” Aziraphale was really wishing they could drop this conversation, and maybe his tone was starting to show it.

“You will, I promise.”

Aziraphale got up to clear his plate and rinse it in the sink. Crowley followed him, unfortunately continuing their back-and-forth.

“Aziraphale, It doesn’t always have to be about making money. You taught me that, y’know. I mean, not directly, but in a way.”

“Yes, well, you may be fine with being reckless, but I can’t risk it.”

“Woah, that’s--” Crowley frowned. “What’s going on? Did I say something wrong?”

Aziraphale didn’t answer at first. He shook his head and took a moment to scrub at his plate.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to be short with you. Could we please talk about something else?”

Crowley conceded, but failed to come up with another topic of conversation. He still looked tense from the earlier insult. Similarly, Aziraphale didn’t turn back around even after he’d finished cleaning his dishes. He drew in a few breaths to calm down and closed his eyes, trying to think of anything else. Crowley had taken to leaning against the countertop, and he could feel his eyes fixed on him.

He had not spoken of his family to Crowley. He had never mentioned his father who’d left, or his mother who’d struggled through three jobs to keep their apartment and food on the table. He hadn’t even mentioned her passing.

It still hurt, even after so many years, and he didn’t want to reopen old wounds. He hadn’t wanted to burden their newfound relationship with something so heavy. But things were actually going well between them, and Crowley was going to find out eventually. Every day that they took a step in a more serious direction, it became more important to share everything. He turned his head but still couldn’t raise his eyes just yet.

“...I made the downpayment on the restaurant with… my inheritance from my mother’s will.”

Crowley didn’t make a sound beside him. You could hear a pin drop in the entire complex.

“I wish she could have seen…”

Aziraphale trailed off. His eyes stung suddenly and his throat felt tight, and he bowed his head with a steady shake. He felt an arm around his shoulders, and he lowered his guard. He leaned into the embrace, hardly aware of the murmured apologies in his ear. It took him a moment to gather himself, and he muttered against the hollow of Crowley’s shoulder.

“I can’t disappoint her. She wanted this as much as I did.”

“I’m sure she’d be very proud.”

They stood in silence after that, Aziraphale attempting to steady his pounding heart and Crowley running his palm between his shoulder blades. At length, the redhead spoke in a hushed tone.

“Y’know… I’ve got ice cream.”

“Oh thank God, why didn’t you say so?”

There were no formalities at this point. No bowls or place settings, just a tub of vanilla set on the counter and two spoons. Crowley was very considerate, and he’d found a new topic for them to settle on while they ate. He did most of the talking, telling him about some of the fun desserts you could make by spherifying fruits, and then delved into some of his own personal successes and failures.

And it worked. Aziraphale’s mood returned to normal after they’d devoured about a quarter of the tub and Crowley told him to never ever try spherifying oysters and pairing them with chocolate.

“I really don’t know what I was thinking,” Crowley muttered. “I created some low-grade evil that day.”

Aziraphale came down from his laughter to smile fondly at him. There were times when a previously avoided topic might resurface on the forefront of one’s mind. In those moments, the parties involved in the conversation might settle into an unspoken understanding. This was one of those times. The two chefs watched each other, each wondering who would say something first. It was Aziraphale.

“...I’m sorry I never told you before.”

“It’s your story,” Crowley commented. “You get to decide when you want to tell it, or if you ever want to tell it.” The redhead strummed his fingers thoughtfully on the table, as if considering an action, then reached for his hand. “Remember what you told me about sharing secrets? Well, it goes both ways.” He gave him a light squeeze. “You’re safe with me, too.”

Aziraphale set down his spoon and took Crowley’s hand with both of his. It felt cold in his warm palms. The poor dear didn’t have very good circulation, did he? Or maybe it was all the ice cream.

“She was a very strong woman, you know. No matter how exhausted she was at the end of the day, we always sat down together to have a family meal. Just the two of us.” His thumb traced Crowley’s knuckles thoughtfully as if he were memorizing their peaks and dips by touch. “She was a waitress in the evenings, and oftentimes I was in the back of house with the chefs. They didn’t seem to mind it, I stayed put for the most part. I learned a bit watching them, and before long the roles were reversed and I was the one making dinner for my mother.”

Crowley was smiling at him. “You’ve loved cooking your whole life.”

“Yes. I told her that soon I would start a place of my own, and we could run it together. Sort of a family business, you know. She, ah, passed away before I could graduate. I took it rather hard… but I wanted to push through and do what I’d promised. I know she would have done the same. Very, very strong woman...” He smiled up at Crowley weakly, who had begun to put the pieces together.

“That’s why you don’t want to sign the place away.”

Aziraphale nodded.

“I’ve made so many happy memories in The Gate, both with the community and with friends, and…” he trailed his hand up Crowley’s arm pointedly, his smile a bit more fortified now with genuine happiness. “I want to protect it.”

“Well, you’re doing a fantastic job.” Crowley stepped forward to kiss Aziraphale briefly, then rested both palms on his shoulders. “I’m glad you shared this with me. I mean it, I know it must’ve been hard.”

“You’re very kind, my dear.”

Aziraphale drew himself away to put the tub of ice cream back in the freezer. While he had felt it necessary to inform Crowley of his history, he didn’t want to linger in this somber mood for long. He had done his grieving ages ago, and while she still stayed with him in so many ways, he knew the best way to honor her was to live a happy and fulfilling life. That was what she’d always wanted for him.

He turned to Crowley with his best smile and reached for his hand again.

“Now then, why don’t you show me how to tend to your plants?”

Chapter Text

Beelzebub stared out the window from Ripe’s lobby with a cigarette pinched between two fingers.

Crowley had introduced crepes to the menu just as instructed, and almost simultaneously The Gate had put up advertisements for a chocolate ganache cake.

“Can’t be a coincidence.” Hastur appeared at the side of the table, latching on to Beelzebub’s train of thought like a leech. “We already know he’s two-timing. Probably helped him develop the recipe.”

Beelzebub said nothing. Of course Crowley was probably helping that buffoon across the street, but the question was why. He hadn’t ever complained about his salary (because honestly, he was paid well) and had free range to do whatever he wanted with the menu most of the time. Beelzebub gave him so much leeway, and so many privileges. So why was he doing this?

He wasn’t around to interrogate at the moment (not that they would have done it openly). He’d taken nearly a week off for that event in New York, which he claimed was work-related, but for all Beelzebub knew he could just be watching the telly at home and blowing them off. He’d been screwing them over already, what was one more middle finger?

A puff of smoke was exhaled before they put out the cigarette and stood up. Hastur had a restless look in his eyes and in his body movements. He followed the restaurant owner, matching their stride.

“Why not just sack him and be done with it?”

“Are you telling me how to run my business?”

Hastur closed his mouth quickly at the accusation. They walked through the restaurant, past the bar and into the kitchens. The chefs working the line for brunch were moving left and right to fulfill orders, shouting times and proteins at each other. Beelzebub shooed Hastur away, and he went to help with expo without argument.

“Ligur.”

Beelzebub pulled one of the sous chefs from the kitchen and into the office. There was some brief communication about what to take off the grill and when before he complied.

“Yeah, boss?”

Ligur shut the office door behind him while his boss turned on the office computer. He stood close while he waited for instruction, and eventually Beelzebub navigated to a website. The head chef of The Gate smiled at them both on the screen.

In the end, it didn’t matter why Crowley was doing this. The fact remained that he was actively betraying them. All of them. He was working directly with their competitor, and if he wanted to choose the wrong side then he could go down with him. Beelzebub intended to crush them both.

“I have a couple of errands for you.”

Newt had just finished serving the last table when Mr. Fell instructed him to flip the sign in the window. So far, working at The Gate was a lot easier than he'd thought it would be. There was a lot of downtime, and on those occasions where people actually did come in it didn’t seem like they wanted servers coming by to check on them frequently. The group of older women tittered at him when he stopped by too often, and the students who had textbooks open next to their plates didn’t even spare him a glance when he refilled their waters.

The pace was slow, but steady. There were never more than five parties in the dining room at a time, but throughout the day it was never empty. He’d asked Mr. Fell earlier if it was always this slow. His response was: “This is actually quite busy, you should have seen the place a month ago.”

After closing, he usually waited around for instructions or until Mr. Fell sent him off for the night. Today, he hadn’t come by to give him any tasks, so he peeked into the kitchen after he was done. At least this time he knew it was safe; he’d overheard that the frightening man with the sunglasses was going to be abroad this week. That, and some additional things he probably shouldn’t have heard.

But he was only human, and obviously a little curious. He kept trying to get a glimpse of Aziraphale’s left hand all day, but doing so subtly was proving harder than he’d figured.

“Chef?”

When he came into the kitchen, he saw the man putting away some dishes with one hand while cradling a phone to his ear with the other. The man looked up at him and Newt shook his head in apology. He backed out again quickly and let the door swing closed behind him.

He paced around the dining area awkwardly, unsure of how long the call was going to last. He looked at the artwork on the walls, moved a couple of books that didn’t seem to be in any particular order and attempted to sort them, and his moseying eventually led him to the baby grand by the window. He picked up the books on top of the fall board and lifted it to see the keys beneath. He tapped one curiously. It was most definitely out of tune.

“What are you doing?”

Newt nearly dropped the books in his hands and slid the fall board back down carefully. Mr. Fell came towards him, but he didn’t seem all that upset. Still, Newt felt a bit like he’d been caught doing something he shouldn’t have.

“Um, I was-- the books weren’t--” He mused to the books in his hand and then stepped away from the piano. “Live music?”

Aziraphale smiled and took the books from his hands gently. “Not anymore.”

“Ah.” Newt walked with Aziraphale back to the main dining area. “Is it… wrist injury?”

“What?”

“You know… repetitive motion injury? Carpal tunnel?”

“Goodness, are you asking what I think you’re asking?” Aziraphale said in a huff, putting the books on a shelf. “There is nothing wrong with my wrists, I’m not quite so old or fragile as you might think. No, I wasn’t the musician. The piano was passed on to me by a family member.”

Newt nodded a little too enthusiastically and stared at his shoes. Cool, first interrupting a phone call and now unintentionally insulting him. He wasn’t doing so well tonight.

“Right. Sorry. Um… is there anything else I can do before I…?”

“Oh, no, that should be all. Thank you for your hard work today.”

He nodded, and subconsciously he tried to subtly take another look at Aziraphale’s hand while he was talking. The chef caught him and turned to face him fully.

“What is it, my boy?”

“What?”

“You have a sort of… questioning look.” Aziraphale paused, and then frowned. “Oh honestly, I promise you there is nothing wrong with my wrists. And my hands are perfectly steady.”

“Uh, no, I was… looking for a ring.”

Newt realized belatedly that this was probably far worse than what Mr. Fell had assumed he was checking for. His eyes widened around the same time as Aziraphale’s.

“...My boy, I am afraid you are a bit too young for me, and I am happily--”

“Oh, God, no! I mean, not “God no”, I--”

If breaking a plate and poking the family heirloom piano wasn’t going to get him fired, this probably was. Aziraphale donned an offended look and Newt clapped a hand to his forehead.

“...I walked in on you and that red haired man, uh, talking about your wedding.”

Silence.

“I didn’t mean to, I promise. I had an order--”

Mr. Fell laughed and put a hand on his chest as if he’d never heard anything so absurd. Newt jumped, but managed a chuckle after his shock faded away.

“Oh, no, my dear boy! There is no wedding. Well, there is a wedding, but only the one we’ll be catering. You must have misheard.”

Newt wasn’t so sure, but he wanted absolutely nothing more than to escape this conversation as quickly as possible.

“Must have done.”

He smiled and walked awkwardly around Aziraphale to collect his messenger bag. He removed his apron and folded it, tucking it into the main fold of his bag. When he stood up again, Aziraphale was still standing where he had left him, wringing his hands.

“I mean… it isn’t that I don’t want a wedding.”

Oh no.

“...Oh?”

He eyed the front door and then Mr. Fell. Sprinting for the exit at this point would be pretty classless, wouldn’t it? No, he could do this. If he just nodded and said affirmations like “yes” and “uh huh”, he could probably manage his way through it without saying something stupid to lose him his job.

Aziraphale moved to the counter and urged him to follow. Newt set his bag slowly on one of the stools and sat down while Aziraphale plucked a bottle from the rack.

“Oh, no, I don’t really--”

“You’re… twenty-three?”

“Twenty-six, actually.”

Aziraphale raised his eyebrows in an undefined expression and poured him a glass, telling him briefly about the different notes (black currant, pomegranate and plum mostly) and the herbal finish. He passed a glass of red to Pulsifer, who didn’t have the heart to tell him he didn’t really like wine. Or beer. If pressed, he sometimes liked cosmopolitans if they were very sparing with the vodka.

He took a sip, pursed his lips and nodded. “Yep.”

Mr. Fell poured himself one too and sat down behind the counter, swirling it and staring down into the glass.

“And you know, I don’t think it’s that absurd to want one,” he said, falling back into the previous topic. “A wedding, that is.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Plenty of people pay... oodles of money to have one. Some people do it more than once!”

“Yes.”

Newt tried the wine again. It was less bad the second time, but still felt like drinking rubbing alcohol. He smacked his lips a bit.

“And I certainly don’t think you have to be a young fellow to have one. Do you?”

“Uh-huh-- I mean no, obviously not.”

Aziraphale stared at him for a moment, then frowned into his glass.

“Do you have a special someone, Newton?”

“No,” he admitted honestly. “Although, the other day I was talking with a girl on the bus, and I think she--”

“Well, let’s suppose you do for a moment.” Mr. Fell set his glass of wine down and tented his fingers in thought. “How would you feel if they mentioned a wedding?”

“Terrified, I think.” Aziraphale’s expression fell, and Newt shook his head. “Or, maybe not, um, how long would I have been with this hypothetical girlfriend?”

“Just under two months. Hypothetically.”

“...I’m sorry, Mr. Fell, I’d be terrified.”

Aziraphale looked distraught, plucking at his fingertips and lowering his gaze. It didn’t feel good at all to leave him in that state, so Newton forced down another sip of wine and cleared his throat.

“Um. If I may, chef…?”

Aziraphale looked back up at him.

“Well, um, your partner isn’t anything at all like me, is he? Doesn’t really seem like the type to be terrified of anything, if you ask me.” He’s the one who does the terrifying was right on the tip of his tongue, but to Newt's credit he knew well enough to keep that to himself. Aziraphale agreed with a thoughtful hum.

“I suppose you have a point there.”

“Right. So… probably no good to ask me.” He leaned a little too heavily on that last bit, hoping that Mr. Fell would realize on his own that Newton Pulsifer was not the man to ask for relationship advice.

“Perhaps not,” Aziraphale concluded. A beat of silence passed, and he shook his head. “Ah, I’ve kept you, my boy. Go on, then. Don’t want to miss your bus.”

Newton did his best to get to his feet at a normal pace. He picked up his bag and slung it over his shoulder. Before he left, he stopped and furrowed his brows.

“Although… Mr. Fell. If I... had strong opinions one way or the other, I'd probably mention it early on.” He scratched the side of his face. “Just seems more fair that way. Let the other person know what to expect.”

Silence.

“Thank you, Newton.”

“I’ll just-- the forty-five’s due any minute.”

“Yes, off you go.”

Newton closed the door behind him, and as soon as he was out of line of sight from the restaurant made a jog for the bus stop.

Despite how it might seem from an outsider’s perspective, Crowley loved travelling.

He did, really. Yes, he was short with people who blundered about cluelessly in airports and stood in the way of escalators, and he refused to eat the garbage they served on planes (he was that guy who brought food from the outside and made everyone jealous). But there was something oddly appealing about being in a crowded place and people-watching.

When he was younger, he used to think about the kind of lives other travellers led and would make up detailed backstories about them. Sometimes, if he was particularly proud of his ideas, he would engage in some small talk to see if he had been close. Usually, he wasn’t. But it was still fun.

He liked people, in broad terms, and being in crowds made him feel comfortable. So it made sense that waiting at the gate for his plane, elbow-to-elbow with complete strangers, didn’t bother him.

This time around, however, something was off.

He couldn’t enjoy the trip as he usually did. In the terminal, he’d turn to his side frequently out of habit and become disappointed to see someone unfamiliar. On the plane, he’d sulked quietly when an elderly woman fell asleep against his shoulder, wishing that it could have been Aziraphale cutely snoring on him. He thought about Aziraphale leaning over him to look out the window once they made their descent (who was he kidding, he’d let his angel have the window seat). At the luggage carousel, he thought (or hoped) momentarily that he might have to wait for two suitcases instead of one.

He spent less time thinking about what job the woman with the double-breasted suit and leopard print luggage had and more about what Aziraphale’s luggage might look like. Probably tartan, or maybe solid beige. A young couple stood next to him looking for their own bags, but he didn’t care to speculate how long they’d been together based on how nauseating their PDA was. He was too distracted by his desire to have his own nauseating PDA with Aziraphale.

Now that he had someone he cared about back home, travelling alone was a lot less fun.

By the time he’d arrived at his hotel in Midtown Manhattan, it was too late in the evening to place a call to London. Probably for the best, because after some fiddling with the thermostat and a quick shower, he was so exhausted that he passed out immediately.

The jet lag hit him hard, and he’d slept until seven in the morning (which wouldn’t be all that noteworthy, except that it was noon back home). He gave Aziraphale a ring, but figured he wouldn’t hear it in the middle of a work day. Sure enough, it went to voicemail. Personally, he hated listening to voicemails, so he hung up and sent him a text instead.

landed
call me later?

With that done, he set about his day as he would have normally.

Crowley wasn’t the sort to plan vacations overmuch, but this wasn’t really a vacation. It was a chance to network and learn a thing or two for work. It was also an excuse to go abroad, eat good food, drink a lot, and go to parties on the Pier. He attended only a handful of international events every year, and even though he hated the cold he always looked forward to this one. New York City was kind of a big deal, and a lot of world-renowned chefs and celebrities showed up to this event.

The Winter Food Festival was massive enough that it was spread across several venues, from the Hudson River Park Piers to the Institute of Culinary Education. There was also a late night party in Mercado Little Spain this year that he was particularly interested in. He'd circled demos, tastings, parties, and panels he planned to attend and made detailed notes about times and distances in his schedule of events. It was going to be tight fitting everything in, but he never intended to have even a free minute when he came to these things. He liked to get his money's worth.

Since the event didn't start until tomorrow, today he was a free man.

He spent the morning wandering aimlessly, trying new restaurants he would stumble upon and enjoying the sights in general. By the river, there were dozens of workers setting up industrial tents, putting up signs, checking lights, and shouting on phones over the sounds of power drills and nearby traffic.

Crowley had found a nice spot to observe this process on the outskirts of a small park near Pier 96. Tomorrow, this place would be packed with attendees. It was kind of nice to see it before the chaos. He had a cup of coffee to warm his hands and was bundled up in his heavy coat and scarf. The weather was actually pretty comparable to London, temperature wise, but sitting by the water probably wasn't very clever of him. Every time the wind picked up he shuddered and attempted to sink deeper into his coat. He should have gone back inside, but he was stubborn, and if he'd resolved to sit outside with a cup of coffee and watch the tents go up, he sure as hell was going to do it.

It was around four o'clock when he felt his phone vibrate in his pocket. He hated to pull his hands away from his hot coffee cup, but Aziraphale was worth it.

"Angel, hi."

"Crowley, dear! Oh I'm so sorry I missed your call. And I didn't even message you yesterday to make sure you'd arrived safely. You must think I'm terrible."

Crowley chuckled. "Nah, I know you're busy. Closed up for the night, have you?"

"Yes, I--"

There was a delay and Crowley suspected the call may have dropped.

"Oh my, I forgot Newton is still here. Can I call you back?"

"’Course. Take your time."

Crowley pocketed his phone again and stared out at the water. He finished his coffee and lingered where he was for about a quarter of an hour. When the sky began to darken and it became apparent he might have to wait longer, he made the decision to head back up to his hotel.

He got the return call once he'd reached the hallway to his room and held the phone to his ear while he opened the door.

"So sorry for the delay, just had to close up the shop with Newton."

"No incidents I take it?" He left his keycard in the slot by the door to turn the lights on and locked the bolt behind him. "No dropped plates or broken glasses?"

"Of course not." A pause. "He's gotten much better."

"I swear he's losing you money."

"Don't be cruel, dear. No, we just had a quick chat. How is New York?"

"Cold," he answered as he kicked off his shoes and sat down on the bed. "I went to this place tucked away in an alley for breakfast, I think you'd really like it. I had Eggs Benedict with salmon and... well, you've gotta try it. I need to bring you here sometime."

Most of Crowley's day had been spent thinking Aziraphale would love this, or something similar.

"...I miss you."

It was out of his mouth before he could control it. After Aziraphale's confession about his restaurant, Crowley had immediately stopped pressuring him to come with him on this trip. But that didn't stop him from wishing things had gone differently, and that he could be here.

But good lord it had only been two days. That must have sounded so pathetic. He mouthed the word fuck and ran his hand down his face. Aziraphale was always busy, so he probably hadn't even had the time to notice he was gone.

"Oh, I miss you too my dear."

Crowley could so clearly imagine Aziraphale's endearing smile with these words that it made his worries slip away. They talked for a while about their respective days before Aziraphale's yawns became closer and closer together.

"All right, I can tell you're tired. Go to bed."

"Yes, I probably should. I assume that I won't be able to reach you over the next few days?"

"Mm, might be hard. My schedule's pretty packed and I'll be in noisy industrial tents most of the time. Who knows what the reception will be like."

"Well, if I can't reach you, I hope you have a wonderful time. Oh, and Crowley…?"

"Hmm?"

"There is something I would like to talk to you about when you come back."

Crowley sat up straight and felt his muscles tense.

"Sure, yeah. Nothing bad…?"

"No, nothing bad. I hope. Just… not a conversation to be had over the phone, five thousand kilometers away."

Crowley exhaled in relief, but still couldn't shake the anxious feeling that left him with.

"Right then. Yeah."

"I should head upstairs. Any exciting plans for dinner?"

"Not really, I figured I'd go down to--"

Crowley never finished his thought. Aziraphale had suddenly shouted in alarm, and it was followed by a loud clattering noise.

"Aziraphale?"

Nothing. Crowley checked his phone screen. The call was still going.

"Aziraphale? Hello, can you hear me?"

If he strained to listen (which he was, actively) he could hear a strange shuffling sound. His heart was pounding. Had something happened? Did Aziraphale hurt himself?

"Aziraphale! Are you okay?"

"Yes! Y-yes."

Finally, the other man answered him. His voice was an octave higher than usual and he spoke quickly.

"So sorry, uh, dropped my phone! Must go."

"Are you okay?" He repeated. He was gripping his phone tightly.

"Yes of course, why wouldn't I be? Nothing’s wrong. Goodnight!"

“Are you su--”

Aziraphale hung up on him.

Crowley slowly lowered his phone from his ear to stare at it. An uncomfortable mixture of irritation and worry settled in his chest.

“...the hell was that?”

Chapter Text

“Aziraphale?”

No. Oh God, no. Aziraphale drew in a trembling breath and froze where he stood. He swallowed thickly and felt around gingerly for something he could use.

“Aziraphale? Hello, can you hear me?”

Eventually he found a clear tupperware and lifted it from the table. He took a very cautious step forward, knelt, and picked up his phone from the floor. All of his movements were painfully slow, lest he startle the giant roach staring up at him from the kitchen floor. The nemesis of every chef, owner, and restaurant employee.

“Aziraphale! Are you okay?”

“Yes! Y-yes.”

He kept his eyes focused on the vermin ahead, doing his best not to panic or make any sudden moves.

“So sorry, uh, dropped my phone! Must go.”

“Are you okay?”

The roach’s antennae twitched and he nearly dropped his phone again. No, he was absolutely not okay. How in the world was there a roach in his kitchen? He just had bug night, and it was regularly scheduled! He controlled his inventory so closely, and anything past its expiry was thrown out immediately! It must have come from outside...

Still, he could never tell anyone about this. It would absolutely ruin him. Thank goodness he’d sent Newton away already.

“Yes of course, why wouldn’t I be? Nothing’s wrong. Goodnight!”

He saw the roach’s wings twitch and quickly shut off his phone. He brought the tupperware down over it before it could fly off and let out a shriek he hadn’t been aware he could make.

“No!” He exclaimed to no-one, straightening up to pace in circles while lamenting his misfortune. “You can’t be here! How are you possibly here?!”

The roach did not answer him.

Aziraphale sighed and rubbed his forehead for a moment before he pulled himself together and grabbed his coat. He slid a piece of cardstock under the tupperware and found a rag to put over the plastic. He was going to escort the thing out, and there was no way in hell he was going to let anyone witness it.

He walked a bit further than he needed to (about two blocks up) and released it in a dumpster along with the tupperware and towel. Immediately afterwards, he shook his hands vigorously as if they’d been drenched in something unpleasant. On the walk back, he thought long and hard about what to do next. He supposed he could call the exterminator again, but if they had missed it the first time, should he branch out and find another company? It was worth a try.

When he returned, he couldn’t help but feel like the whole place was dirty somehow. He checked everywhere, under the sink, behind the refrigerator, around the oven, over the cabinets (he’d borrowed a ladder from the closet for that one), but couldn’t find any evidence of more roaches. And while that was a relief for now, it didn’t put him at ease. He then pulled out a phone book and wrote down a few pest control companies to call in the morning.

By the time he’d dragged himself upstairs, he was exhausted in every sense of the word. He dug his phone out of his pocket to change into his pajamas, and when he picked the device up again to set his alarm he noticed a few missed messages.

Oh. Crowley. He couldn’t really remember how that call had ended, in all honesty. He’d been a little preoccupied.

Crowley (10:15): tell me youre not getting murdered
Crowley (10:15): or Im booking a flight back to London tonight

He checked the time. Those texts had been sent almost an hour ago. Hopefully he hadn’t worried him too much. He thought about calling Crowley back, but reconsidered. He was probably in the middle of dinner.

So sorry darling, everything is fine.

He hit send and went to go brush his teeth. When he returned, he was surprised to see another message.

Crowley (11:06): ok good
Crowley (11:06): so wtf happened then

Rather than question what wtf stood for, Aziraphale made an educated guess and started to type a reply.

Nothing, I dropped my phone.

Crowley (11:08): why are you lying
Crowley (11:08): is someone there
Crowley (11:09): do they have a gun

Aziraphale laughed quietly at that. Based on Crowley's response time, it seemed like he wasn’t interrupting anything, so he tapped the call button and held the phone to his ear. It only rang twice before he heard Crowley’s voice.

“Just so you know, if you hang up on me again, no sex for a week.”

“Oh? Do you really think you could last for a week without it, my dear?”

Crowley made a conflicted sound and Aziraphale chuckled.

“I am sorry, darling, I hope you can forgive me. It’s…” he trailed off and sat down on the edge of his bed. “It’s mortifying. I can't say.”

“Oh really? Worse than describing detailed wank fantasies?”

“Yes!”

“Oh come on. It’s me, Aziraphale, whatever it is you can tell me.”

Aziraphale frowned and started to smooth his fingers over the wrinkle of fabric at his thigh. He trusted Crowley, and it wasn't that he thought he would tell anyone. But this was disgusting. Romantic partner or not, this would give Crowley a horrible impression of him. He’d surely think him a terrible restaurant owner and manager if he ever found out, even if he was kind enough to say nothing. And he already felt inadequate next to Crowley, who was currently spending hundreds of dollars just to have dinner with celebrities overseas. His pride couldn't take another blow.

In the end, all he had to do to get the subject dropped was exactly what he did; in his humiliation he breathed a quiet “please” and Crowley immediately backed off. He heard a sigh on the other end.

“You’re safe? Uninjured and all that?”

“Yes, completely.”

“...Right, well, that’s that, then, I guess.”

Aziraphale smiled to himself. They said their goodnights again and he put the phone on his nightstand to charge. He tried to also set aside his worries and leave them for the morning, but they were harder to remove.

The dress code for almost every event that weekend was casual, which was fine because Crowley put a lot of effort into looking “expensively-casual” every day of his life. His jeans were all designer and his suit jacket cost a couple hundred dollars. Why he brought his best clothes to WFF every year, he still didn’t know. He inevitably always spilled tequila on something.

The first day of the festival passed in a blur. In the morning, he had brunch on Pier 94, made friends with a local food critic and he promised to see them at the wine tasting in a few days. In the afternoon, he schmoozed with some big name chefs in the exhibition tent, which involved talking shop, taking selfies and swapping business cards. His “dinner” was a walk-around tasting party held at Pier 97.

He woke up the next morning feeling guilty that he hadn’t even attempted to call Aziraphale when he’d gotten home. But Aziraphale hadn’t called or messaged him either. He did his best not to loiter on that thought.

On day two, he met the molecular gastronomer he’d been looking forward to seeing. After his demo, he got the chance to talk to him and exchange ideas and stories over a drink. He walked away from the exchange with a much broader understanding of the topic and a couple of new ideas he couldn’t wait to try out. He rode that high (and buzz) for the rest of the day, taking more than just sips at the mixology panel and having a beer or two at dinner.

He wasn’t sure how he’d managed to find his way to Mercado Little Spain in time for the late-night party, but he did. And suffice it to say he had thoroughly pregamed for it.

Crowley was a chatty drunk, and he made friends almost immediately upon arriving. And to his credit, he had everyone’s names correct. He just kept mixing up the faces. Maybe if they didn’t move around so fast, he wouldn’t have that problem.

Stephanie (or Kate) was a mixologist at a bar in Brooklyn. She’d been married for eight years to a man named Ron. Kate (or Stephanie) was getting her masters in Nutrition, and they all had a good laugh at the irony of her doing shots with them. Paul (easily identifiable, because he was at least a head taller than Stephanie and/or Kate and had a beard) was an accountant and really had no reason to be here whatsoever except that he liked food very much. Crowley commended him for his honesty.

This group must have thought him a lightweight, because after only his second tequila shot he was opening up to them as if they’d been childhood friends.

“It’s just that--” Crowley leaned prominently sideways. “Y’know, I’m not getting any younger, and I wouldn’t say I wasted my time, I mean that’s… I drive a Bentley, y’know. Classic Bentley. And I've got my own restaurant, well, it's not mine, but I'm the head chef so-"

"Dude, are you hitting on me after I just told you my honeymoon story?"

"No, Kate, I'm having a midlife crisis out loud, okay? Not always about you."

Stephanie burst into laughter beside her and proclaimed: "I'm Kate. That's Stephanie."

"What I mean is," Crowley continued after taking a swig of beer, continuing his train of thought over the laughter. "I should be thinkin’ about my life... an’ my legacy an’ all that. This is great fun innit, but I mean, what if the world ends tomorrow? Y’know? What’m I gonna walk away with?”

“Man, you’re going too deep. Let’s do some shots.” Paul came to rescue him from his existential dilemma with a round of tequila for the table. They cheered and threw back their shots in unison before he continued on, slightly less eloquently than before.

“An’ y’know th’wors’ part is… I feel like’m comin’ in second place. Y’know, where it matters.”

“Where does it matter, Andrew?”

“Anthony. Anthony J. Crowley.”

They shook hands as if he were introducing himself for the first time, and Crowley almost upended a glass of water.

“It matters with him, y’know. I mean, he matters to me but I’m…” He began to lean the other way and put his elbow on the table to steady himself. “But m’starting to feel like I care more about him than he does about me.”

A couple of people at the standing table who hadn’t been involved in the conversation before were now listening in. They turned to him and “aww”ed.

“Shut up,” he grumbled behind his glass.

“Aw honey, I bet that’s not true. Why do you feel like that?”

Crowley shrugged noncommittally. Even in his inebriated haze, laying out his insecurities to complete strangers, he was trying to play the aloof cool guy.

“I dunno. I think about him all the time. ‘M always the firs’ to text, or to call. Didn’t check in after my flight here. Hung up on me. I mean, I get it, he’s busy. He’s an entrepreneuuur, so I get it. His restaurant will prob’ly always be first to him an’... well… it is what it is.” He shook his head and took another long pull at his beer.

“Have you told him how you feel?” Stephanie questioned.

“How I feel? Like love?”

More “aww”s around the table. His “shut up” this time was more slurred and with less bite.

“You love him?”

“Kinda stupid question is- yes, obviously. I love him like… like clouds aren’t white.”

He lost the table at this one. Everyone stared at him in confusion and he passed a hand over his face.

“Y’know, like… you go your whole life thinkin’ “yeah, clouds are white”, no big deal. But they’re not. Clouds aren’t just white, they’re… yellow, or pink, or purple or red or sometimes kinda blue and grey. I don’t know, I’m not a fucking poet, all I know is I went my whole life thinkin’ “love, cool, whatever”, but now I’m lookin’ at the real thing and s’just… so much more than that and I didn’t even know it...”

He didn’t even bother to shut up the “aww”s this time. He slithered downward and lowered his head to rest on the table.

“Did you tell him? Does he know you love him?”

“No, s’only been two months.”

“Two months?” Stephanie exclaimed. “Ron told me after about two weeks of dating.”

Crowley squinted and lifted his head. “Isn’t that kind of early?” He looked around the table, and everyone shrugged.

“It’s different for everyone. How long were you gonna wait...?”

“I dunno. I’ve never told anyone before, was kinda hopin’ he’d say it first so I wouldn’t scare him with it.” He clicked his tongue and sipped at his beer.

“Anthony, you should totally tell him-- oh, wait! Shots! Let’s do more shots.” Kate turned to grab a handful off a passing tray and Crowley plucked up a few also to pass around. The whole table cheersed before they drank.

“But yeah,” Stephanie exhaled a “whoo!” and continued her thought. “Two months isn’t too soon. Just do it! Have some balls.”

He couldn’t argue that logic, in his current state. He nodded vigorously and finished his beer.

“You’re right. I’m g’na tell him. I’m-- I’ll tell him now!”

He got out his phone and looked through his contacts, and he felt some hands on his forearm from some direction.

“No! Dude, don’t call him drunk, that’s the worst idea.”

“Yeah, and if it’s the first time don’t do it over the phone!”

“Oh. Right.” That made sense. “Jus’ got excited.”

“Where are you going?”

His new friends laughed, and he realized belatedly that he was walking. He felt two hands again on his elbow, and somewhere near him the words “taxi” and “what hotel” were spoken. He may or may not have said the name of his hotel, either that or someone in the group was staying at the same place as him. His hands found the top of a car door, and when he blinked he realized he was sitting in the backseat of a moving cab.

“Four Ssseasons.”

“Yeah... I know. Your friend told me.”

He nodded and dropped his head back against the car seat with a grin. “‘M gonna tell my boyfriend I love him.”

“All right. Just don’t throw up in my cab, man.”

Folks with an inclination towards technology tend to check their social media accounts more often than those who don't. Aziraphale had not grown up with the internet (even when it became available to households in the nineties, his mother had never purchased a computer), and so he wasn't yet predisposed to look at his notifications.

He could see the appeal, though, and he was getting better at it with Crowley's help. He wrote down reminders on his calendar to check his accounts once a week, and he kept to this schedule reliably. Crowley helped him with the technical things (he still had a bit of trouble remembering how to make stories instead of posts) but the content and replies all came from Aziraphale himself.

He couldn’t be bothered with it this week, though. Recent reviews and interactions with The Gate’s official Twitter could wait to be handled until next week. He was too preoccupied with this roach issue.

He'd called another exterminator in the morning, and after explaining his situation he was able to book a bug night for that same evening.

“Bug night” is a tedious but necessary process which involves bagging everything, silverware, z-folds, condiment shakers, etc. and moving all the chairs to the wall in order for the exterminators to spray for pests. He explained this to Newton and laid emphasis on the "it’s a preventative measure" part.

The restaurant closed an hour early so that Aziraphale could ready the lobby. He wasn't a young man anymore, and moving all the armchairs usually took him a while. With Newton's help, it fortunately only took half the time. They were both still winded afterwards, though.

"This would be... a lot easier with… wooden chairs," Newton puffed.

"But look at this upholstery! Besides, there's… nothing better than sinking into… a comfortable chair with a nice glass of wine." Aziraphale replied back on several breaths, leaning heavily on a floral chair with gold piping.

He sent the boy away before the experts could come and explained the situation once more to them. He waited around in his office for them to finish, and they came to him afterwards with an invoice that made him wince. Where did they get off charging that much for an "expedite request"? He supposed it was worth it, if he could be assured the problem was taken care of.

He didn't sleep well that night, and when he woke the next morning he realized to his horror that he'd completely forgotten to water Crowley's plants the previous day.

He sprang from his bed with a curse and called for a taxi while struggling out of his pajamas.

Mayfair was only about ten minutes away on a bad day, and previously he had just taken the bus. But he felt so guilty about this that waiting another thirty minutes for the bus to arrive was unpalatable. Those poor thirsty plants! And what would Crowley think if he came back and they were all withered and brown? Or dead, heaven forbid.

He was fairly rumpled by the time he'd gotten into the taxi, and if the driver noticed he had a few buttons out of place, he didn't say anything. Aziraphale rushed to the elevator, nodding politely to someone getting off, and quickly hit the button for Crowley's floor.

Fortunately, his plants did not look like they had suffered from a day of neglect. Still, he took his time with each one and apologized to them as if they could hear his words. He was just about done when he felt his phone vibrate in his jacket pocket. He reached around for it and answered without looking.

"Hello, Aziraphale speaking."

"Aziraphaaale, my angel! You're awake!"

Aziraphale stopped what he was doing and his brows furrowed in perplexity.

"Crowley? What on earth-- what time is it over there?"

"I'unno, listen." Aziraphale checked the clock on the wall. It must have been two in the morning or so. "I have to talk about you to something. No I have to talk to you about ssssahumthing, there we go."

"Crowley, you're quite drunk," Aziraphale replied calmly while he continued spritzing leaves. "Why don't you call me after drinking some water and getting a good night's rest? I'll be here."

"Not now, obviously. I'm building suspense. You left me in antsisipat… antistep… antsy with your "we need to talk" bit. Well, I have something I need to say to you too, and now you get to ssssit with it for a few days until I get there."

Aziraphale chuckled. Even getting a drunk call from Crowley managed to lift his spirits, which had descended drastically over the past few days without him due to… events.

"That's quite fair. I will be patient."

"Good. You better be patient." A pause, and then a muffled: "god I want you to fuck me so bad."

"Crowley, dear!" He blushed, surprised by the other's bluntness.

"What! It's true!" Crowley groaned and Aziraphale heard a mattress squeak. Good, at least he could assume he was safe and in his hotel room.

"Y'know you were s'posed to be asleep so this would go to your voicemail. Now I jus' wanna tell you how much I miss you..."

Aziraphale was about to feel touched over that heartwarming confession when the rest of it came out.

"You and that thick co-"

"My dear," he interrupted, tugging at his collar. "That is very flattering, but I won’t let you get me... riled up at seven in the morning. Drink some water and go to sleep. That's an order."

"Mmm. Okay- okay, yeah, I've got some…" he heard a thud and hoped it was just a water bottle falling on the ground. “When’s a good time then? When can I rile you up?”

“After your hangover passes.”

Crowley laughed for a long time on the other side.

"Yeah, all right. G'night Angel. Or morning, whatever."

"Good night darling. Sleep well."

He smiled when he hung up the phone, giving the leaves one last brush of his thumb in apology before turning off the lights and heading back out.

Chapter Text

Day three of the festival was also a blur, but not in the fun way.

Crowley had lost about an hour that morning paying his dues for the choices he'd made the night before. It was so bright, but closing his eyes made his brain spin in his skull, and his stomach couldn't handle that right now. The bathroom tile was freezing, so he'd dragged a sheet from the bed with him in his misery.

Somewhere between wishing for death and just an hour more of sleep without having to get up to vomit, he managed to call room service for coffee, orange juice and a fruit cup. Somehow that added up to twenty dollars, but since cantaloupe cubes were currently the only thing he could stomach, he would have gladly paid fifty.

He answered the door with wild bedhead, sunglasses, and a sheet over his shoulders. The bell boy was very kind and at the sight of him offered to come back with pain killers. He tipped him double.

He'd fallen asleep in his suit jacket and jeans, the former smelled so strongly of tequila it made his stomach turn again. After making some arrangements with the front desk for dry cleaning services, he dressed and dragged his animated carcass to the meet-and-greet brunch on Pier 97.

He didn't feel very meet-y or greet-y. Even the little amuse-bouches floating around didn't seem appetizing (not through any fault of their own; if Crowley hadn't been suffering from mild alcohol poisoning they probably would have been wonderful).

But again, he was stubborn, so he endured as long as he could.

He skipped the walk-around he'd planned for the afternoon to head back to the hotel and get some more sleep. When he woke up, he begrudgingly decided to just stay in and order room service again.

As much as he hated to admit it, maybe he was getting too old to party four days in a row.

He felt fully recovered at around four in the afternoon. For the first time that day, his eyes felt well enough to look at a screen. He turned on the flat screen TV against the wall while he checked his phone for any missed messages.

He had a couple of blurry selfies that were new to him with different groups of people. He tried to recall what had happened in Little Spain, but he could only see flashes of faces. After a while he dismissed it and looked at his call list instead.

He pursed his lips in mild concern at one in particular. He'd had a call that lasted for seven minutes with Aziraphale at two in the morning that he didn't remember at all.

"Fuck."

No, he did remember something. Nothing in detail, but he recalled the overpowering urge to tell Aziraphale he loved him.

Oh lord, had he done that over the phone? He prayed not, how classless that would've been. He wanted to look into Aziraphale's eyes when he told him, with his arms around his waist. He wanted to see his reaction (hopefully positive) and be in range should Aziraphale become overwhelmed with the desire to kiss him, or maybe push him down onto the couch or up against a wall, wherever they happened to be…

His hand drifted between his thighs idly at the thought.

It was nearly six now, he supposed Aziraphale was probably done closing up for the day. Might as well find out now how stupid he'd been last night. He tapped his name, started a call, and held the phone to his ear.

"Ah, Crowley. Good to see you survived the night."

"Hey, Angel. Closed already?"

"Yes, I've just stepped upstairs actually. I'm enjoying a glass of, well, maybe I won't mention it.”

“Please. I don't want to even think about alcohol again for at least a decade.”

“Well, you reap what you sow,” Aziraphale tutted him in a motherly way.

“Yeah, well, must've sown a lot last night.” He leaned back against the headrest and tapped his knee thoughtfully.

“Speaking of last night…”

He cleared his throat, but rather than floundering for a decent way to say I called you but don't actually remember doing it, Aziraphale saved him the trouble.

“Yes, you called me last night. What's that delightful term? You “drunk dialed” me.” Crowley could practically hear him grinning.

“Yep, seems I did…” he said with a click of his tongue, which he tended to do when he was searching for something to say. “So…?”

“So, my answer is yes! Yes, I would be delighted to move in with you, Crowley.”

“Wha-”

“Of course I'll have to redecorate a bit, it's too dark for me. What are your thoughts on floral wallpaper?”

“You're fucking with me, aren't you.”

He heard a chuckle on the other end that made his heart melt.

“I am.”

“You're a bit of a bastard you know that?”

He grinned up at the ceiling and let the thought sink in. If he had proposed that, it wouldn't be so bad, would it? Waking up next to Aziraphale every morning… and staying in bed for an extra hour or so to fool around...

“All right, so what did I really say?”

“Just that you have something to tell me when you come back, and that you miss me.”

“Good. Nothing bad then?”

“Well,” Aziraphale laughed, “Nothing bad, but you were a bit lewd. I believe the phrasing was “I miss you and your thick cock”.”

“Ah. Well, it’s true.” He grinned and let his fingertips traced his inner thigh. “Was I any more descriptive than that? I know you like when I talk dirty to you."

"Mm, I'm afraid I cut you off early. I did have to go to work."

"Ah. That’s a shame."

"...However, I'm available now."

"Ooh, you are a bit of a bastard, aren't you?"

Crowley put on his best suave and sultry voice, but lunged for the remote rather clumsily to turn off the TV in his anticipation. Nothing was going to distract him from phone sex with Aziraphale, if that was really what was on the table.

"I suppose I am," Aziraphale conceded. "And maybe a touch jealous. Surely there are a lot of dashing American celebrities over there, tempting you away from me..."

"Now Angel, you know I only have eyes for you."

Aziraphale hummed thoughtfully.

"I'm serious. I'd do anything for you, y'know."

"Hm. I'm afraid you'll have to prove it."

Such a simple utterance, yet it had Crowley salivating. The redhead sat upright on the edge of the bed, fingers tapping his knee eagerly.

"I will."

"What are you wearing, my dear?"

Crowley looked down at himself. Honestly, the day had passed in such a haze that he'd forgotten what he'd dug out of his suitcase that morning.

"Ah… a grey v-neck and jeans."

"Mm." Aziraphale paused in thought. "I do so love a low neckline on you. It really highlights your collar bones. But I think I'd like it better if you weren't wearing a shirt."

"It's gone," he assured him, standing to pull it over his head with one hand and only briefly removing the phone from his ear to do so.

"Have you done it?"

"Yeah."

"...Well I want to believe you, darling. But for all I know, you could just be saying so to please me."

It had been halfway out of Crowley's mouth to argue that he wasn't lying when he caught on to what Aziraphale was hinting at.

"You… need proof?"

"I'm afraid I do."

Crowley's pulse quickened. Aziraphale was full of surprises, and he had really hit the ground running when he'd found out about Crowley's preferences in bed. He played this role so naturally. And even though he was so soft and polite in his requests, Crowley would bend over backwards to do whatever he asked for. Sometimes, he really couldn’t believe his luck with Aziraphale. The man was so understanding of his wants, so open to trying things with him and communicating with him, and endlessly patient and kind, and… Crowley was just overflowing with affection for him.

He stood from the bed and went to the mirror in the space outside the bathroom. He took a photo of himself and sent it to Aziraphale.

"Sent. How's that?"

"Let me put you on speaker." There was a pause, and when he spoke again the volume had changed slightly. "Oh, that's lovely. You really are impossibly handsome."

Crowley's grin was short-lived.

"-but you know, there's something off about this picture."

"Oh?"

"Yes. I wonder… I think I'd like it if you weren't clothed at all. Will you do that for me?"

Crowley had the strange experience of seeing his own reaction to this request in the mirror. His eyes widened and he stammered momentarily.

"Uh-- you-- you want…?"

"Oh dear, is that too much?"

It was becoming easier for Crowley to tell when Aziraphale was playing a role and when he was genuinely worried he'd gone too far. Crowley smiled at his reflection.

"No, Angel, it's not." He licked his lips as he unzipped his pants and eased them down his hips. "I'll tell you if it is. We talked about colors, yeah? I'll use them."

"Yes. All right then.”

Crowley stepped out of his jeans and hesitated. He'd never done something quite like this before, but he'd be lying if he said it wasn't thrilling beneath the embarrassment. He trusted Aziraphale more than anyone, and knew he would never do anything malicious with these. He felt safe doing this for him.

He took a photo and tapped send, his hand trembling in excitement more than anything, then quickly went into his photo gallery to delete it. Just in case.

"Oh… my darling, yes. You're gorgeous. I'm sorry to have made you blush, but it looks like you're enjoying this."

The thought of Aziraphale raking his eyes over a photo of him naked while sipping wine in his armchair went straight to his cock. Crowley looked around and grabbed a towel before he moved away from the mirror and went back to the other room.

“Course I am. Told you, I'd do anything you ask.”

“Yes, and you're doing a wonderful job. Oh… I suppose you don't have anything you can use there with you.”

“Brought some lube, if that’s what you mean,” he said without thinking.

“Oh…? Now Crowley, you know I disapprove of you pleasuring yourself away from me. Do I need to punish you when you come home?”

“No, I--” Well, maybe, he thought with a twinge of delight. “I was a little overconfident thinking I could convince you to come with me. I forgot to unpack it.”

“I see. Well, that is fortunate. Take it with you on your way to the bed.”

Crowley snatched it up from inside his suitcase and went back as he was told. He sat down and put the bottle aside for now, keeping the phone to his ear.

“Oh, I do so wish I could be there with you... “ Aziraphale lamented. “I can’t stop looking at this photo of you.”

“I wish you could be here too,” Crowley said under his breath. He settled onto his back again and stared up at the ceiling. “What would you do? If you were here.”

“Well, for a start, I’d run my fingers through your hair… then trace them down your neck to your chest.”

Crowley closed his eyes and raised a hand to do whatever Aziraphale narrated. For a blissful moment, with his honeyed words voicing over these actions, he could imagine him there.

“But since I can’t be there to spoil you, let me give you some instructions. I hope you will follow them closely.”

“I will,” he breathed. He opened his eyes to put the call on speaker and set the phone next to him on the bed.

“Good. Because if I suspect you aren’t, I might need some more proof.”

The thought made Crowley’s cock twitch. He nodded vigorously to an empty room.

“I’ll give it to you. Whatever you ask for.”

“For now, I’d like you to put me on speaker, if you haven’t already.”

“I have.”

“Excellent, because your hands are going to get a bit dirty. I’d like you to prep your fingers with the lubricant for me.”

Crowley attempted to reach over to the nightstand without having to get back up. He snatched the bottle on the second try and popped open the top. It was cold, and a little went a long way to coat the fingers and palm of his right hand. He spread some on the left as well, to be thorough.

“Okay. Now what.”

“Now I know what you would like to touch, if this photo is any indication, but you must not until I instruct you to do so. Do you understand?”

“Yes.”

“Good. Let’s start with some circles along your chest.”

Crowley complied, making the motions that Aziraphale usually would when they were standing alone in his kitchen or just before he’d kiss him in the Bentley. He closed his eyes again and turned his head to the side.

“Oh, I do so love your chest, especially where the muscle divots and your shoulder begins, that’s one of my favorite spots to kiss.”

He bopped the bridge of his nose against the side of his phone while the other man monologued, as if it were a physical representation of Aziraphale.

“...And I do have a guilty pleasure of raking my nails over those nipples. Would you do the honors?”

He did, and it drew a sharp exhale from him. The lubricant made everything so frictionless, but left whatever skin it came in contact with vulnerable to the cold of the room. The sound seemed to satisfy Aziraphale, who thanked him and moved on.

“Not just your chest, of course. Your whole torso is quite delightful. When you come home, I’d really like to cherish you properly. Skim your abdomen, please.”

Crowley hummed in anticipation. His toes curled against the sheets while he fought off the urge to wrap his slick hand around the needy erection resting just within reach on his lower stomach.

“Is it cold, my dear?”

“A little,” he breathed back. His eyes opened so he could look down at his hands. It was so tempting, seeing his fingers shiny with lube just a hair’s breadth from his aching cock. His knuckles could accidentally brush his tip and Aziraphale would be none the wiser. But he couldn’t.

“Poor dear. You’ll be warm soon enough. Now, I’d like it if one of those hands could dip between your legs. Give the inside of your thighs some attention, but keep it featherlight."

“You’re driving me mad,” he whispered as his legs spread apart to comply.

“That’s not my intention,” Aziraphale pouted playfully. “Is that what you think when I do this to you?”

“No,” his fingers dared to betray him, moving away from his thigh to ghost over his underside, but he controlled the urge and returned them. “God, no. I’d gladly spend hours under your hands taking whatever you’re willing to give me. But these aren’t your hands, so... it just makes me want you more.”

Aziraphale went silent for a moment, and in Crowley’s proximity to the phone he could make out a faint shlick sound and a gentle moan on the other side. He felt light-headed at the image this painted. How long had Aziraphale been touching himself?

“Good. You know I really do enjoy taking my time with you. I’ve never thought that it should be a race to finish, after all. It’s an opportunity for me to show my affection to you.”

“I know,” he replied in a haze. The picture of Aziraphale leaning back in his armchair while toying with himself made a bit of precum leak onto his stomach. He pulled himself away from the fantasy to form words. “You put so much care into everything you do. I could tell, y’know, from watching you. Early on, I’d… go home wishing you’d use those hands on me.”

The desire to stroke himself was nearly making him dizzy at this point.

“Oh, Crowley,” Aziraphale’s words were low and thick with lust at this point. “I will, as much as you like. But sometimes I’m afraid I do get carried away and go too far. One stroke, my dear, nice and firm. But only once.”

It was electric, a jolt of pleasure shot all throughout his body as his slippery hand dragged over himself. His cock bobbled gratefully.

“Ah… Please, Aziraphale…”

“Not yet.”

He was so good at this. Normally, when Crowley felt the need to jerk himself off, it was very automatic and almost desensitized. He’d take a few minutes in the shower or in bed to do what he needed to do to sate the carnal urge and go to sleep. There was no time wasted in pinching his nipples pert or tickling his thighs. But Aziraphale knew how to build the tension in him. He knew how to make him salivate, and writhe, and groan in desperation. He knew how to make every inch of him feel electrified, even thousands of kilometers away.

He continued the torment for a little longer before Crowley’s sounds were nearer to strained sobs, and at that point he finally conceded and let him pump himself. He did so fervently, but the allowance came with a caution.

“When you feel close, I want you to stop. I want you to remove your hand and place it on your stomach.”

“I don’t know if I can,” he said honestly over his panting. “You don’t know what you do to me.”

“You will.”

As it turned out, Aziraphale was right. He drew his hand away with a choked whimper. He’d almost stopped too late, but was able to stave off the orgasm through a combination of sheer willpower and a brusque pinch to his inner thigh that made him yelp.

“What was that? Oh Crowley, did you finish already?”

“No,” he managed. “No, no I just pinched myself.”

“...I want to believe you, my dear, but I think I’ll need some proof.”

Crowley shivered at the thought. So deep in his euphoria as he was, so close to orgasm, the idea was only distractingly enticing, but Aziraphale must have taken the pause as hesitation.

“I need a color, Crowley.”

“Green.” He panted. “Just a second.”

He found the towel he’d taken from the washroom earlier and dried his off hand with it so he could pick up his phone and take a picture. He sent it to Aziraphale and dropped the device back down on the bed.

“Oh, my darling… did I work you into this state?”

“You did.” He murmured with a smile. “Are you going to work me out of it?”

“Yes, of course. Keep going again, slowly this time.”

He did. After being so close to the edge, the momentary loss of touch entirely made this new contact feel overwhelming.

“Talk to me, Crowley. Tell me what you want.”

“I want you, oh fuck-- I want you. I want your hands, your mouth, ah-- I want that cock. I’d kill to have your thick cock in me right now… when I come, I want to kiss you. I want to shove my tongue in your mouth and show you how much I-”

He’d almost said love. He opened his eyes and tried to refocus. This was certainly fun, but he’d almost gotten too lost in the moment. He really needed to be more careful.

“-how much I need you…”

“Oh, Crowley… Crowley...!”

“Are you close?”

“Y-yes.”

“I want to come with you,” he confessed, keeping his pace slow although it nearly killed him. “Please... let me...”

“Yes, my darling, you may.”

He sped up his pace, and all it really took to get him over the edge was Aziraphale’s delighted gasp and shaky cry of his name. Crowley moaned rather erotically as he came, and he gasped Aziraphale’s name on repeat with each wave that spilled against his stomach.

His whole body felt tingly long after his release. He blindly sought out the towel on the edge of the bed again to clean himself up and dropped it off the side again while he caught his breath.

“How do you make me come so hard when you’re so far away? S’really not fair.”

“I could say the same,” Aziraphale’s voice was deeper than usual, with the edge of drowsiness to it he had only heard a handful of times before. “...It would be so nice to fall asleep next to you right now.”

“Soon,” Crowley reassured him, just as drowsily. It was only a quarter to seven, but he was still exhausted from last night. And this little extracurricular only made him more sluggish. “My flight’s tomorrow night. I’ll see you in about two days.”

“I can’t wait, my dear.”

I can’t either, Crowley thought. I’m going to scoop you into my arms where you stand and tell you how I really feel. I’ve waited long enough. Maybe it was the euphoria that was still melting slowly through his body, but he felt full to bursting with affection for the other. It was almost physically painful to be away from him.

“Did you eat, Angel?”

“I did, thank you. I’m just one shower away from bed. You?”

“Mm, not yet. I think I might order some room service and watch some American television.”

“How enticing.”

“I know,” He said with a grin, pulling himself upright so he could grab some blankets to pull over him. He talked a big game about ordering food, but the impulse to just fall asleep again was pretty strong. He’d see which one was stronger after a few minutes of recovering.

“Well, I won’t keep you. Goodnight, Angel. Thanks for tonight, amazing as usual.”

Aziraphale laughed softly on his end.

“Goodnight, my dear. Sleep well, I’ll see you very soon.”

Chapter Text

It was ten in the evening when Crowley’s plane touched down. He’d gone straight from the closing ceremonies to the airport and didn’t sleep much during the seven hour flight. The plane taxied the runway, and during this time he fished out his phone to send Aziraphale a text saying he’d arrived.

Once the passengers were finally let out, he wasn’t surprised to see that no one waiting for him at the gate. This wasn’t some B-list rom-com, Aziraphale had a business to run and no one to help him with it (Crowley didn’t consider Newton proper help). He wasn’t expecting him to drop everything for a silly romantic gesture.

He’ll be waiting for me at the other Gate, he consoled himself with a wry grin as he waited for his suitcase at the luggage carousel.

He didn’t drive the Bentley initially, because in all honesty he loved it too much to leave it in the airport carpark for a week. He took a taxi back to his flat so that he could drop off his things before going over to see Aziraphale. But once he got up to the condo and unpacked everything, he really just wanted to collapse. Flying for any length of time was exhausting, and as much as he couldn’t wait to see his angel again, his body had limits.

He checked his phone to see that the message he’d sent earlier hadn’t even been read yet. Aziraphale was probably still closing up. He sent him another message to excuse himself for the night:

hey Im really beat
dont think I can make the drive tonight

It only took ten minutes on a bad day to get to the restaurant, but at the moment it really was a struggle just to keep his eyes open. Aziraphale was probably tired too, so hopefully he’d forgive him coming by in the morning instead.

He set up the phone to charge on his nightstand and went to check on a few things. He switched off the main lights in the living room and went to inspect his plants to see if they needed watering for the evening. When he turned on the lights in the side room, he saw not only perfectly healthy plants but a little gift box on the small table next to the spray bottle. He picked it up and inspected the note that came with it:

Welcome home!
♥ Aziraphale

He smiled wearily and pried open the folds of the box. When he saw the contents inside he barked a laugh in surprise.

"How thoughtful."

He took one of the painkillers inside the box with a swig of water. The hangover was long gone by now, but all that dry, recycled air during the flight had given him something of a headache. He turned off the lights on his way back to the bedroom and slipped into some pajamas. Afterwards, he noticed the screen on his phone had lit up. Aziraphale was calling him. He grabbed the device and held it to his ear.

“Crowley! I’m glad I caught you, I’m so sorry I couldn’t be there to pick you up.”

“Hm? That was never the plan,” Crowley murmured as he sank into bed. His joints felt stiff from sitting in an uncomfortable position all day (being over six feet while in economy class was a very special kind of torture) and they were grateful for the soft mattress and the room to stretch.

“Well… no, but I wanted to close early and surprise you. It’s just been very hectic over here, and… um…” Aziraphale hesitated, and as much as he wanted to hear what he had to say, Crowley was literally falling asleep trying to hold the phone to his ear.

“It’s okay, Angel, really. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Ah, yes… I suppose it’s too late for me to come over there, isn’t it?”

“Well, I’m already in bed.”

“Oh! Right, yes of course you are, it’s so late.”

“That’s not a ‘no’, though.” He clarified. “You’ve got a key. You could just come in.”

“...You wouldn’t mind it?” Aziraphale sounded so uncertain, it was really endearing. “I’ve just missed you quite a bit and, well… if I’m honest, I’ve had a rather trying day. It would be so nice to see you.”

“My arms are open and waiting to comfort you, Angel,” he assured him. “But you’ve got about six minutes before I’m out cold. If I am, just shove me over and wriggle on in here.”

Aziraphale must have said something to end the call, but Crowley didn’t remember it. He was in that blissful stage where he wasn’t sure if he’d fallen asleep or not by the time he heard the front door open. It was accompanied by quiet footsteps and a knock at his bedroom door. He murmured something hopefully loud enough to usher him in, and he saw a streak of light across the floor.

“I’ve never been in your bedroom before,” Aziraphale whispered as he stepped closer to the bed. Crowley had enough adrenaline in him now from hearing the other’s voice in such close proximity to turn over and open his eyes.

“Hey you,” he purred, half conscious.

“Hello, my dear.”

Aziraphale sat down on the edge of the bed. Crowley’s eyes were a little unfocused, but he could make out the other’s features despite the backlighting from the doorway. His curls were illuminated by the light, and he was overcome with the desire to touch him. He reached a hand up to run over the side of his face and graze his fingers through his short hair. The result was a sigh of contentment and a kiss, which he accepted sleepily and did his best to reciprocate.

“Poor thing, you’re exhausted, aren’t you?”

“Mm.”

“I’ll leave you be. I just wanted to see you.”

He felt fingertips against his scalp and hummed happily. The painkillers had started to take effect, and compounded with the other’s relaxing gestures he was hard-pressed to make words happen. He moved his hand to limply rest on Aziraphale’s forearm.

“Stay.”

He heard the other laugh.

“I didn’t bring any pajamas.”

“Don’t need’m.”

He started blindly plucking at his waistcoat buttons but only managed to get two open. Aziraphale took pity on him and did the rest. He felt the bed shift while the other took off his shoes and some articles of clothing. Once Aziraphale was half-dressed and under the duvet, Crowley moved to press himself flush to him.

“D’you wanna tell me about this day you had?” He murmured against the other’s jaw as he peppered it with lazy kisses. He smelled like sandalwood and roses, as usual, but today there was an additional hint of something warm like brown sugar. This combination was already registered in his olfactories as “Aziraphale”, which automatically put him at ease.

“Not particularly,” he heard the other reply. “I was just…”

“Hoping for a distraction?” Crowley finished his thought with a smile. His fingers drew intricate wriggly sigils along the other man’s chest. "Y'know the first time you said that, my mind went to a filthy place."

"Oh? Do share." Aziraphale chuckled. He was not so far gone as Crowley and completely coherent, whereas the redhead's words were slurred against his neck and dripping with fatigue.

"Mhmm. If I'd been a bit braver, might've kissed you then."

"Really? I don't think I would have objected to that… I found you to be very dashing from the get-go."

Crowley grinned, his ego sufficiently stroked.

"Hell, you could've looked at me a certain way and I'd've been on my knees sucking you off behind the counter."

"I doubt that. We hardly knew each other."

Crowley hummed. "Well, I knew I wanted your cock in my mouth pretty early on."

"My goodness."

His hand had moved down his chest to the front of his trousers. After a bit of suggestive palming that elicited a moan from the other, he began to fumble with the closure. But Aziraphale placed his hand over his, effectively stilling him.

“Tomorrow, dear. I don’t want you falling asleep in the middle of anything.”

Crowley made a grunt in agreement and settled on draping an arm over the other.

As nice of a time he’d had in New York, he was overjoyed to sleep in his own bed again, and even more so with the added comfort of his angel beside him. He might have whispered something to that effect to the other, or not, before he passed out.

They say when you’re in love, you dream more often.

Crowley dreamt of airports, and luggage carousels, and New York, and alleyways with cute little restaurants tucked away. And somewhere in the depths of these alleyways, inexplicably, was The Gate.

Something was off about it, something he couldn’t put his finger on. As he approached, he felt an indescribable dread in his chest. It was bright inside, so bright… Aziraphale must have been waiting for him.

But no, that was impossible, because Aziraphale was beside him. The man tugged at his hand.

Let’s go, dear.

They had reservations somewhere, he knew, and they couldn’t show up late. He followed Aziraphale out of the alley, and when he turned around to look at The Gate as they passed, it was gone.

This dream was mostly forgotten by the time he woke up, like sand through his fingers.

He felt something warm against his cheek, and he turned towards it. Aziraphale was kissing him awake, and he never wanted to wake up any other way ever again.

“Had a dream about you.”

“Did you?” The other asked, sounding perfectly well-rested. “Good things, I hope?”

“Can’t remember.” He stretched his arms over his head, then rolled so he could straddle the other. Now that it was "tomorrow", there was no excuse for them to be chaste.

“Quickie before breakfast?”

Crowley made good on his promise from the night prior and gave Aziraphale a nice distraction that morning. Afterwards, they showered and dragged themselves into the kitchen for some poached eggs and toast.

The weather wasn't too formidable, and Crowley had a space heater on the balcony, so they enjoyed their breakfast outside. He'd noticed Aziraphale's eyes were drawn to the space on more than one occasion, and although it wasn't anything special to Crowley, he supposed to someone who didn't have a balcony it might be intriguing.

They lingered outside for a while with mugs of hot beverages in hand and the space heater on low under the table.

"What's on the docket for today?"

Crowley inquired from a very short distance. He'd found that it was quite pleasant to take a drink of coffee and kiss Aziraphale's neck to transfer some additional heat to him. He might stop being handsy after a day or so, but he'd been deprived of him for almost a week and he was still recovering from the withdrawals.

"Ah, today is cake day," Aziraphale declared with some dread.

"Already?"

"Yes. I'm not particularly worried about the bake, but… my word, I don't think I've decorated a wedding cake since I graduated from culinary school."

"Don't take this the wrong way, but why the hell did they ask you to do the cake if you don't have a body of work?"

Aziraphale pinched his thigh and he jumped in his seat. He hadn't been expecting that.

"I gave them a steep discount since I'm already catering the rest of the reception. People love getting everything they need all in one place, especially people trying to put together a wedding."

"So I can imagine. What's the look they want?"

"Just a traditional three-tier, thank goodness. But I think I will be closing early today so I'm not up all night piping."

Crowley settled back against the patio loveseat and clicked his tongue in thought.

"...Y'know, I do drop string icing pretty regularly. Well, it's not icing when I do it, it's actually a mixture of fruit puree and xanthan gum, but it's the same rote motions."

Aziraphale regarded him for a moment, and Crowley recognized the hesitation in his expression. He'd seen it before he left for New York. The man parted his lips, shook his head and took a sip of tea.

"I couldn't pay you."

"I'm not looking for a bloody job, Aziraphale, I'm offering to help you."

"Yes, but you don't work for me… it feels wrong. Besides, wouldn't your side object to that if they found out?"

"Why should they care?" he said easily and with a shrug. "It's not for work. I'm just helping my boyfriend finish his project so I can jump his bones earlier. Wouldn't you rather go to bed in the evening instead of the morning for once? I mean, look at you..."

Now that it was morning and they were outside in the overcast light of day, Crowley could finally get a good look at Aziraphale. He hadn't noticed in the stretch of time before this conversation, but he looked quite peaky. His eyes were heavily shadowed despite a full night's rest, and instead of his usual glow there was a gloomy overlay to him.

Something was going on underneath the surface. He frowned thoughtfully and touched his shoulder.

"...Are you all right?"

"Of course, dear boy, why wouldn't I be? …Though I suppose you have a point. That would be nice, but I really don't want to trouble you."

"It's no trouble. Making fondant flowers soothes me."

They were back to laughing, and after a few more humble brags about his decorating skills, Crowley's offer to help was accepted. They cleaned up their breakfast mess and went their separate ways for the day to reconvene in the evening.

Tonight, he was going to do it. He'd help Aziraphale with the cake thing, then go upstairs with him, give him the gift he'd picked up from the show, and tell him he loved him.

In their line of work, which was demanding in both body and schedule, romantic opportunities didn't just happen naturally. He had to make his own, and a midnight dinner was probably the closest he was going to get to a moonlit stroll on a beach.

Aziraphale said he'd close around three, after the last of the lunch rush. Crowley had become accustomed to knocking on the kitchen door around the back when he knew the other was closing. He was more likely to be heard that way, plus it felt like he had exclusive access. He was let it almost immediately, and the cost of entry was only one kiss.

Crowley had two speeds: laid-back and work-mode, and once he set foot in the kitchen the dial turned. He pulled his hair into a messy bun, rolled up his sleeves and donned an apron. A glint of new stainless steel caught his eye and he whistled.

"Wow. New oven?"

"Ah… um, yes."

“Looks nice. Cakes already in there, is it?”

“Yes, I'm afraid there isn't much for you to do right now. You could help me make fondant if you would like?”

“Love to, chef. Brought some stuff of my own to show you, if you're open to options.”

In general, Aziraphale had the drop on Crowley in most culinary arenas. His food tasted better, of that there was little doubt. He knew a lot of haute cuisine and general hospitality customs that Crowley couldn't even identify on paper. He'd been doing this almost all his life, after all, and had a degree under his belt.

However, when it came to certain things, Crowley had the upper hand. He had an eye for design that had been cultivated in his early marketing days, and his understanding of reactions, textures, viscosities and difficult or unusual substances from his recent endeavors as a molecular gastronomer gave him an edge that a traditional chef might not have.

He displayed this when he slipped on his latex gloves, heated up some isomalt, spread it out to cool and pulled a sugar rose to life. He affixed the petals with a blow torch and dusted it with a gold powder that gave it a pearlescent gradient, and Aziraphale was nearly breathless at the sight of it. Although, that might have been from rolling out fondant, which was a physically taxing process.

“Oh Crowley, that's gorgeous…! My word, look at these delicate edges!”

“Yeah?”

“Yes! Do you think you could make a larger one? For the topper. This looks so much more elegant than a fondant flower.”

Crowley felt a swell of pride at this reception, but tried not to let it show. He set the flower down and began heating up more isomalt. In the end, they decided to pepper smaller sugar roses throughout the three tiers, so he made one centerpiece-worthy and three or four smaller ones to tie it in.

When the sheets of cake came out of the oven and were placed in the fridge to cool for the crumb coating, Crowley sat down with Aziraphale's original sketch to conceptualize what it would look like as an end result. He offered to do a subtle gradient with the airbrush he'd brought, which would really make the white icing stringwork stand out. They did a few more sketches together with Crowley's fresh eyes on the project, and Aziraphale became more and more excited with each idea.

"This is the first thing we've really done together in the kitchen, isn't it." Crowley said as he spun the cake to ice the other side.

"Nonsense, we've had so many lessons together." Aziraphale said after carefully measuring one of the wooden dowels for the inside of the cake. "Have you forgotten them already?"

"No, I mean, this is the first thing we've collaborated on."

"Ah. Yes, I suppose it is."

Crowley grinned to himself without looking up from the lattice he was piping on the topper.

"Wouldn't mind doing more."

"We do make a nice team, don't we?"

Aziraphale put the dowels into the cake and recruited Crowley's help to stack the middle tier. They carefully positioned it and exhaled only once it was securely centered. Crowley went back to his piping and Aziraphale cut more dowels for the final tier.

"Have you ever thought about it?"

"Thought about what?" Aziraphale didn't look up from his measuring. Crowley shrugged.

"Doing more of this. Catering, making cakes, changing up the business a little?"

"Honestly… Yes."

Aziraphale propped his reading glasses on the top of his head for a moment and leaned back in his chair. Crowley stopped what he was doing and looked up at him. He'd been expecting a firm "no", and was surprised to hear this from him. The blond looked ready to say something else, but then reconsidered and put his glasses back on.

"It's nice to think about, but not very practical to have unrealistic wants."

"What do you want that's unrealistic?" He pried.

"Nothing."

Aziraphale dropped it, and at length with some reluctance Crowley did too.

The cake was completed around ten, and both parties marveled at their ability to finish a wedding cake in under eight hours. They hoisted it into the freezer together.

"Do you need help delivering it?"

"No, I'll have Newton with me for the event."

"You're going to ask Newt to help you carry that heavy cake in and out of a truck? Just out of curiosity, how many plates has he broken so far?"

"...I see your point. But I couldn't inconvenience you any further, besides don't you have work tomorrow?"

"Must've caught a cold in the States, think I'll call out." Crowley said with a sharp grin.

"You wily thing… well, if you're offering, I would love a second set of hands. Thank you."

Once the cake was properly stored for the night, Aziraphale extended an invitation to go upstairs for dinner.

Crowley took off his apron and grabbed his bag eagerly. This was it. He felt light headed in anticipation of what was to come. Hopefully it would go over well… it did have the potential to get awkward. What if he really was rushing it and Aziraphale wasn't on the same page as him? Well, he had already resolved to tell him, so he'd just have to be brave and find that out for himself.

He followed Aziraphale to the staircase, but on the way he noticed something strange about the event space. He did a double-take towards the window.

"There used to be a piano there."

"Hmm? Oh… yes."

"What happened to it?"

"Ah…"

Aziraphale stared at the empty spot and did that thing with his hands when he was stalling for time. He was about to tell him a lie.

"Storage. It's in storage."

"Why are you lying to me?"

Aziraphale didn't look at him.

"I'm not."

Crowley's brow crinkled in irritation. He stepped closer and put his hand on Aziraphale's shoulder, which caused him to finally meet his gaze.

"You are. I can tell. What's going on?"

Aziraphale floundered for words and exhaled heavily. While he did, Crowley tried to piece together the clues he had: hanging up on him and then dodging the subject, the "trying day", the fatigued appearance, the new oven, the “unrealistic wants”, the missing piano…

"It's nothing you need to worry about."

"Come on, Aziraphale. We talked about communication, why can't you just talk to me?"

"..."

"Do you not trust me? Is that it?"

"No, of course it's not that…"

"Good, because need I remind you I literally sent you naked pictures of myself. You could ruin me at any moment-"

"I would never do that!"

"I know, because I trust you. So why can't you-"

"Because, it's... it's just none of your business, Crowley."

"My boyfriend is upset, and that makes it my business."

"Not if he says it's nothing."

"Is it money…? Do you need-"

"Just-- stop! For heaven's sake, Crowley, stop… trying to solve my problems for me! Everything is fine, and even if it wasn't I can handle it myself!"

Aziraphale had not once raised his voice to Crowley, even in the kitchen before leaving for New York. He could tell the other man was uncomfortable letting it escalate, but Aziraphale said nothing to apologize for his tone. His expression was flustered but unyielding. He waited for an explanation for the outburst, but this time none came.

After what felt like eons, Crowley turned his head to the side. This time he was the one with difficulty meeting his eyes.

"Fine. Just trying to help."

Aziraphale remained silent. Was this going to be their relationship, then? Was Aziraphale just going to call him whenever he needed a distraction, whenever it was convenient, and avoid sharing anything substantial with him? He'd thought that barrier had been broken after Aziraphale told him about his mother, but apparently not.

Something cold and heavy settled in his chest, and the longer the silence continued the more he fell into these bitter thoughts. He scoffed quietly and adjusted his bag on his shoulder.

"Think I'll just go home."

He turned to head for the kitchen exit, but before he left he paused to reach into his bag. He slowly set the bottle of wine he’d brought back from New York on one of the tables closest to him.

"Chateauneuf du Pape, 1985. Asked around, thought you might like it."

Chapter Text

At age 23, Aziraphale would have said with certainty that his mother would be at his graduation ceremony. At age 24, he was proven wrong.

It was spring when he laid her to rest, and amidst the sadness and confusion he remembered predominantly thinking one solitary thought: I'm not ready.

It was selfish, but at that age he wasn’t ready to be alone. He had never had to pay an electric bill. He’d never needed to take out a loan, or file his own taxes, or consult a lawyer. But then the lights went out in their (no, his) apartment, and he needed to pay for his next semester, and rent, and he needed to go over his mother’s will and handle her affairs. Life didn't pause for him to grieve. There were so many things he didn’t know how to do, and in his duress even simple tasks were much more difficult.

He learned two things from his mother’s passing: to value what precious time he had with other people, and to get by on his own.

It’s a strange thing to realize that there is no one left in the world who loves you unconditionally. Aziraphale came to terms with this after endless conversations with electricians, landlords, lawyers, professors, and all manner of customer service representatives. It was a hard realization to come to, but in the end it made him a stronger person. He became self-reliant very quickly.

By age 25, he grew tired of hearing “Poor Aziraphale”.

Even a year after her passing, people treated him with pity. They stopped talking when he entered a room, or lowered their voices to speak with him as if volume might upset him. He yearned for his colleagues and friends to just treat him normally again. He dreaded having to ask questions, because anyone who knew him, knew his situation, would treat him as if he was made of glass. “Poor Aziraphale, who needs to sign up for his own health insurance plan,'' they must have thought. “Poor Aziraphale, who doesn’t know how to apply for a loan”.

You’re on your own now.

He began asking the people he knew fewer questions and spent more time on the phone with unenthusiastic customer service representatives. He much preferred it to the dreaded “are you okay”? It became harder for him to ask for favors, and easier for him to smile and say that everything was fine. People treated him normally if “everything was fine”. They laughed, and joked, and spoke at a regular volume when “everything was fine”.

He soon found out that the best way to move forward was to keep his problems to himself and to be resolutely cheerful regardless of his mood.

It worked. And it stuck.

For the first time in his life, Aziraphale was upset after receiving a £200 bottle of wine.

(Actually, he’d never been gifted a £200 bottle of wine prior to this.)

The morning after the argument, Aziraphale sat at the booth with the wine bottle Crowley had left him. The fact that Crowley had thought to buy him such an expensive gift, such a thoughtful gift, and went through the trouble of asking someone who knew a thing or two about wine (maybe even voicing what he knew about Aziraphale’s own personal tastes)... it really made him feel terrible. Especially because, upon first seeing it, he’d wondered if he could cash it in to help buy back his mother’s piano.

Of course he would never do such a thing. How terrible that would be! But what a horrible person he had become, that the thought had even occurred to him. He buried his face in his hands as he morosely contemplated what had led to him becoming this man.

He knew in his heart that he shouldn’t have yelled at Crowley. The evening should never have ended that way, especially since the other man had just spent hours of his free time helping him just out of the goodness of his heart. But even he had his limits, and his pride had already been chipped away little by little over the previous week. There wasn’t much left of him now.

Still, that was no excuse. He'd been so unkind to the man he loved, and he couldn't take that back.

He lifted his head from his hands to look down at his phone and read the text he’d sent Crowley the night prior:

I can’t apologize enough for my behavior.
I understand if you don’t want to talk to me.
But I’d be very happy if I could call you tomorrow before I leave.

It was tomorrow now, and still Crowley hadn’t responded. He was going to have to accept the fact that the man just didn’t want to talk to him, and that it was his fault. This wasn’t the ideal headspace he would have liked to be in to cater this wedding, but there was nothing to be done about it.

You’re on your own now.

He closed the device and picked up the bottle of wine. It was placed lovingly with his personal collection in the kitchen. He would have to thank Crowley for it later, when he was ready to talk to him again.

When he came back into the lobby, he saw Newt already outside waiting to be let in. He rushed over to unlock the door and open it for him.

“Newton! You’re early!”

“I thought the usual bus might be late, given the weather, so I took the one before it.”

Aziraphale was so genuinely endeared by this thoughtful action that he hugged him tightly. “You’re exactly what I needed this morning,” he said cheerfully, and he missed the confused face as he turned to go to the kitchen. Newt followed him, and together they went over the checklist for the day and started to load the van.

True to Newton’s explanation, the weather was not great for a wedding (or for loading a truck). It was snowing lightly, but also just warm enough for it to melt upon landing. This meant the sidewalk was a bit slippery with slush, and both men had to tread very carefully in order to keep their footing.

On Aziraphale’s very cautious second trip outside, he was quite shocked when a black Bentley swerved up and parked behind the truck. Crowley emerged and came up beside him as if nothing had happened the night before. Aziraphale stared at him as he took one of the boxes from his arms.

“Crowley…”

“You ready to load this thing up?”

“I-- I didn’t think you were coming,” he replied honestly.

“Well,” Crowley grunted as he strategically placed the box in the truck and turned to him. “I said I would, so here I am.”

It was such a relief to see him, even if Crowley hadn’t stopped frowning since he’d arrived. Aziraphale touched his arm as he thought of what to say. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Newton come outside, reconsider and duck back in. Good, he could use a minute alone.

“May I talk to you?”

Crowley shrugged in an effort to seem nonplussed, but he looked the opposite. His brows were still drawn tight, but his frown had receded slightly at Aziraphale’s touch. He looked a bit like a man who wanted to stay mad but was losing the battle.

“Guess we need to. We’re wasting valuable loading time, though.”

Aziraphale didn’t say anything to this. He supposed he did have a point, the more they dawdled here the less time he’d have to prep at the venue. He withdrew his hand and nodded slowly. The redhead sniffed and looked off to the side.

“...Drive up with me. We can talk then.”

Crowley jerked his head towards the Bentley and Aziraphale considered this. The plan had been to drive up with Newton, but maybe he could handle it alone.

“All right. I’ll see if Newton can take the truck himself.”

Aziraphale made arrangements with the boy, who looked relieved just to know that he didn’t have to be the one to share a car with Crowley. Once everything was accounted for and they checked the packing lists twice, Crowley and Aziraphale prepared themselves to load the cake.

It was a daunting task. The cake weighed nearly seventy-five pounds, which didn’t seem like much. But moving slowly with that much weight from the kitchen to the truck outside, over an icy sidewalk in the snow, made it feel doubly heavy. Newton held the door open for the two of them while they worked their way to the van. They eased it down with some difficulty into the center of the space and closed the doors behind it with a heavy exhale once it was safe to breathe again.

Crowley then took off his sunglasses to stare at Newton. He spoke to him with a dangerous softness.

“Listen, Newtonnewt. I put seven hours of my life into those isomalt roses. You will drive this thing like a fucking hearse, do you understand?”

Newton nodded nervously to show that he did.

Once the directions to the venue had been clarified to all parties, Crowley and Aziraphale got into the Bentley and followed closely behind the rental truck.

“Horrible weather,” Crowley grumbled, turning on his windscreen wipers. Aziraphale clasped his hands in his lap and quietly agreed that yes, it was.

Although the idea had been to talk on the ride up, it was mostly quiet between the two of them until they were out of town. Aziraphale found it difficult to talk to Crowley right now, because he knew that the apology he needed to give him was going to have to come with an explanation. And it was hard to imagine explaining all of his shortcomings when Crowley was scowling at the road like that. He felt physically ill at the thought.

But he was scowling because of him. Aziraphale brought this upon himself; if he’d just been honest from the start, this would have been much easier. He drew in an unsteady breath.

“I’m sorry… about yesterday.”

Crowley didn’t say anything.

“I shouldn’t have pushed you away.”

At this the other man shrugged one shoulder and heaved a sigh of his own. “I shouldn’t have pried.”

Aziraphale frowned and plucked at his fingertips. Crowley still sounded (and looked) upset. He watched the snow fall against the passenger side window and closed his eyes. He knew what to do, he just didn’t want to.

“I sold the piano.”

Crowley remained silent.

“A few days ago, my oven wouldn’t turn on. What timing, with the wedding coming up... I called the technician, who said they no longer make the part I needed to fix it. I sold the piano to cover the cost of the replacement oven.”

He lowered his eyes to his hands and soldiered on.

“My… my cards are maxed out. My credit is too poor for another loan. I was fortunate that the woman who runs the thrift store next door was willing to take it.”

He dared to glance sideways to try and gauge Crowley’s reaction. It was hard to read him with those glasses on.

“...I hung up on you because there was a roach in my restaurant. Not just one. I found a second one the day you came back. I’m worried I might have an infestation.”

Please, say something. He tried to will Crowley into the conversation, but the man just stared evenly at the road. Then, to Aziraphale’s surprise, Crowley shook his head and pulled over on the shoulder. He took off his glasses and turned fully to face him, one arm over the back of the seat.

“Fuck, Aziraphale. You were going through all that and you didn’t want to talk to me about it? Why was it so hard for you to tell me this?”

“Please don’t be upset with me,” he said sadly. He was aware of how pathetic he sounded, but he was past caring at this point. “I don't think I can take one more thing going wrong...”

The anatomy of the Bentley’s interior was such that there was no arm rest, gear shift or hand break in between them as there might be in a modern car. The driver's and passenger’s seats were basically connected, which facilitated Crowley drawing Aziraphale close to him quite easily.

“I’m sorry,” Aziraphale said again. “I shouldn’t have pushed you away, I know you were just trying to help…”

Crowley was quiet in the embrace, which was probably a good thing. It allowed Aziraphale to work a few things out.

“I was just… at my limits. It was so humiliating to have both of my cards declined in front of the technician, and to find that roach, and to read those reviews…”

“What reviews?”

“And when you asked me to explain it,” Aziraphale continued on without acknowledging Crowley’s question, “it was like asking me to relive the embarrassment. You’re so… so successful, and handsome, and wealthy, and your credit is probably pristine.”

He sniffed and paused to collect himself.

“H-how could I explain this to someone like you without you thinking me a... a poor manager, an unhygienic chef, a pathetic man with bad credit… but I’m none of these things! I promise, I’m not. I’m responsible. I work s-so hard to keep the place clean, and I pay m-my bills on time and… and...”

Crowley squeezed him while he spiraled in his explanation. He stopped talking, knowing that he was only working himself up at this point. Crowley was rubbing circles over his back, and he focused on that to calm himself down. Eventually he withdrew and shook his head, attempting to dry his cheeks with a few deft brushes of his fingers.

“Good lord, look at me. I lied because I didn’t want you to think I was pathetic, and now here I am in tears in your car.”

They sat in silence for a moment, and when he realized Aziraphale was done Crowley fumbled around in the side compartment and handed him a tissue. He accepted it with a defeated “thank you”.

“Aziraphale,” Crowley finally spoke while he dried his eyes. “I’m not upset with you. And I don’t think you’re pathetic.”

Aziraphale looked up at him with red-rimmed eyes and a scrunched brow. “You don’t?”

“No. I can’t even imagine how hard it is to run a business, and you were doing it single-handedly for so long. You’re incredible, Aziraphale.” He felt Crowley’s hands on either side of his face. “I’m so impressed by you every day. I mean it.”

Crowley lowered his hands back to his lap and frowned.

“Last night, I was frustrated. I was starting to wonder if I was just a convenience to you, or if you thought I wasn’t worth talking to about the stuff that really matters.”

Aziraphale was appalled to think that he’d made Crowley feel this way, and had been about to say something to that effect when Crowley raised a hand to request he let him finish.

“And I let that get to my head. I pushed you to tell me things you weren’t ready to share, and that’s not how communication should work. Yeah, I want you to tell me what’s bothering you, always, but I don’t want to make you uncomfortable or force you to do it.” He ran a hand through his hair.

“I thought about what you said, and you were right. I was trying to fix your problems. I just... I really hate seeing you upset. I know you can take care of yourself. You’ve been doing it for a long time. But you shouldn't have to bottle things up when you don’t have to. I don’t want you to keep everything to yourself and just… suffer alone, quietly.”

Crowley reached for his hand, and Aziraphale let go of the tissue he’d been grappling to weave their fingers together.

“Suffer together, with me, loudly.”

Aziraphale laughed in surprise and dabbed at the corners of his eyes again.

“But I’m serious. I don’t want you to ever feel like you can’t talk to me.”

“It is a bit hypocritical of me, isn’t it… I told you to feel safe sharing your secrets with me, and here I am so worried about what you might think that I couldn't even tell you mine.”

“Yeah, it is,” Crowley agreed with a small smile. He lifted Aziraphale’s hand to kiss his knuckles. “Frankly, it’s stupid. You should know by now that I think the world of you and nothing’s going to change that.”

Aziraphale gave him a wibbly smile and squeezed his hand. Crowley withdrew it to put his signal on and merge back onto the street.

“Let’s talk more tonight, okay? Promise me.”

“Yes. I promise.”

“Good. Now let's get you to that wedding.”

The venue was outside, which was a dreadful thing for any catering service to hear. Accounting for weather was an additional variable that absolutely no chef in the world wanted to do. But here they were, in the goddamn snow, expected to cater for one hundred guests.

To be fair, they had a large tent which had been provided by the venue and set up before their arrival. It was fully furnished with everything one could possibly require in a standard kitchen: industrial ovens and ranges, a refrigerator, a sink, and a few prep tables.

Although Crowley had only officially offered to help move the cake in and out of the truck, he fell into the role of sous chef fluidly and began helping with the mise en place as if that had been the arrangement all along. Aziraphale resisted at first, but Crowley insisted. In the end, Aziraphale was thrilled to have another chef's help, and probably Newton felt similarly. He’d been demoted to setting out the plates and doing the dishes, which suited him just fine.

Once all of the dinners had been prepared, the snow finally let up. Crowley had the most experience coordinating with servers, given that Aziraphale had hired his first one only a few weeks prior, and so with Aziraphale’s blessing he handled most of the expo.

As the last few plates left the lineup, the two breathless chefs congratulated each other on a successful service with a quick handshake. Newton had finished all of the dishes, and there wasn’t much left to do but wait for the patrons to finish eating, so Aziraphale gave him some new instructions.

“I imagine the cake won’t be for another hour or so. Take a break, my boy. Walk around if you’d like, but don’t go too far.”

Once he’d left, Crowley turned to look at him and started unbuttoning his chef’s coat. Winter or not, both of them had managed to work up a sweat running around to get everything done in time.

“And how about you, chef? Shall we walk? Personally I’m dying for some cold air.”

“Ah. Yes, let’s,” Aziraphale agreed, taking off his coat as well. He stopped by his bag to quickly pull out his wool cardigan and scarf, just in case. It was hard to imagine needing them at the moment, but he knew it was going to be cold out there.

The venue was in the middle of a well-manicured garden. The tall hedges outlining the space had been decorated with fairy lights for the occasion, which swept overhead like brilliant stars all the way to the stunning white gazebo where the ceremony had taken place. Just past the gazebo was a clearing with dozens of tables, each with handfuls of guests currently enjoying their food.

Before they ventured too far, Aziraphale made it a point to stop by the bride and groom’s table to make sure they were sufficiently satisfied. They both rose to shake his hand and he was overjoyed by their reaction. He parted with one last congratulations to the two of them and rejoined Crowley for their stroll.

They didn’t go very far. The gardens wound around a bit, and they followed one of the cobblestone paths that led to some archways and a stone fountain that some children were playing next to. Nothing was in bloom right now, given the season, but with the dusting of snow and sprinkling of warm lights, the whole place did have a sort of calm majesty.

True to Aziraphale's expectations, the cold air eventually got to him and he slipped on his cardigan.

“Aren’t you freezing?”

Crowley’s arms were crossed quite tightly. He shook his head, and Aziraphale raised a brow.

“Feels nice.”

“You're shivering.” Aziraphale laughed and looped his scarf around the other’s shoulders. “Your hubris will be the end of you.”

“Oh my hubris?”

Aziraphale pinched him while he secured his scarf neatly on the other. Crowley led him to one of the benches surrounding the fountain and they sat down. The children had gone off towards the other guests, possibly due to the smell of food. Aziraphale leaned his head back to look up at the darkening sky and sighed in relief. His warm breath was a visible puff in the cold night air.

“Thank goodness it’s over.”

“Not yet,” Crowley murmured. “Still got the cake to do.”

“Well, the cake is already made, at least. It won’t be a great feat to slice it.”

“Don’t jinx it.”

He felt something warm on his neck and closed his eyes. Kissing him while he was on the clock? No, that wouldn't do.

“Crowley. No shenanigans while on the job.”

“Nngk, fine.” He placed one last rebellious kiss under his jaw before moving away.

“...Angel?”

He hadn’t heard Crowley call him that since before their argument. It was nice to hear from him… it made everything feel normal again.

“In the interest of communication.” Crowley had been staring at the stone fountain coated with snow before turning to face him. “What was it you wanted to talk to me about? You mentioned it while I was in New York.”

Compared to the confessions he had made in the Bentley, this admission felt far less intimidating. Still, it made him squirm in his seat. He hadn’t been prepared to have this conversation today, considering how last night had gone, but it wouldn’t do to put it off.

“Someday…” He found it hard to look Crowley in the eyes while he said this, so he focused on his hands. “Ah… I had always fancied the idea of… getting married. Eventually.” The cold air no longer reached him, and he felt impossibly warm again. “Someday, I would like to have a wedding of my own.”

Crowley didn’t say anything, but he did put an arm around the bench, and subsequently Aziraphale’s shoulders.

“Anyway, I thought you should know… it’s something I’ve thought about.”

The man nodded beside him and was oddly quiet while he traced his shoulder with his fingers. What was he thinking about? Had that put him off? Was this too serious a topic for where they were in their relationship? Maybe he shouldn’t have listened to Newt...

“I’d never really given it that much though, myself,” he admitted, and Aziraphale held his breath. “Weddings, I mean. Not much for religious ceremonies, usually. But… I like the idea.”

Aziraphale smiled in relief and managed to finally look up at the other.

“Oh… you had mentioned you wanted to talk to me about something, too,” he recalled, reaching up to play with some of the waves of hair that had escaped Crowley’s messy bun. “What was it?”

Crowley’s gaze hadn’t left him while he played with his hair, and he wondered if he’d been watching him this closely the whole time he’d made his confession. He met his eyes, and he felt a strange mixture of vulnerable yet safe in their hold. The other man leaned closer, and this time he didn’t chastise him for his intimacy.

Their lips met briefly, and although it was featherlight he hadn’t felt such an intensity of emotion through one kiss since their very first. When they drew back from it, they were only millimeters apart. Crowley’s arm had left the bench and was just and simply encircling him now.

His heart was racing. He knew what was coming, he hoped he knew what was coming, and he ached to hear it.

“I love you, Aziraphale.”

In the quiet of the snow-dusted garden, these words resonated on a profound level.

You’re on your own now.

“Crowley…” he whispered. “Say it again. Please.”

“I love you… I love you, Aziraphale, so much that I’m sick with it. I’ll say it as many times as you let me. I love you.”

Aziraphale was nearly reduced to tears for the second time that day. He threw his arms around Crowley and held him tight, then pulled back so he could kiss him properly.

“Do… do you…?”

“Yes, of course!” He said with a weak laugh. “Of course, my dear. Oh, I love you too, Crowley, desperately.”

Everything that had happened to him in the weeks prior seemed so far away now. The paradigm of "you're on your own" had shifted, and on that chilly mid-winter evening, Aziraphale's world became so much warmer.

No misfortune could mar him now. Crowley loved him, too. And he was going to cherish every second of it.

Chapter Text

After the bride and groom had cut into the cake together and shared the traditional first piece, Aziraphale set to work in portioning out the necessary amount of slices for the guests. Crowley helped coordinate with the servers to distribute the plates, and once the last one was taken out they began their tear down.

It went pretty quickly, all the food had been eaten and the dishes were done, so all they really had to do was pack up the van. On the final trip, just before they grabbed the last of the boxes, one of the servers came back into the tent with two plates of cake. Aziraphale put down his container and approached.

“My, did we miscount?”

“No, I asked the bride and groom who these were for. Looks like they listed you and Newton as guests in the cake headcount.”

“Oh, how kind of them!”

Aziraphale accepted a plate as it was handed to him, as did Newton. The server turned to Crowley sheepishly.

“Sorry sir, they didn’t know you were… going to be here.”

“Officially speaking, I’m not.”

Aziraphale sought out Crowley’s elbow with his free hand and moved to stand closer to him.

“Share mine with me, my dear, I don’t think I could finish it.”

Crowley placed the back of his hand on Aziraphale’s forehead to check his temperature and he swatted it away with a laugh.

They decided to enjoy their dessert outside. The music had started to play, and it was nice watching other couples dance. Crowley was a bit rude with some of his observations, but weakened by Aziraphale’s disapproving huffs, he confessed that he wasn’t really a good dancer either and maybe he didn’t have any room to judge.

Halfway through their cake, Crowley leaned closer to his ear to ask him a question.

"This has been bugging me since yesterday.”

Aziraphale drew his eyes away from the dancing to pay closer attention to Crowley’s words.

“What are your ‘unrealistic wants’?"

The answer to this question was something that Aziraphale didn’t even want to acknowledge himself. Words have a particular power, and even forming vague thoughts into sentences gave them some semblance of life. And the truth of the matter was that Aziraphale’s unrealistic wants, currently ambiguous feelings he hadn’t yet voiced in his own head, made him feel guilty.

But maybe it was necessary to form them. There was an issue there, something that contributed to his unhappiness, and if he ignored it for too long, there was no telling what it might fester into.

“I’ll tell you,” he answered back, accepting the fork and taking up a biteful with it. “But I'll need a bit more time.”

“You don’t have to,” Crowley assured him. "I just thought if it was easy for you, we could talk about it." He inched closer and snuck his arm around Aziraphale's waist. "I just want to spoil you, y'know?"

“I do,” he replied warmly. “And I’m so fortunate to have you, my dear.”

He held up the bite of cake and Crowley dipped down to place his lips around the prongs of the fork. This was a much nicer arrangement than swapping ownership of the utensil. Aziraphale kept it in hand and served himself a bite as well before alternating.

“I’ll tell you tonight, when we get home.”

He fixed Crowley with a particularly sultry look, one he had given him a few times before in more intimate spaces. He held out a bite of cake for him and spoke quietly.

“Will you be good and wait until then for me?”

He wasn’t sure, but on Crowley’s descent this time he thought he heard a moan underneath the distant music.

“Yes,” he replied back eagerly. “Yes. Absolutely.”

They drove home in the same arrangement that they had come up: Newton took the van and Aziraphale went with Crowley in the Bentley.

Once they arrived back in Soho, Crowley confessed that he would probably head back to his flat in Mayfair. He didn’t want his coworkers to see his car across the street after he’d called in sick, and frankly, he didn’t want to leave it outside overnight in this weather. Aziraphale looked disappointed at first, but Crowley assured him that this didn’t mean the night had to be over.

“Pack a bag,” he’d suggested as they pulled up to the restaurant. “Bring some things. ...You could even leave a few extras at my place. If you wanted.”

This idea seemed to go over well. Aziraphale brightened at the suggestion and was back in the Bentley with a duffel bag full of things in a handful of minutes. He sought out Crowley's free hand and held it for the entire drive back to his flat, however short it was.

Although they were exhausted from a long day of service (and travel), Crowley made them some dinner. It was a simple meal put together with whatever he had in his fridge, but “whatever he had in his fridge” was an intricate variety of goodies. As such, the simple meal was quite tasty. Even Aziraphale, who had strong opinions about food, gave him high marks for it. He was particularly intrigued with his homemade lemon and herb butter, and couldn’t stop eating rolls if it meant having more of it.

They had some wine together on the living room couch after their meal. Crowley stopped after one glass to rest his head in Aziraphale’s lap, but the other poured himself a second to savor. With a stomach full of food, some wine in his system, and loving fingers through his hair, Crowley was just about ready to pass out.

“To answer your earlier question…”

At length, Aziraphale's words stirred him. Crowley opened his eyes to stare up at the man curiously.

“About my wants. It’s… complicated. It’s just a thought that I have from time to time. But acknowledging it makes me feel like a bit of a failure.”

Crowley sat up in confusion and put his arm around the back of the couch.

“What do you mean?”

“...Well, you originally asked me if I ever wanted to change up the business, or do something else.”

Aziraphale sipped at his wine thoughtfully.

“And I… I feel ashamed to admit it, but sometimes I really do. There are times when it all gets to be too much and I feel like I’ve made a mistake, and that I could be so much happier if I didn’t have to struggle to make ends meet. On hard months, I try not to think about how much easier it would be if I was employed as a sommelier somewhere, or apprenticed under a winemaker, or if I worked full time as a chef, not an owner, in a five-star restaurant’…”

Crowley’s hand had come to rest on Aziraphale’s thigh as he quietly listened. Aziraphale’s hand found it and gave a slight squeeze.

“But thinking this way makes me feel like I’m abandoning our dream, or that I’ve failed her. If I lose faith in the restaurant, even for a moment....” He shook his head. “I know logically that, if she were still here, she would never think that. ...I suppose I’m just stubborn.”

Crowley was seeing the pieces fall together. He did know, in the months that he had been dating Aziraphale, that the man could be stubborn. But far more than that, he knew him to be thoughtful, kind, and endlessly giving of himself. The latter was beginning to worry him, especially knowing what he knew now. He was giving, but often kept to himself when it came to his own problems. Combining that attribute with “stubborn” could be dangerous, long-term.

“That doesn’t make you a failure,” Crowley assured him. “You’re allowed to be frustrated with your situation, especially when the shit hits the fan, and it’s human nature to wish for change when it happens.”

He kissed Aziraphale lightly, and was gifted with a soft sigh in response.

"...How bad would it be to hand over ownership of the place? I know it’s the last thing you want to do," Crowley buffered, turning his hand over in Aziraphale’s to squeeze it back. “But if it meant your happiness, isn’t it worth considering?”

Aziraphale pursed his lips. “If I lose control of the restaurant, there’s no telling what they’ll do. They could turn it into a… a buffet, or a fast-food place, or whatever they like, really. I’ve made so many memories there, and I want to preserve its integrity. I want The Gate to always be a comfortable place where people can feel at home and have a decent, loving meal.”

Crowley nodded and left it at that. He knew that some things in life were worth fighting tooth and nail for. He’d just recently found his.

“Let’s just fantasize for a minute,” Crowley said, hoping to lighten the mood. “No harm in fantasies, right? What’s your ideal scenario at this point in your life? I’ll share mine.”

He leaned back against the couch again and stared up at the ceiling.

“I wouldn’t be working for total arseholes, for a start. Y’know, I had a lot of fun decorating that cake with you, maybe I could do something like that. I’m more of a savory chef, but I’m all for plating and visuals. You eat with your eyes first, right? Anyway, what about you?”

He turned to look at Aziraphale, who was smiling fondly at him.

“...I want a garden.”

“That’s it? Just a garden?”

“Yes. I’ve been living in apartments my whole life, and I never had much private outdoor space.”

Aziraphale swirled the last of his wine in his hand and watched it coat the inside of the glass before receding back down.

“I tried to grow a little herb box by my kitchen, but I don’t get enough light from my window as it is. The buildings on the other side of the street are too tall, I’m afraid. But I’ve always fantasized about it. Oh, and I would grow so many different things. Tomatoes, carrots, radishes, cucumbers, all manner of berries, and maybe I could even have some fruit trees.”

Crowley had propped his head up in his hand with his elbow against the back of the couch while Aziraphale talked. The man had a rather dreamy expression as he recounted what sort of produce he would grow, and the way he spoke about it came from such a genuine place. He had such humble desires, and Crowley would do anything to make those wants a reality for him.

“Ah, but that doesn’t really relate to your question, does it? You were asking more along the lines of what I’d like to do for work.”

“It counts,” Crowley said softly. “Whatever you fantasize about counts.”

Aziraphale smiled at him and, after a pause, set his wine glass on the coffee table.

“Well, right now... most of my fantasies involve you, my love.”

The word “love” coming from Aziraphale was still so new and so thrilling. And although it wasn’t the first time he’d heard it, it was the first time it was used to address Crowley as a term of endearment. It made his heart race, and that was all the invitation he needed to move their evening in a more intimate direction. He leaned over to catch his lips again, resting a hand on his cheek to keep him close.

“Still have energy left after today?” Crowley inquired.

“You always give me a second wind,” he confessed against his lips. “But do you? I have something I would like to try with you, but I'm afraid it might exhaust you.”

The thought of Aziraphale wanting to sexually exhaust him made him bite his lip.

“I would literally go at it with you until I died of fatigue,” Crowley confessed.

“Oh, I wouldn’t want that,” Aziraphale assured him. “I much prefer you alive.”

“Tell me what you want to try.” He could hear how deep his voice had become with lust, and it was really a marvel to him how Aziraphale could get him riled up in so little time. He favored the man’s neck from his position beside him, giving him particularly loving bites and sucks that would surely leave a mark in the morning.

“Well… I had quite a lot of fun with you on the phone the other day. Did you enjoy that?”

“I did. So much,” he admitted between licks. “It was almost like you were there.”

“And now I am here,” he said in a hushed voice. “What I’d like to do is… hm. Shall we move to the bedroom first?”

The words had barely left Aziraphale’s mouth before Crowley was on his feet, tugging the other off the couch. He turned on the lights in his bedroom and they both started to shed the particularly tricky layers of clothing. Shoes were discarded, as were coats and vests. Aziraphale instructed him to sit down on the bed, and once he did he sat beside him.

They hadn’t been physically intimate with each other as frequently as either would have liked, but they had previously discussed each other’s desires and limits to some extent. Crowley’s were pretty obviously laid out. He enjoyed submission, and Aziraphale was surprisingly susceptible to dirty talk (something they discovered together, which was exciting for both parties). However, this discussion hadn’t covered a broad range of things, and sometimes (like now) it became necessary to have a conversation beforehand.

“I mentioned the phone call because,” Aziraphale started as he unbuttoned Crowley’s shirt, “what I’d like to do is similar to that. I'd like to deny you for a little while.” The smile that Aziraphale gave him was so innocent and sweet; completely out of place considering what he’d just said. “I just enjoy being intimate with you so much, and I do hate when it’s all over. I would love to drag it out a little, and see you… squirm."

Crowley’s jeans were getting uncomfortably tight the more Aziraphale described what he wanted.

“And I was wondering if perhaps this would be facilitated more easily if I were to restrain you. Now, please tell me honestly if this makes you at all uncomf-”

“No, it doesn’t,” he interrupted him eagerly, practically starry-eyed at the proposal. “Fuck. Yes, Aziraphale, tie me down and do whatever you’d like to me.”

“Oh, splendid!” Aziraphale was probably the only person Crowley would ever meet who could say “splendid” in response to “tie me down and fuck me”. They fell into kissing one another again, this time with more heat behind it, and Aziraphale eased him back down. He bid him to stay where he was while he got up to look for some supplies.

“Is the lubricant still in your suitcase?”

“I unpacked,” Crowley explained, musing to the nightstand with one hand. “It’s in the drawer.”

Aziraphale opened the drawer in question and stared down at the contents, unmoving. Crowley watched him curiously until he realized with some embarrassment what must have caught his attention.

“What’s this?”

“Uh, it’s-- I haven’t used it in a long time--”

“Oh, don’t be embarrassed, my dear. I’m just not even sure of what I’m looking at.”

Crowley laughed, and they ended up having a second conversation. He sat back up and instructed Aziraphale to bring it to him so he could explain it. He gave him a short tutorial of the toy’s use, a quick demo of its different speeds and intensities, and this led to a rather interesting tweak to their original game plan.

“May I use this on you?”

“It’s-- I mean, yeah-- it can be pretty intense though. Not really meant for… extended use, if you get me.” Aziraphale raised his brows curiously, and he clarified further. “I’m saying I finish pretty fast when I use it.”

Aziraphale looked at him with fondness and touched his cheek.

“Oh, but I’m certain you would endure it for me. Wouldn’t you?”

As much as that comment made him melt, and as much as he wanted so very much to do as Aziraphale instructed, this one might prove to be difficult. He'd never lasted very long after turning that thing on, but he could certainly try. He licked his lips in thought.

“I’ll do my best.”

“And you’ll do wonderfully. I know you will.”

It was only thirty minutes in and Crowley was rapidly approaching the limits of his endurance.

Had he been of clear mind, he might have questioned how Aziraphale could go for so long just touching Crowley here and there; skimming his chest, mapping out his abdomen, sitting between his legs to kiss his inner thighs. About twenty minutes of this had him begging for more, and when he was denied this he resorted to whimpering pathetically when Aziraphale’s firm hands got so close but never close enough.

And then finally, finally, the toy came out. It was a small thing made of silicon, vaguely L-shaped and curved in such a way that it could stimulate the recipient hands free (which was a great appeal for solo-users, and one of the reasons Crowley got it in the first place). Aziraphale made sure it was comfortable for Crowley before turning the vibrator on to its lowest setting.

When Crowley normally used this himself, it was obviously combined with some generous stroking. But Aziraphale was being true to his word, and actively neglected to touch him directly when he rolled his hips up to try and get some friction. The result of this was heightened desperation which, combined with the low rumbling sensation inside of him, became very intense very quickly.

“Aziraphale, please... ah… please give me something...!”

The man seated beside him, still mostly dressed with a calm hand running down Crowley’s bare stomach, gave him a soft tut.

“But I have given you something.”

Crowley keened as one needy buck upwards had the hooked toy brushing his perineum. These bouts of desperation must have been what Aziraphale looked forward to, because it was in these peaks that Crowley’s dirty talk became the most creative. The man hissed out his truest wants unabashedly, and Aziraphale blushed.

“Goodness, my dear… how descriptive!”

Crowley’s eyes fell to the man’s lap, so close to him but restrained as he was, unreachable.

“I’ll tell you what, darling.” Aziraphale leaned down to kiss him. It had started out sweet and loving, but Crowley was in such a state that he made it obscene very quickly. The rest of that thought was put on hold as Aziraphale lingered for longer than intended, allowing Crowley his ministrations with a surprised moan. When he drew back he looked quite distracted and flustered, which gave Crowley a swell of pride.

“You were so kind to help me today with the wedding, and you’ve been very good enduring this for me.” His hand continued to lightly rub down his side to his hip. “Now let me reward you. What would you like most?”

This was a struggle. While his whole body screamed for some friction, Aziraphale’s clothed erection was right in front of him, taunting him. He hesitated, breathing heavily.

“Y-your cock,” he finally settled on a desire, licking his lips. “I want to suck you off. Please…”

Aziraphale looked surprised, but didn’t question it. He stood and slowly got out of his clothes, then rejoined him and positioned himself to straddle over the other’s chest. Crowley’s hands instinctively tugged down, hoping to rest on those gorgeous thighs on either side of him, but they didn’t budge from the headrest.

Aziraphale hesitated over him for a moment, and Crowley could see that he was moving away from the scene. He wasn't sure what caused the uncertainty, but he turned his head to kiss his inner thigh sweetly to assuage any worries.

“If it gets to be too much,” Aziraphale started, “Will you be able to let me know? I don’t want to take away your agency."

“I will,” Crowley replied, speaking through the haze of pleasure to reassure him. “I’ll knock twice, like this.”

He demonstrated, and Aziraphale was satisfied. They returned to the scene, and Aziraphale’s hand found his hair while he guided himself into his partner's mouth.

Crowley closed his eyes momentarily to truly savor the situation he was in. All of his senses were full of the other; he could taste him, smell him, feel him, when he opened his eyes his angel was the only thing in his line of sight, and the enthusiastic licks he gave him drove him to moan so sweetly. Crowley had never come untouched before, but this might be the day.

That probability rose dramatically when, much to his surprise, the vibrations within him went from low to high without warning. Aziraphale’s hands were both still in his hair, and the man’s head was dipped to one side with closed eyes. It must have been unintentional, maybe he had bumped the remote or something.

Either way, it had Crowley squirming underneath him. It was so much, and so close to overwhelming. He made a strained sound as he considered knocking, but as he grew used to the powerful sensation he changed his mind and kept still. It approached his limits but never became unbearable; it was just enough. And in a strange way, once he succumbed to it, it was actually immensely pleasant through the initial shock.

His orgasm caught him by surprise, considering he had no other stimulation than what was going on internally. His knees bent and his toes curled into the sheets at the intensity of it. The telltale flutter of his heart and seizing of his muscles made him realize just what was going on, and before he could somehow warn the other of how close he was he felt himself spill onto his stomach behind Aziraphale.

His eyes rolled back pleasantly, the sound of his climax muffled around Aziraphale’s cock. His orgasm seemed to last much longer than usual, and he hardly realized the other man’s vice-like grip in his hair as he came as well. He swallowed him hungrily, but as soon as he finished and Aziraphale withdrew, he knocked weakly on the headrest to get him to turn off the device. His mouth was free, but he could hardly use his words.

Aziraphale looked down at the remote under his knee and let out an “oh my goodness!” before it was finally turned off. Every muscle of Crowley’s finally relaxed as the vibrations ceased, and when his hands were untied his arms were trembling slightly from fatigue.

“Are you all right, my dear?” The man above him coaxed him into a comfortable position, moving so he could sit directly beside him. “I didn’t realize I’d bumped it, I’m so sorry.”

If only Crowley could convey how amazing he felt past a sleepy “Mhmm” and a blitzed out grin, he would have. Aziraphale doted on him regardless, asking if he needed anything while he cleaned him up and gently withdrew the toy from him. He brought him some water, which he was immensely grateful for, and combed his fingers through his mussed hair while he recovered.

Crowley made some motion or gesture for Aziraphale to lie down with him, and the other obliged happily. Limbs tangled together and now that Crowley was more coherent, Aziraphale asked after him again.

“It was… incredible, Aziraphale. I loved it. I love you.” He laughed in relief at the realization that he could say this whenever he wanted to now. "Still can't believe how lucky I am, that you want to try all the raunchy stuff with me."

"Oh, I'm so glad." Aziraphale kissed his temple and assured him that he loved him as well. And after a minute of silence, the blond made a confession. "I rather like exploring with you. I've always been a bit traditional, you know, but you make me feel encouraged to try new things."

"Believe me. You can try anything and everything on me that you fancy."

Crowley grinned and snuck his arm underneath Aziraphale. Whatever they ended up doing sexually, they did have a preferred sleeping arrangement they gravitated towards. It was similar to the very first "nap" they shared on Aziraphale's couch; Crowley's arms around him and Aziraphale's cheek against the curve of his chest.

Aziraphale was done with the wedding and Crowley was done with his trip. Tomorrow, things would go back to "normal" and the two chefs would go to work on opposite sides of the same street. It had been nice to live in a fantasy for a few days, to think that he could just live a life helping Aziraphale with cakes and catering gigs and be rewarded with mind-blowing sex. But he was going to have to return to the people who signed his paycheck sooner or later, do his delicate dance of helping his lover while keeping his job, and maybe his own unrealistic wants would also have to stay fantasies for now.

Chapter Text

Anathema Device (family name) had been in the business of food all her life. As had her mother, and her mother’s mother. Her great grandmother had started an immensely popular restaurant in the early 1900’s, which was sadly no longer around. Kitchen fire. But the recipes had lived on, and her grandmother established herself in the food industry by writing a wildly popular cookbook expanding on those recipes. Almost every household in the fifties had a copy. Her mother brought all of this family knowledge into the public eye by becoming a celebrity chef.

Anathema picked up the family torch and stayed in the industry. She had been exposed to all kinds of delicacies from an early age and basically grew up in the culinary world. She attended parties, fancy dinners, events, and all kinds of shows. She had never been given fast food growing up, and always tried whatever unique hors d'oeuvres or canapés they were serving. She’d first had caviar at seven, foie gras at eight, and wagyu beef at ten.

Children are ruthless, and having been exposed to so many different kinds of food and growing up with a renowned chef, Anathema’s strong opinions had formed very early on. She had no problem telling adult chefs and waiters exactly what her thoughts were on the food, whether she was backstage at one of her mother’s shows or at a fancy dinner party. And most of the time, they were fair critiques.

She became a food writer and critic as soon as she could legally apply for a job. And while the Device family fame helped to springboard her career, her talent secured her success. Her knowledge of food was vast, and her palate was exceptionally refined. She wrote insightful articles for Good Food Magazine, guested on several cooking shows as a judge, and ran a food blog with over one hundred thousand followers. In the food industry, she was a big deal.

Everyone in the UK who knew food knew Anathema, and if they didn’t know her, they knew of her. She wasn’t known for being gentle with her reviews, but she was known for telling the truth. She had said kind things about restaurants with bad reputations, and horrible things about restaurants with Michelin stars. She was truly impartial, and no amount of charm or money ever swayed her opinion.

And she often had to remind people of this.

She frequently got calls from restaurants requesting her presence to enjoy a complimentary meal. It was a nice popularity boost for any establishment to get a blurb in her articles or mention in her blog. If she happened to leave a review on Yelp, Twitter or any other social media platform, that restaurant would be set on their advertising for the year. Perhaps longer.

She wasn’t surprised to receive a private message from the executive chef of Ripe asking to meet with him. The only reason she accepted was that she could lay down the line with him. Enough was enough. But she was surprised that he didn’t invite her to the restaurant itself. She wasn’t particularly keen on the atmosphere of Ripe anyway, from what she had seen, so this arrangement was fine.

She met him for an early lunch at an Italian place in Mayfair. When she arrived, he was already waiting at a table reserved for the both of them. He rose to shake her hand, and she offered it hesitantly.

“Ms. Device, it’s nice to finally meet you. Big fan.”

The chef sat back down when she did. He wore an expensive looking jacket with jeans, had sunglasses on inside, and his cologne was as sharp as his smile. She didn’t have a very high impression of him already.

“I wish I could say the same,” she replied cooly. The man’s eyebrows rose in confusion. “I am only sitting down to lunch so that I can confirm once and for all that you will stop calling me. This is getting excessive.”

“I-- hold on, what?” The man looked at her in confusion and straightened up in his seat. “I’ve only messaged you the once.”

Anathema leveled him with a stare that insisted he not toy with her. She decided to save her berating for after Crowley said his piece. She figured he would be listening more attentively if he thought an answer he wanted was coming.

“Just tell me what you want, Mr. Crowley.”

“Right…” The man stared at her for a while in thought. He slowly reached into his breast pocket to pull out a cigarette and put it between his teeth. He brought out a lighter, but after flicking it open he reconsidered and pocketed it.

“Trying to quit?”

“Something like that.”

He put the cigarette away with a frown and folded his hands in front of him on the table.

“...I want you to write a review for a restaurant. Not mine.” He reached into his pocket to procure a slip of paper and set it down in the center of the table. She stared at him for a moment before picking it up and opening it. What was this, some kind of mafia movie?

“That’s the place. Now, what would it take for you to dine there and give it a review in one of your articles? Or your blog, really. Hell, if you could even do it on Yelp-”

“Mr. Crowley.” Anathema interrupted him, folding the piece of paper again and pocketing it. What a scumbag. “I’m going to tell you what I told your boss. I don’t know who you think I am, but I don’t write false reviews for a price. My readers trust my opinions, and I’m not going to put my reputation on the line for your little spat with a competitor.”

Crowley looked as if she had smacked him in the face. Good. Maybe now her words would finally sink in, and Ripe would stop calling her.

“And for the record,” she continued while she gathered her purse back onto her shoulder. She couldn’t even make herself eat with someone so despicable. “It’s incredibly petty to try and mudsling another restaurant just to save your own sorry business. You’re very lucky I have no intention of writing a review about Ripe.”

She stood, but as she did Crowley extended a hand to touch her forearm.

“Wait-- my boss called you?”

He sounded genuinely surprised. He even removed his silly sunglasses to stare up at her with eyes squinted in scrutiny.

“Yes,” she answered. “Twice. Asking the same thing. And I’m going to give you the same response. I’m not getting in the middle of your weird feud.”

“No, no no no wait--”

Anathema walked quickly to the door, and she heard a chair screech and footsteps close behind her. Crowley’s hand rested on her shoulder, and she spun around to stare at him.

“It’s not like that, I swear.”

“Don’t touch me, Mr. Crowley.”

“I-- okay, sorry, I won’t. Just don’t leave yet--”

They were interrupted by a rather sturdy looking doorman, who put his hand on Crowley’s bicep heavily in response to the little scene they were making.

“Is this person bothering you, Miss?”

“Oh, sod off, this doesn’t involve you--”

“Okay, sir, I think you need to leave.”

“Wait! Ms. Device, I’m not trying to sabotage The Gate. The owner and I are-- oh for the love of fuck get your hands off me.”

Another attendant had come over to help the first, and Anathema decided that perhaps for her safety she would wait at the bar for a while before leaving.

Crowley made a scene on the way to the door, sticking his heels to the ground and grabbing the doorframe. He effectively planted himself in the entranceway, and Anathema had to wonder if maybe this wasn’t the first time he’d been shown the door somewhere.

“I swear, I’m not! I’m trying to help him--”

“I’m sure you are. Goodbye, Mr. Crowley.”

“I am!” The two employees finally managed to get him unstuck from the doorframe, and just as he shouted “I love him!” the door was shut brusquely in his face.

“Are you all right, Miss?”

Anathema frowned and tapped her lips with her fingers. That was… very odd. She nodded to the two employees who went back to their stations, and she went to go sit at the bar as planned. But soon her curiosity got the best of her, and after a minute or two she went for the door.

Crowley was still there, facing away from the restaurant. He had a cigarette between his teeth and was flicking his lighter on and off. He grumbled something in irritation and chucked the unlit thing into the gutter just as she approached him from behind.

“I figured if you were willing to make that much of an idiot of yourself in public, you must be telling the truth.”

Crowley sneered at his shoes and began to walk down the sidewalk. He was clearly pretty embarrassed about being kicked out.

“Good job.”

Anathema followed him. She took out the piece of paper in her pocket and looked down at the name written on it.

“...So you came to me because you want to help The Gate?”

“Yep.”

“Because you… love the owner?” She frowned. “Your boss made it seem like he’s your enemy or something.”

“That’s so fucking dramatic, typical of them.” He turned around to stare at her, and without his sunglasses he looked so much more human. “Do I look like I’m lying to you? Look, believe me or don’t. I love him. I would do anything to save his place.”

“So you’re acting against your own boss to save your boyfriend’s restaurant. I think I saw a movie about this once.”

“Ha ha.”

Crowley shoved his hands in his pockets and started walking again with a sigh.

“...He’s an amazing chef. And The Gate’s been getting horrible reviews lately. I’ve eaten there so many times, and none of the things they’re saying are true. And now,” he looked at her pointedly, “I think I know why that is. I’m just asking you to go there and give your honest opinion about the food. You have a lot of influence, so I figured maybe it would help.”

Anathema watched him carefully while he spoke. He really did seem to be genuine about all of this. And, if it was true, it was sweet that he was trying so hard to help someone he loved. Maybe he wasn’t a creep after all.

“...You know if I went, I would have to give my honest opinion.”

“I know,” he insisted. “I follow you. Have for a while. I’m not trying to buy your favor or anything. I have faith in his food, it’s…” he shrugged. “It’s the real deal.”

She nodded slowly as she considered this. Maybe she was growing soft.

“I might, might have an opening in the evening somewhere this week.”

“Fantastic! That’s great to hear.”

He stopped to put out his hand, but reconsidered upon remembering her earlier scolding. She took pity on him and extended hers as well. They shook hands on it.

“I won’t be sugar-coating anything. I hope your man will be at his best.”

“He always is.”

Occam’s Razor is a principle that states something along the lines of “entities should not be multiplied without necessity”, or to put it in layman terms, “the simplest solution is most likely the right one”. In its essence, the idea is to accept the simplest hypothesis with the fewest assumptions. For example, if a tree falls down on a rainy night, it is much easier to accept that the wind blew it over than it is to posit the existence of werebears, and that on this particular rainy night they became restless and felled a tree during an outdoor kegger.

When Crowley found out about the negative reviews on Aziraphale’s restaurant, he posited that the simplest solution was true: people are stupid. People are mean, people lie, and people just want to rant online somewhere after they’ve had a bad day.

He didn’t even consider the alternative hypothesis: that all of these reviews were fabricated from burner accounts and stock photos from a very petty team of halfwits hell-bent on defamation and the destruction of their number one competitor, in combination with attempts to bribe real people of influence to also write horribly untrue things.

Well. You didn’t know all the facts until you had them. And now the Crowley had them, he was racing to Ripe at high speeds through central London.

He was seething.

This was unbelievable. He knew Beelzebub was ruthless and held grudges like no other. But he hadn’t thought them capable of this. It was so… extreme. So unreal. So stupid and childish and… Hollywood. It was the kind of thing that only happens in movies.

“Too far,” he snarled to himself as he swerved through traffic. Crepes were one thing. “Too fucking far.”

He nearly kicked the door down when he arrived at the restaurant. A few brunch diners were startled out of their seats by a fiery haired man who stormed his way past the lobby and into the kitchens.

“Boss!” He shouted as he moved past the kitchen to the back office. It was nothing out of the ordinary for Crowley to be shouting in his own kitchen, so no one really took note of him. He opened the door to find the space dark and empty. He growled and looked down the line in the kitchen for Ligur.

“Where’s Beelz?”

“Not in yet,” he answered, moving away from the line. “Why?”

“Because I’m gonna strangle them!”

This, however, did grab everyone’s attention. Absolutely no one had ever threatened Beelzebub. No one dared to. Food was neglected as all eyes went to Crowley, who was practically steaming from the ears.

“Beelzebub is a fucking lunatic! Did you know they-”

“Oh.” Ligur gained a look of understanding. “Okay, you found out about the bugs, huh.”

Crowley did a double take, his eyes widening.

“Bugs.”

“Yeah. Beelz said you’d be mad about that so we shouldn’t talk about it around you, but I guess it’s all out there now, innit.”

Crowley didn’t say anything for a long time.

“Tell me about the bugs, Ligur.”

“Yeah, I’ve been sneaking them in every so often. Hastur says he’s seen at least three different exterminator companies outside in the middle of the night. It’s hilarious, that bloke must be losing his mind.”

Crowley could barely unclench his jaw as he managed his next question.

“And the reviews?”

“That was mostly Boss, but I wrote a couple myself too.”

“And the oven?”

“Oven?”

Crowley was advancing slowly, and considering the number of knives in the kitchen and murderous look in his eyes, some of the observers closed in as well to intervene if necessary.

“The oven that mysteriously broke.”

“Did it?” Ligur laughed. “Happy accident, I guess. Now that’s just luck-”

Crowley didn’t know how it happened, he just was suddenly connecting his fist with his sous chef’s nose. It sent a jolt of pain all up his forearm that he ignored, and suddenly he was on top of him.

“I’ll give you a happy accident!”

“What the fuck! Get off me!”

The other man socked him in the jaw and he lost his hold on him. At this point, it had escalated into a true fist fight. Timid hands from waiters and line cooks alike tried to pry them apart, but they were too afraid to get close to the ball of fists and sharp elbows and knees-to-body-parts that Crowley and Ligur had become.

Ligur took a blow to his diaphragm. Crowley got kneed in the ribs. Ligur got a nasty elbow in the side and Crowley got caught by the back of his hair and slammed into a table ledge. Crowley took revenge by catching his ankle and tripping him, but he fell down with him as the man grappled the sleeve of his jacket.

“Enough!”

Hastur finally got between the two chefs, and as much as he would’ve liked to throw a punch at him as well, Crowley was already feeling dizzy. A two-on-one fight at this stage was just not a good idea, and he knew who Hastur preferred of the two of them.

“What the hell is going on?”

Beelzebub stood in the doorway of the kitchen. Hastur went to help Ligur with some blood on his ear, and Crowley realized from the stares and distance that separated him from everyone else in the room just how few allies he had at Ripe.

He didn’t care. He was breathing hard, and his lungs were burning, and there was a searing pain in his left temple. But all he could think about was his anger. All he could think about was Aziraphale in tears in his car, thinking himself a failure all because of something that these horrible people had orchestrated.

He lifted a bruised and battered hand to point at Beelzebub.

“You went too fucking far,” he spat. “You’re a terrible shitstain of a human. How could you do that? How could you ruin another person’s life for some… some fucking money?”

“That’s a bit dramatic,” Beelzebub said with a snide grin and apathetic tone. “Typical Crowley. Anyway, you’re fired.”

Crowley threw up his hands hysterically.

“How can I be fired when I quit?!”

“And good luck finding another job.”

Beelzebub looked pointedly at the CCTV cameras secured to the ceiling. They stared at the scene below impassively.

“No one will want to work with you after I show that footage around. Don’t bother listing us as a reference.”

“I don’t care.”

The room was silent. Crowley didn’t have his chef’s coat on him to rip off in a heated fit, but he really wanted to throw something on the ground. He went to his drawer, found his spare apron he used sometimes when he left his coat at home, and went back to stand in front of Beelzebub.

He threw it on the ground. It felt good.

“Just get the hell out of here,” Hastur growled.

On his way out, Crowley paused and pointed at him as if remembering something vital.

“Yeah, by the way. Your roses? Smell like shit.”

Chapter Text

"Hope you didn't love me for my money."

"Crowley! Good lord!"

Aziraphale opened the kitchen's back door to see Crowley standing in the alley looking like he'd been dragged through hell. There was blood on his forehead and nose, his hair was a mess and his hands were red and bruised. The snow that managed to land on him had tinged pink in places.

"Didn't want to freak out your customers so I came around back… can I come in?"

"Yes! Yes, of course. Hurry before you catch your death."

Aziraphale snapped out of his stupor to usher the man inside. He looked around to make sure no unsavory types were following him and shut the door.

"Here… in the office."

He put his hands on Crowley to guide him to a room he'd never been in before. The man moved willingly where he was instructed and sat down in the cramped room as he was bid.

“Do you need me to drive you to a doctor? Or should I call the police? Do you need to file a report-”

“No, no no. I'm fine, it's fine.” Crowley slouched in the chair so he could lean his head against the back of it. “Well, not fine, fine. I got fired. Or quit. Not sure which one's gonna stick...”

Aziraphale stared at him. The pieces were falling together, and he wasn't sure he wanted to know more. But still, he asked.

“Why…?”

“...Got into an 'altercation' with my sous chef.”

“An 'altercation'."

Crowley clicked his tongue and sank lower in his seat.

"I punched him. Repeatedly."

"Crowley! Honestly, how old are you? To think I felt sorry for you.”

Crowley gave him the most pathetic puppy-dog look he'd seen from him yet, and he rolled his eyes.

“Oh don't look at me like that… wait here.”

Aziraphale left him to go back into the kitchen and grab his first aid kit, a bowl of water and a washcloth. He went to the lobby to find Newt and caught his attention.

“Newton, my boy, we're going to close for an hour for lunch. Could you flip the sign?”

Newton stared at the first aid kit and made some deductions.

“Um… yeah, sorry, is everything all right?”

“Oh! Yes, everything is-”

He was cut off by Newton's squeak of distress. He turned to see Crowley in his battered state leaning heavily on the door frame.

“Sorry, just came for some water.” He grabbed a glass from the service station. “Oh, Newtonnewt. If two men come in looking for me, I'm not here and you don't know who I am.”

“I told you to go sit down!”

Aziraphale shooed him away again and turned to Newt, who looked like all the blood had been drained from him.

“He’s Mafia, isn't he.”

“Don't be silly, he's just an idiot,” Aziraphale answered, still miffed at the man. “Anyway. You may leave for lunch too, if you'd like, just be back in an hour for dinner service.”

Newt didn't need telling twice. Aziraphale went back to the office to find Crowley with a half empty glass of water and a hand on his forehead. He was slouched so much he was more out of the chair than in it.

“Sit up, please.”

Crowley did, slowly and reluctantly. He stared at the man before setting his first aid kit down and opening it.

“Adrenaline's worn off. Everything hurts.”

“Good. Serves you right,” Aziraphale said stubbornly, but then caved and pressed a bottle of painkillers in his hand. “Two.”

Crowley frowned and emptied some back in the bottle, then swallowed the two he was permitted.

Aziraphale reached up to remove Crowley's sunglasses. He noticed the left arm of the glasses was bent awkwardly, and underneath them he had a black eye blossoming.

“You look awful.”

“Yeah, well. You should see the other bloke.”

Aziraphale dampened the rag he'd brought in some water and started to clean away the dried blood on his forehead and under his nose. Crowley closed his eyes while he did so, and when Aziraphale smoothed some of his tangled hair back in place, he made a soft sound of contentment.

Okay, he couldn't stay upset with him for very long. He was too soft.

“Why did you do it?” He asked as he cleaned the rag.

“Couldn't help it. He was so… proud of what they were doing.” Crowley muttered “lunatics” as he scratched the side of his face.

“And what exactly are they doing?”

“They're insane, Aziraphale… The roaches aren't your fault. They're sneaking them in.”

Aziraphale stopped wringing out excess water from the cloth to stare at Crowley in disbelief.

“And the reviews. They're writing false reviews. They're even bribing influencers to do the same.”

The cloth was set into the water bowl heavily. Aziraphale wiped his hands dry on a towel at his hip and shook his head.

“That's… are you sure?”

Crowley nodded solemnly.

“Why do you think I look like this? Yes, I'm sure.”

Aziraphale's expression fell and he slowly lowered himself into the chair across from Crowley. They sat in silence for a moment before the chef picked up a cotton ball and some disinfectant. He poured a few drops out before moving closer to Crowley again.

“How could anyone actually do something like that?”

“That's what I asked on my way out. Didn't get an answer.”

Crowley hissed as the cotton ball made contact with the cut above his brow, and Aziraphale drew his hand back.

“I'm sorry my dear, this is going to sting a bit.”

He tried to make it quick, and once he'd cleaned everything he dug out a few bandages. One for his forehead and one for the bridge of his nose. After he finished patching him up, he put his hand on Crowley's chin to tip his head back.

“How am I going to kiss you with this split lip?”

"...Gently?" Crowley hoped. Aziraphale did, and the man made a small, happy noise.

"Well, I suppose I'm relieved to hear that I don't have an infestation. What I'm going to do about this new problem, I have no idea."

"Ban them from the restaurant? Put them on your do-not-serve list."

"I don't have one, my dear. I told you, The Gate is open to everyone. What if I just… ask them to stop nicely? Or maybe I could go over there and explain my situation to them! Surely they would…"

He could tell from Crowley's expression that this wasn't going to work. He trailed off.

" …I'll think of something."

Crowley picked up his sunglasses and tried to wiggle the arm back into place.

"Well, let me know if you need any ideas. I suddenly have a lot of free time.."

"What are you going to do?" Aziraphale asked, and Crowley sighed heavily.

"Put some feelers out I guess, but I doubt anyone in the industry is going to hire me. Beelz has footage of the fight, and I'm sure they won't hesitate to share it."

Aziraphale had a thought. He extended a hand to rest on Crowley's forearm.

"You could always… work for me?"

Crowley stopped his fiddling and looked up at him. There was a longing in his eyes at the suggestion, but the soft words from him that followed dashed that idea to pieces.

"My flat is £4,000 a month."

Aziraphale's eyes widened and he lowered his hand to his lap.

"...Ah. I don't think I can match that."

They had never really talked numbers so concretely, but Aziraphale hadn't even imagined how vast the gap between their incomes really was.

Stay with me, he thought wistfully before hurrying the notion away as if it might be overheard if it lingered. It was much too early to have that conversation, and Crowley lived such a posh life. He wouldn't want to downgrade by living with Aziraphale in his cramped apartment...

"I'll queue up some interviews," Crowley said with an awkward clearing of his throat. Apparently he didn't want to talk more about numbers either. "See if anything lands."

He rose to his feet and Aziraphale did the same.

“Why don't you start all that tomorrow?” Aziraphale offered. He reached into his waistcoat pocket and found the key to his door, then placed it in the other's palm. “You’ve clearly had a long day already. Go rest upstairs. I'll bring you some soup for lunch.”

Crowley cocked a brow and donned a satisfied smile.

“Ooh, I get this kind of treatment if I get in a fight?”

“No. You know I disapprove of violence, and I don't condone what you did at all,” he assured him, and looked off to the side as he searched for something to justify his softness. “But I suppose, in a very ineffective and crass way… you stood up for me. And… I’m happy to have you in my corner.”

He gave Crowley a peck on the cheek and the man purred.

“Does that make me your hero now?”

“You've always been my hero.”

“And you've always been my angel.”

They shared a kiss for as long as Crowley could endure it before he drew back with a wince from the pain and a frustrated groan.

“Off you go, now. I'll be up soon.”

He sent Crowley on his way, then made him some tomato bisque and a side of rosemary bread. By the time he got up to his flat to give it to him, the poor man was already conked out on his couch.

Rather than disturb his sleep, he set the soup on the table and left him a little note. He pulled the cream-colored blanket off the back of the couch and draped it over Crowley's splayed limbs, doing his best to arrange him into a more comfortable position without waking him. He kissed his forehead and went back downstairs to eat a small something himself and devise a plan.

Just after an hour had passed, Newton came back to the front doors. Aziraphale let him in and flipped the sign back to ‘Open’.

"Newton. I've just learned something unfortunate," he started, walking with the young man to the counter and sitting down with him. "It seems there are a few people we need to watch out for.”

Newton gained a look of terror and Aziraphale waved his hands to dismiss whatever assumption he was making.

"I mean- not watch out for in the sense that they're dangerous… but it would be best to encourage these people to leave if they come in. Although asking them to leave directly might cause some unnecessary fires…"

He delved into an abbreviated explanation of the situation, leaving out the details of Crowley's fight and termination of employment. Newton looked equally confused as to why anyone would do something like that, but Aziraphale couldn't offer him any answers. What he could offer, he hoped, was an elegant solution.

“...But I do have something we could try that might encourage them not to come back. Well, something you could try. I'll need you to be brave.”

They weren't in Ripe. They weren't in The Gate either. They weren't even in the kitchen of Crowley's flat, or Aziraphale's for that matter. They were somewhere new. Somewhere that didn't exist outside of Crowley's imagination.

But they were in a kitchen. If he stared at the details too closely, they would morph into something else. There were marble countertops… no, now they were steel. The backsplash was very modern black tile… until it was brick. There was no island to prep everything, except for the island he was currently using to prep everything.

The room was filled with the smell of warm bread, or freshly baked cookies, or a steak sauteed in butter, or something au gratin, or minced garlic introduced to caramelizing onions on the range. It was palpable, inviting, and comforting.

Crowley had never been so hungry in his entire life.

Aziraphale was at the stove. He was helping him with something. Or Aziraphale was helping him with something. Either way, they were working together to get whatever it was done.

At one point, Aziraphale beckoned him over. He held up a small spoon with something he'd been working on for him to taste. It was perfect, as usual, and he told him so. He didn't need Crowley's help to finish the sauce.

He turned back to his prep to find that all of his ingredients were missing. Somehow, this felt far more ominous than misplacing something would in reality. He turned again to ask Aziraphale about it, and when he did they were standing in The Gate's kitchen.

He tried to get Aziraphale's attention, but he couldn't hear him. Or worse, he wasn't listening to him. He wouldn’t even turn to look at him, he was so focused on his sauce...

Crowley woke to a dark living room. His head hurt, his mouth was dry, and he was coated in a cold sweat. He climbed out from under the tartan blanket that had been placed over him at some point and turned on one of the nearby lamps. He saw a bowl of soup on the table and a little folded piece of paper with his name on it. Curious, he plucked it up and leaned back to read it.

Don’t forget to eat!
I love you.
♥ Aziraphale

Crowley traced the little doodled heart with his thumb and smiled to himself. He couldn't remember the details of his dream, but he had been left with an uncomfortable feeling of inadequacy and loneliness. This little note helped to clear some of that away. He folded the paper and placed it in the breast pocket of his jacket, where he used to keep his cigarettes until he'd thrown the last one out.

“Better do as he says.”

He picked up the bowl of soup and went to the kitchenette to warm it up. He ate while standing, washed his dishes when he finished, and went back into the living room.

He still felt pretty mangy from his scuffle earlier, and didn’t particularly want to get any leftover grime in Aziraphale’s bed. But taking liberties in Aziraphale's place without him there felt a bit awkward, so he sent the man a text.

can I use your shower?

He looked around boredly and moved to the wall to browse Aziraphale's bookshelf while he waited for a response. He hadn't heard of most of the works in his collection, but one caught his eye. He reached his thin fingers between the books to pluck it out and noticed it was less dusty than its neighbors. The full title read:

All Tied Up: An Introduction to Safe Practices and Suggestions for the Adventurous Couple

Several pages were dog-eared. He opened it up curiously, closed it quickly, opened it again to practically shove his nose in it, and nearly dropped it when his phone vibrated.

Aziraphale (8:45): Of course, darling.
Aziraphale (8:46): Make yourself at home, use anything you like.

He set the book back where it belonged. He'd thought that he couldn't possibly love Aziraphale more than he already did, but he was constantly being proven wrong on that.

He showered quickly, not wanting to run up Aziraphale's utility bill. Unlike the other, Crowley had never brought over anything from his place in the event he wanted to stay the night. And looking at his discarded clothes, which were honestly rank and a bit blood-specked, he dismissed the idea of putting those back on.

He was left with two options, and it was too cold for one of them.

“Well… he did say ‘use anything’, didn't he,” he justified to himself as he opened Aziraphale's dresser drawer.

He didn't have much at all in the way of casual wear (something Crowley had teased him about before) so he chose a dress shirt at random and slipped into it. It was light blue, the fabric was soft, and it fit him loosely. Although, for the purpose of sleeping in it, that was better than the alternative.

He slithered under the sanctuary of the thick duvet and melted into the warmth it provided. Even though he had passed out for a few hours, now that he was fed and clean and warm, it didn't take long for him to succumb to sleep again.

He stirred in the middle of the night when the bed dipped and the sheets were lifted. He groaned in protest at the sudden cold, but was placated when it was replaced with a warm body beside him. He scooted up against it almost immediately.

“My, what a treat it is to see you in nothing but one of my shirts…”

The kisses against his hair and the scent of roses and sandalwood nearly lulled him back to sleep, but a warm hand exploring his bare inner thigh woke him right up.

Sleepily pawing each other became actively fooling around quickly, and soon enough Crowley had his ankles locked around Aziraphale's hips. And after all was said and done, as much as Crowley had tried not to before, he fell asleep again in Aziraphale's bed a complete mess.

Breakfast the next day was a simple thing. Crowley made them both some eggs and toast, nothing fancy, and they ate together in a comfortable silence.

As much as Crowley wanted to linger, the reality of being jobless had sunk in with the dawn of a new day. He had a lot of personal affairs to sort out, and if he wanted to beat Beelzebub calling around and ruining his reputation, he probably needed to get a jump on the job hunt asap.

"I might be pretty busy in the next few days… dunno how often I'll be able to come by. I've got a lot to figure out."

Crowley wound his scarf back around his neck while he made his way to the door and Aziraphale held out his coat for him. He slipped into it and the other man placed a hand on his cheek.

"Of course. Take care of yourself, my dear. If you need anything at all, you know where to find me."

Crowley was grateful for the man's understanding. He turned to kiss the palm of Aziraphale's hand.

"I'll see you when I see you, then. Hopefully soon, with good news."

"I'll have my fingers crossed for you."

Crowley made his way down the stairs and had been halfway out the door when he heard Aziraphale's voice behind him.

"Oh! Crowley, wait a moment."

The redhead turned, and Aziraphale stepped out into the snow with him.

"I know you'll be busy," he began, worrying his hands in front of himself. "However… Christmas is coming up, isn't it? My, it's next week already. Time really flies…"

Crowley watched him closely. He looked so nervous.

"Anyway. I thought… maybe you and I could spend the evening together? I know you said you aren't much for holidays or ceremonies, but I haven't spent Christmas with a loved one in a very long time, and it… sounded nice."

His stoic expression belied the flutter of euphoria in his chest. The reaction was less to do with the actual holiday and more about being referred to as a "loved one". He was still getting used to that.

"Absolutely. I wouldn't miss it."

The other man, however, had no qualms about showing his delight. His smile lit up the sidewalk.

"Oh…! Oh good! I'm looking forward to it."

Crowley caught his hand and kissed his knuckles before turning to head for the Bentley.

Chapter Text

Crowley was true to his word. He hadn’t been easy to get a hold of, and he hadn’t come by in days. Aziraphale assumed this was for the best, and chose to believe that no news was good news. He must have been hustling quite a bit to get interviews and tying up all the loose ends that come with sudden termination of employment, because more often than not Aziraphale wouldn’t hear back from him until close to midnight or even the next day.

But he was sure he would come by on Christmas Eve. He must! He’d said he would.

Aziraphale had tried to make some semblance of a plan with Crowley on the twenty-third, but hadn’t received a response. He was used to the slow pace of his replies these days, but this made things a little inconvenient.

Every year, The Gate had been open on both Christmas Eve and Christmas day. Aziraphale didn’t mind it. In fact it had helped him get through the holidays in his early years of restauranteering. Just watching families and friends come in, exchange small presents, and laugh together was a contact high. He felt happy by association. Seeing guests enjoy themselves and being wished a Merry Christmas by some of them usually gave him a small taste of spending the holidays with someone special.

This year, he did have someone special. But if he closed the restaurant and Crowley didn’t come, that would be a waste, wouldn’t it?

He went to sleep on the twenty-third unsure of what to do the following morning. When the time came to make the decision, he chose to trust Crowley and keep the sign flipped to “closed”. He checked his phone in the early morning and still saw no reply from his partner. So, to occupy himself, he did the one thing that always helped to take his mind off of things. He cooked.

Over the months he’d gotten to know Crowley, he had started to pay attention to what he was most interested in. He knew what foods he gravitated towards, what profiles he liked, and what he shied away from. They had gone to a generous amount of restaurants together, ordered many dishes family-style, and he had the privilege of watching the man choose from everything. He’d been filing away this knowledge, and today he was putting it to use.

He was going to make Crowley something lovely. Aziraphale was a firm believer that food told a story, and he had the perfect meal for the two of them to share. And what better time for a romantic dinner than Christmas Eve?

And if Crowley didn’t show up, he would stubbornly pack it all up and bring it down to his flat in Mayfair.

He turned the radio on low and hummed along as he worked. He set some proteins aside to marinade, prepared some sauces for later, and started kneading some pastry dough to life. About an hour into his prep, he was startled by a buzz in his pocket. He pulled it out to see Crowley’s text.

Crowley (10:48): come outside

“How cryptic.” He said flatly to himself, but even still he was glad to receive some communication at last. He made sure everything was turned off before grabbing his coat and going to the front door.

Thankfully, it hadn’t started snowing yet, but as it had been for the past few days, the sky was overcast and grey with the promise of it. Crowley was parked out front, leaning against his car and all bundled up in one of his expensive coats and the scarf he’d given him months ago. When Aziraphale shut the door behind him, Crowley approached with a grin.

“Let’s go.”

“Go?” Aziraphale parroted in confusion. “Go where? Crowley, I’m in the middle of cooking.”

“Aziraphale, you’re always cooking. We get it, you’re a brilliant chef. Now let me take you away!”

At Aziraphale’s hesitation, he groaned and tipped his head back.

“I’m trying to be mysterious and romantic here.”

“Oh!” Aziraphale finally picked up on it and smiled ear-to-ear. Normally he didn’t much care for surprises, but the thought of Crowley planning something special made his heart melt. “Of course! Let me just grab my things.”

He rushed back inside, did a cursory check on all of his burners (it wouldn’t do to come home to the place ablaze) and left in a more prepared fashion, which included pocketing his wallet and keys.

“Am I allowed to know where we’re going?” Aziraphale asked as he sat down in the Bentley. “Or is it a surprise.”

“A surprise, obviously.”

“Nothing too extravagant, I hope?”

Crowley made a face and shook his head. “Nah, nothing fancy, really. Just thought it’d be nice to go out.”

“Good. Because you know I just enjoy spending time with you…”

Crowley started the car and turned to look at Aziraphale. His cuts had mostly healed; he was past the need for bandages at least and now only had a faint impression of red marks on his face. Aziraphale only managed a smile before the other leaned over to kiss him passionately. He made a noise in surprise, but fell into it soon enough with a hand to brace himself against the seat. When Crowley pulled away, hand planted firmly on his chest, his pupils were wider and he gazed at Aziraphale hungrily. Going out was nice, but oh when Crowley looked at him like that he very much preferred their indoor activities.

“God I’ve missed you.”

It had only been a week or so, but Aziraphale could honestly say the same. He gave him one more sweet kiss before Crowley turned back around to put the car in drive.

Wherever they were going, it only took about ten minutes from Soho to get there. However, it cost Crowley another ten minutes to find parking, much to his dismay. When they finally got out of the car, it was a bit of a walk to their destination, but neither seemed to mind it. The chilly air necessitated walking close together for warmth.

“Hyde Park?”

“Yep.”

The park was decked out for their yearly “Winter Wonderland” festivities. The lights, the giant wheel, the stalls and street food, the ice rink, the shows, the bars… there was a little bit for everyone during the holiday season. He had been a few times as a child and remembered having a wonderful time, but he hadn’t returned in his adult years. It wasn’t the same going alone, he imagined.

“So,” Crowley began, pulling out a simple flier from his coat pocket. “Couple of things sounded interesting, particularly this Ice Bar. I looked it up, and even the glasses are sculpted out of ice!”

Aziraphale had already become excited just from the sight of the festivities across the street, and he could tell from the sound of Crowley’s voice that he was too. He tore his eyes from the lights and holiday decor to look up at his partner, who was glowing as he pointed out a couple of things he’d circled on the pamphlet and showed to Aziraphale.

“Care to get smashed and try ice skating?”

“That sounds a bit dangerous.”

“You’re right. How about we get smashed, walk around the outdoor market, then try ice skating after we’ve sobered up?”

Crowley extended his hand and Aziraphale took it with an impish smile.

“I’d love to.”

In truth, Crowley had not been to Hyde Park’s “Winter Wonderland” in a while, either. But during the past few days, he’d wracked his brain trying to come up with something that would equal parts excite Aziraphale and make him think that he hadn’t gone through unnecessary amounts of trouble to do it. This was the perfect mix: it was free admission (save the cost of food) and right in their backyard. Yet it still had the potential to be a romantic outing.

First, they had lunch at a particularly charming pop-up called Cedar & Spruce, which had faux fur draped over their wooden seating and delicious turkey roulades with cranberry & brie wontons. Then it was straight to the Ice Bar where they continued to order drinks until their time slot was up and they were urged out.

It was good to walk around for a bit and get all of the alcohol out of their system, but on hindsight they probably should have put another buffer in between drinking and shopping. Aziraphale walked out of the market with a bag full of candles and soaps that he certainly didn’t need (but they smelled so good, and how could he resist?), and Crowley had found a sweater that was so wonderfully soft that the two commented on it endlessly. Aziraphale made him put it on immediately after purchasing it.

By the time they made it to the ice rink, the day had already grown long. The alcohol had worn off, and the two men stared at the rink without approaching.

“Here we are….”

“Yes.”

Aziraphale looked up at Crowley with a small smile. Crowley returned it and cleared his throat.

“Full disclosure. I don’t know how to skate, and I’m feeling less confident about this now that the buzz has worn off.”

“Yes… likewise. Shall we skip it?”

“Yeah.”

Laughing in solidarity, they made their way to one of the fire pits that overlooked the rink and purchased a couple of hot chocolates instead.

“You really would have gone through with it if I’d wanted to?” Aziraphale wondered out loud as he handed him one of the drinks.

“Well yeah, obviously.”

“Why did you suggest it in the first place?”

Crowley shrugged as they settled in at one of the benches by the fire and put an arm over the back. Aziraphale scooted closer to him, and it seemed that even sober he was unable to resist the urge of touching his new soft sweater. A good purchase, Crowley thought to himself.

“It’s romantic, isn’t it? And I figured even if I don’t know how to skate, it’s just like walking with style, right? Couldn’t be that hard. Worst-case scenario, I could hold your arm and you’d sort of tug me along?”

Aziraphale laughed so hard he covered his mouth and looked bashful about startling the people nearby.

“My dear, what have I done to give you the impression that I know how to skate? We’d end up a pile on the ice.”

The couple speculated on several ways this could have ended, and further discussed other things they were both perfectly rubbish at until the sun went down. They got up to make their way back home, but every time Crowley suggested they try some more pop-up shops before they left, Aziraphale shot down the idea.

“I’ve got something special prepared at home. You’ll just have to wait and see.”

“Is it a sexy something?” Crowley hoped as his hand snaked around Aziraphale’s middle. Holding him was a special joy of its own, but doing so casually in a public setting was an even more remarkable high. It was like shouting from the rooftops that this angel was his, and anyone looking their way had better take note of it. He felt similarly about Aziraphale’s hands on him, obviously. He was his angel’s, and whatever attention he deemed to give him in public was an adrenaline rush.

“If you think a delicious home-cooked meal is sexy, then yes. You might have to wait an hour once we get home for me to prepare the rest. A handsome someone stole me away before I could finish my prep.”

“I apologize on his behalf.”

Aziraphale chuckled and linked arms with him as they walked, mostly so he could run his hands up his bicep and the soft cashmere sleeve. This sweater was a very good purchase indeed.

It took a bit of time for them to get back to Soho. They were leaving with the rush, unfortunately, but at least it was only a handful of miles away. And much easier to park, thank goodness. Not only that, but Ripe was also closed for the holiday, which meant no chance for awkward run-ins.

Once inside the restaurant, Aziraphale told Crowley to wait wherever he pleased. He would have preferred they cook together, and he tried to insist upon it. It had been so long since he’d been in the kitchen aside from his own, and he was beginning to miss it. But Aziraphale was very insistent on this point and shooed him out.

Crowley resigned to his fate and chose to loiter in one of the softer armchairs (he knew pretty well which ones were the best and most broken in by now). He found a book on one of the shelves that mildly piqued his interest and had just started in on it when he heard the steel doors swing open again. He looked up to see Aziraphale walking over to him dejectedly, sit down at an armchair next to his, and set down his hand towel.

“...Do you think any take-out places are open?”

Crowley straightened up and closed the book.

“What’s wrong?”

Aziraphale smiled at him, but even in the dim half-lights he could see a telltale shimmer in his eyes and knew something was amiss.

“I left the meat marinating on the counter, like a complete… idiot. It’s been sitting out all day. I can’t believe I missed it. I even checked the burners, and I still missed it!” He lifted his hands in defeated frustration, and they slowly fell back to his lap. Crowley made a sympathetic sound and shook his head.

“No, no. Easy mistake to make. I did it once too, remember?” He tried to coax a grin out of Aziraphale, and set a hand on his knee under the table. “We’ve just got bad luck with romantic dinners, don’t we?”

This did make Aziraphale chuckle, but there was no real mirth behind it.

“Yes, I suppose.” A silence settled in, and he felt Aziraphale’s hand over his.

“…I just wanted this to be nice. It didn’t even have to be perfect, if the protein was overcooked or the onions got a bit burnt, I wouldn’t have minded! ...Well all right, I might have minded. But I was really looking forward to showing you what I’d been planning.”

“Can’t you just tell me?”

Aziraphale tipped his head this way and that. “I’d much rather show you.”

“Then show me.” Crowley lifted Aziraphale’s hand to kiss it. This was a favorite move of his, mainly because it made Aziraphale scrunch up his shoulders and subtly bite his lip in shy delight every time, and he loved to watch from his bowed position. “There are so many romantic holidays in store for us. New Year’s. Valentine’s Day. Hell, there’s even tomorrow if you’re feeling ambitious and the butcher is open. Point is, we’ve got all the time in the world.” He rubbed Aziraphale’s knuckles with his thumb. “It’s like you said, I just like spending time with you. I had a wonderful day today, and you know what I’d really like to do now?”

Aziraphale was already soft as cashmere at his words and smiling at him genuinely again.

“What’s that, my dear?”

“I’d love to get in that kitchen with you and be your sous chef, make pasta puttanesca or something equally simple, share a bottle of wine with you upstairs and have you twice before falling asleep. And I’d really like for you to be the first thing I see on Christmas morning.”

Aziraphale stood and took Crowley by the hand.

“I think we can manage that.”

In the end, things tend to work out. Aziraphale’s perfect meal might have been delayed for some other day, but they ended up having quite a bit of fun together in the kitchen. They always did.

It was so nice for Crowley to work in a kitchen where no-one was screaming at anyone else, and doubly nice to be able to give his fellow chef an extra squeeze or two in between tasks. They called each other over to taste their components far more often than strictly necessary; it was intimate and often led to stolen kisses. And whenever he needed to pass behind him, he opted to let a hand linger or give a squeeze to let him know where he was in proximity to him. Aziraphale had come around to doing the same, to his delight.

When they were finally done, they collected their dishes and chose a table in the lobby. They had made quite a few sides, and it would have been a pain to take everything all the way upstairs. So they settled in at one of the tables by the window, and Crowley set their places while Aziraphale disappeared to choose a bottle of wine to go with their dinner.

“That was nice,” Crowley said again as they both sat down and Aziraphale poured two glasses.

“What was?”

“Cooking together. I really like when we get to do that.”

Aziraphale smiled genuinely and set the bottle down before handing Crowley his wine. They tipped their glasses together and Crowley watched Aziraphale’s face, trying to gauge his reaction.

“As do I,” he said pleasantly, but in the same way he might comment on a lovely spring day. Crowley set his glass down and started in on his food.

“That catering gig went over really well, didn’t it?”

“Yes, it did. Oh! I forgot to mention, well, I haven’t seen you in a few days so I haven’t had much chance-- but the bride sent me a photo of us from the wedding! The photographer was making the rounds and apparently snapped one of the two of us.” Aziraphale reached into his pocket and drew out his phone, flipping it open. He showed it to Crowley, who leaned over to get a look at it. The two of them were sharing a piece of cake, and Aziraphale had a bite of it extended in offering to Crowley.

“Oh, that’s brilliant… Look at you, god you’re handsome. Send me that?”

Aziraphale smiled and promised he would, and Crowley remembered what he was originally angling towards.

“But yeah, real success that was. Cake was great. Food was great.” Aziraphale had gone back to eating, but Crowley’s fork was still. “It’d be nice to do again. ...You know there’s a lot of money in catering. I was thinking of starting my own thing.”

This did draw Aziraphale’s attention. He stopped and looked up at him.

“Oh?”

“Yeah. I mean--” he didn’t want to drag down the evening by admitting that he’d been laughed out of several interviews earlier that week. “Might be nice to just… start up my own hustle instead of working for someone else.”

Aziraphale looked a little conflicted. “It’s not as easy as you might think, Crowley… You said your place was expensive. I have faith in you, I really do, but believe me when I say that starting a business is very difficult.”

“Sure. Alone, maybe.” Crowley continued to watch Aziraphale for a moment before he leaned in. “But what if we did it together?”

“...Together?”

“Yeah! Think about it, your expertise and my marketing-- we’d make a brilliant team.”

Aziraphale donned an unreadable expression, and Crowley began to wonder if he’d overstepped. It had been a nice notion, one that had been floating around in his head but never cultivated past a nice daydream. Maybe putting it into words had been a mistake.

“Oh, Crowley… I love you very much, you know I do. But I can’t just leave all of this to start over. I’ve worked so hard on this place, and so much of my life is in this restaurant.”

A part of Crowley he tried not to acknowledge hummed sunk cost fallacy. He pretended that such a bitter thought never occurred to him.

“I know. Yeah, never mind. Stupid to even bring it up.”

“But I certainly support you if you wanted to try something yourself! And if you need any help or advice, I’m here for you.”

The thought of going it alone was hardly appealing to him, but Crowley still forced a smile.

“Thanks, Angel.”

The meal continued on in silence until they got about halfway done with their bottle of wine. Then they were back to being chatty and, once they cleaned everything up and headed upstairs, handsy.

Crowley forgot about his fumbled proposal the moment their bodies came together, and when they found their way to the bedroom all of his previous wishes came true. They’d made dinner together, shared a bottle of wine together, and he had his angel twice before falling asleep.

Aziraphale was nervous to give Crowley his gift.

He’d never been particularly good at gift-giving for a very strange reason. He tended to overvalue his relationships with other people, and as such the gifts he gave were usually overly sentimental and sappy. He’d once gifted a casual acquaintance a first edition book that she had once described as her childhood favorite. She, in return, had given him a coffee shop gift card (which, given the nature of their relationship, was the proper thing to do), and they both left that holiday party feeling very awkward.

This one was bad, though. Well, not bad, he thought it was quite nice. But what if it was too much? Or too soon?

Aziraphale woke with these worries and distracted himself by making some tea. He was going to give it to him, he’d already decided on it, but what if Crowley hadn’t gotten anything for him? What if, by giving him a gift, it made him feel a sense of obligation and upset him? He didn’t want that… or what if it was implying something Crowley wasn’t ready for, and he didn’t see him again for another straight week?

Well. He was just going to have to find out.

He hurried back into the bedroom, set the two mugs of tea down, and gently roused Crowley from his sleep with a few kisses. The man purred groggily and caught him around the shoulders, pulling him down and back into bed.

“My wish came true,” he muttered with closed eyes. One peeked open, and he smiled. “Yep. You’re the first thing I saw on Christmas morning.”

They kissed, and Aziraphale smoothed out Crowley’s bedhead for a while before he reached into the pocket of his robe. He set a little wrapped box between them on the sheets and Crowley shuffled to a sitting position.

“For me?”

“No, it’s for me. I’m showing you to brag about it.”

“You really are a bastard,” he said, all smiles, and picked it up. “Hard to fit a puppy in this small box though, how’d you manage?”

“Oh, it’s a toy breed.”

Crowley barked a laugh and Aziraphale smiled and waited in anticipation for the other to open it. It was going to be Sophie again all over, wasn’t it? Things had been so awkward after that.

Crowley took apart the lid from the box and stared down at the contents. He met Aziraphale’s gaze with a surprised expression, then fished the little thing out to hold between his fingers.

“Is this what I think it is?”

“Possibly,” Aziraphale said quietly. He smoothed out the fabric of the sheets between them nervously. He could feel the waver in his voice.

“...I know it’s just a small thing, and I’m sorry it didn’t really cost me anything. But I really do cherish the time I spend with you. I’d love to spend more time with you, really. I want you to know that… you’re always welcome here, for as long as you’d like.”

Crowley set the key back down in the box and drew Aziraphale into a hug. He could always tell when the other was particularly touched by the way he opted to hide his face against his shoulder. He returned the embrace and whispered against Crowley’s hair.

“I hope you like it…?”

“I love it.” Crowley assured him, and this time he could hear the waver in the other’s voice. “I love it, it’s-- it’s absolutely perfect. Thank you.” He pulled back to take Aziraphale’s face with both hands. “I’m sorry. I know I’ve been hard to get a hold of lately. I’ll use this. I’ll use it so much, you’ll be sick of me in a week.”

“I doubt that.”

“I got you something too, you know,” Crowley said with newfound excitement as he stood and searched for his pants. He fumbled them on one leg at a time and put his new present in the pocket of his jeans. “Breakfast at my place?”

On the way, Aziraphale couldn’t help but wonder what it was Crowley had chosen for him. Another bottle of wine? As a sommelier, he was always thrilled to try something he’d never come across before and expand his repertoire, so that would be quite nice. Or maybe a cardigan? He’d complained recently that his favorite one had a new hole in the elbow and was unfit to wear out in public anymore without a proper darning. That would also be a lovely surprise. As he speculated on their way up to Crowley’s floor, the other man made a disclaimer.

“So… okay. Don’t get mad.”

Well, that threw him completely. He wouldn’t get mad at a bottle of wine or a cardigan, so what could Crowley possibly have gotten him?

“I got this before I was fired. So.” Crowley sniffed and fished out his own house keys for the lock. “It’s already done. No point arguing it or talking about money.”

“What exactly did you--?”

“I didn’t wrap it… for obvious reasons.”

He let the door fall open and mused for Aziraphale to step inside. He froze in his tracks and put a hand on his chest.

“Oh my word... Crowley...!”

“Remember the ‘don’t get mad’ thing?”

“Wh-- I can’t-- how on earth did you…?”

“Couple of moving guys.” He stepped beside Aziraphale in view of his gift, folding his arms over his chest. “Pretty cheap if you only need an hour. When you told me about it, I figured I needed to act fast in case someone else got there first. Anyway, I wanted to surprise you so I put it here for now, but we can move it back to your place whenev--”

Aziraphale cut him off with a kiss that was both languorous and heartfelt in nature. He whispered “thank you” against his lips several times whenever they broke for air.

The two broke away eventually and Crowley took him into the kitchen to make him a simple breakfast. They took their plates into the living room and sat on the couch to enjoy it, at Crowley’s suggestion. And while they ate, Aziraphale’s eyes kept wandering towards his mother’s piano gratefully.

Chapter Text

Be brave, he had said.

Newton had come to like Mr. Fell a great deal in the weeks he had worked at The Gate. He was a kind man, and maybe too much of a soft touch (he saw the man comp so many glasses of wine just because the customer didn't like his recommendations, which he took as a personal failure). He always forgave Newton for dropping things, which to his credit happened less often nowadays, and never once yelled at him, not even that one time he'd charged a customer's card twice on accident and the enraged woman stormed into the kitchen demanding to speak to the manager.

All the times he'd thought he would get fired, he hadn't. He was still at The Gate, and Aziraphale was still happy to see him every morning.

He would be brave. He could do this for Mr. Fell.

One of the men Aziraphale had identified showed up at the door, and Newton mentally readied himself. This was it. He hurried into the kitchen to inform Chef Fell, who gave him a plate and wished him good luck.

He came to his table as soon as the guest sat down and set the plate in front of him. The man was slightly bruised with a black eye. Newton was clever enough to know that he must have been acquainted with Mr. Crowley, and probably not on friendly terms.

The customer looked down at the plate slowly, the very picture of confusion.

“What's this?” He growled.

“W-we have received an anonymous tip that it's your, uhm, birthday!”

Ligur's lip twitched.

“It's not my birthd–"

“And as such, The Gate would like to offer you a complimentary d-dessert and a customary song.”

Newton, with a bright red face, turned to the restaurant to see the few diners sharing the space watching them both. A lit candle in a cake usually attracted some attention.

“Ladies and gentlemen, would you join us in wishing… I'm sorry, what's your name?”

“It's NOT my birthday–"

“In wishing our valued diner a happy birthday!”

Newton began to sing, and the handful of patrons watching actually joined in. He turned back to the customer to see him sinking gradually deeper into the booth. He looked positively mortified to have everyone's eyes on him.

Once the song concluded, they gave a round of applause and Ligur looked relieved it was over.

"And now, in French–"

Newton only got one line in before the man leapt from his seat and stormed out the door.

"How odd!" Newton said, his voice loud and acting not spectacular, "He must have forgotten some other plans."

Fighting through his embarrassment, he returned to another table in his section that hadn't yet been helped. He handed the young woman a menu and smiled awkwardly.

"I apologize for the wait. ...And my singing voice."

The young woman laughed and looked up at him, ignoring the menu for a moment.

"No! I thought it was… charming?"

She had the sort of smile that made Newton forget how to breathe. Completely disarmed, he reached for the pencil behind his ear and fumbled it to the floor. She had the courtesy to hide her grin behind her hand as he did so.

"Sorry! Um, can I start you with something to drink?"

"Just water. I heard that you have an in-house sommelier? I'd love to speak with them."

"Coming away– sorry, meant to say 'coming up' but then thought to say 'right away' and, well..."

He put a hand over his forehead slowly and turned to leave while he was ahead. He made sure to pick up the neglected piece of cake at the other table on his way back to the kitchen.

Once on the other side of the steel doors, he handed the plate back to Mr. Fell with a triumphant (but still shaky) smile. The man clapped him on both shoulders.

"Oh, well done! Excellent work, my boy."

"Thank you, Chef. He didn't want the cake. Obviously."

Aziraphale took the plate from him, removed the candle and blew it out. When he spoke again, his tone was low with a hint of something devious underlying it.

"No? My, how peculiar indeed."

Aziraphale selected a fork with care and took a single bite of the cake to savor his victory. Newton was left wondering if maybe Mr. Fell wasn't quite as soft as he'd imagined.

"There's a young lady who would like to speak to the sommelier. She's at table five."

"Ah, yes. On my way."

He set the cake aside and washed his hands, then took off his chef's coat to make himself more presentable for the floor. After straightening his bowtie, he made his way to the front of house and the table in question.

Aziraphale, who had grown up in the food industry, knew who Anathema Device was. He used to watch her mother on the telly when he was studying abroad, and his copy of her grandmother's cookbook was so well-loved the pages were nearly falling out. He knew that Mrs. Device had a daughter, and that now as an adult she mostly wrote articles and judged prestigious competitions and television shows. But these days he didn't have much time to watch anything, and he was no social media expert. This is the long way of saying that Aziraphale was completely unaware that the guest seated at table five was Anathema Device.

“Good afternoon, my dear,” he began pleasantly. “I heard from Newton you were interested in selecting a wine with your meal?”

“Yes, I am.”

“Well then allow me to help inform your decision. My name is Aziraphale and I am the house sommelier. Now, what dish were we considering today?”

“Well,” the young lady regarded her menu over the rim of her stylish tortoise shell glasses. “Either the Chicken Piccata or the Duck Confit.”

“Both excellent choices. If I may start with the duck? This dish is marinated and slow-cooked in duck fat and delightfully rich, which naturally pairs beautifully with a robust Cabernet Sauvignon or even a spicy Shiraz. We have a 2017 Cab from Bordeaux that is just wonderful. Notes of blackberry, coffee and vanilla. If you are more inclined to white wines, I also have a lovely aged Chardonnay.”

“As for the Piccata, this dish has an acidic but creamy sauce. The acidity of the lemon softens the tannins of a dry wine. I have a beautiful 2005 “Champs Royaux” Chablis that is the perfect companion to this dish. Aged only slightly in neutral oak, and finished in the bottle. What you get is a bouquet of citrus and white-fleshed fruits, but what really defines it, in my opinion, are the mineral undertones. Typical of a wine in this region, but these notes are enhanced with the sauce of this dish. It's like…”

Like meeting a handsome stranger for the first time, a stranger taking refuge in your shop from the rain. Like eating dinner by the foggy window, staring at the warm glow of streetlights and wondering if you'll cross paths with him again. Aziraphale smiled and clasped his hands in front of him.

“It's like fresh autumn rain evaporating off of warm pavement. This wine lightens the dish and the dish enhances the wine; a truly perfect balance. I wholeheartedly recommend this pairing, however if you do prefer a red I can make some suggestions there as well.”

Anathema stared at him in silence and he put a hand on her shoulder lightly, apologetically.

“I'm so sorry, my dear, I've prattled on quite a bit, haven't I?”

“No, I enjoyed it,” she assured him with a slow smile once she realized he was finished. “You really sold me on the Chablis. I'll have a glass with the Piccata. Do you have any appetizers you would recommend with that?"

The way she posed this question was almost in the manner of a teacher asking her students. Which made Aziraphale the student in front who raised his hand quickly and passionately.

"The scallops. These are so fresh that I only give them a very basic preparation to highlight the quality of the product, and the Chablis matches beautifully with seafood.”

She seemed appreciative of his answer and ordered the scallops as well. He accepted her menu back and passed Newton on the floor, who appeared with a tray of waters for several tables. Aziraphale didn’t work the floor as often now that he had Newton around to assist, with the notable exception of requests for the sommelier. So, once he passed the order on to Newton, he trusted him to take it from there and went back to the kitchen to fire up the rest of the tickets.

Crowley had lied to Aziraphale, but not intentionally. Upon receiving a key to the other man’s place, he had sworn he would use it so much the other would be sick of him.

He hadn’t gone back to see him in days.

To be fair, he was exhausted all the time. Not physically, but spiritually. He’d gone to so many interviews in such a short time, and while a couple respectfully declined over the phone, there were a few less savory recruiters and owners who laughed him out of the building once they recognized his face from the viral “chef punches his coworker” video.

It was humiliating to know that nearly everyone in the food industry had seen that footage floating around. Not a single restaurant he’d applied to didn’t know about it. And as time stretched on, it was becoming unfortunately apparent that he wouldn’t be finding another position similar to his old one any time soon.

He had a lot of money in savings, but he was loathe to dip into it just to pay his rent. That was his nest egg for the future. But he was running out of viable options. As they say, time is money, and every evening that he came back to his apartment still jobless with only a bag of fast food, he was losing more of it.

It took about a week of searching, but Crowley finally found a position that would cover his rent. He wasn’t happy with it, but it paid a lot of bills.

He tried not to talk about the details too much with Aziraphale. He didn’t want the other to know exactly how unfortunate his situation had become, especially since his proposal to collaborate with him hadn’t gone over well. And in truth, this new job wasn’t really that bad. He figured he’d only have to spend a little while at this new position, wait it out, and hopefully he could get back into the restaurant business in a year or so.

New Year’s Eve had been a nice distraction, at least. Crowley had shown up at Aziraphale’s place at ten to the hour, dressed to the nines and with a bottle of champagne. They’d shared a slow dance in the event space past the brick archways, the only rule being no questions about interviews and no talking shop. Just quiet intimacies, smiles pressed against shoulders, a line of song hummed here and there as they moved from a basic closed position to a more intimate embrace, swaying in the lobby with only an audience of empty tables and low-lit sconces.

They kissed at midnight, and both men started off the new year much better than the previous one.

It was a nice distraction, but only that. Soon it was back to the daily grind for both of them.

Crowley would lace up his glossy patent shoes instead of his broken in non-slips, and take them off at the end of the day with a groan and rub his heels which were unused to wearing stiff dress shoes. His chef’s coat had been replaced with a notched lapel suit (and a tie, possibly the thing he’d missed the least), and his knife bag downgraded to a portfolio case. He’d ferry this back and forth from the office, come home late to work on it, show up early to review it with peers, and get told that he was too “old school” and “hadn’t been in the game for a while, so it was understandable”.

It was aggravating, to put it kindly.

The times that he did show up at Aziraphale’s place after the turn of the new year, he had been too tired to do much of anything. He never cooked with him, and didn’t even end up eating with him. Their schedules were too different now. He would poke his head into the kitchen around seven or eight to get Aziraphale’s attention and declare he was here and heading upstairs, but the man had become surprisingly busy since the changing out of calendars. Crowley didn’t know why, he was out of the loop in the food world too and he couldn’t mentally afford to be hung up about that in two separate fields.

All this to say, Aziraphale hardly ever looked up when Crowley announced himself at the kitchen doors. The chef would apologize hours later upon getting into bed with him, and Crowley would smile, still half asleep, and say it was all right.

But it wasn’t. He felt like he was fading away, as a chef, a partner, and a person.

Eventually, he stopped showing up at Aziraphale’s.

The man texted him during the day, but Crowley wasn’t able to check his phone all that often in the office. If he wasn’t meeting with clients, he was in other meetings talking about those clients he would soon meet with, hammering out the details with his coworkers and sharing ideas which inevitably got watered down or shot down altogether.

Afterwards, he’d go out for drinks with said coworkers, or clients, or both, and try his hardest to create a persona that gave a damn about either of them.

Communication with Aziraphale became slower. He’d reply to him once or twice a day as a result of all this, and soon they both started to realize that it was best to just get the essentials out of one another: invitations to come over for dinner, asking after each other’s health, and the like.

He didn’t have the energy to cook most nights, so he wound up ordering a lot of takeout. He started to get clutter-blind from falling asleep on the couch more often than he used to. Sometimes he’d wake up with the realization he was on a sofa and would expect Aziraphale to be on top of him. But he wasn’t. He hadn’t been since New Year’s Eve.

He missed Aziraphale. He missed him so much, and it was so painful driving past the restaurant to go straight home after work. An outsider might say that he was being stubborn, but Crowley knew he wasn’t in a good mood to see anyone on most evenings after work. He was irritable, definitely less charming, and probably not as funny as he was when he was at the top of his game. He didn’t want to be in company when he got like this, and he imagined Aziraphale wouldn’t like him in this state anyway.

But not only that, there was something more complicated going on. Something Crowley had to work out by himself. There was an unappetizing bitterness growing in him, and after denying it had failed, he’d started to hate himself for it.

It wasn’t Aziraphale’s fault that he’d gotten fired. It wasn’t Aziraphale’s fault that Crowley had wanted so desperately to please him, to give him so many things, and bend over backwards to help him no matter what. He shouldn’t have felt resentful that Aziraphale’s restaurant had suddenly exploded in popularity as soon as he’d lost his cushy job as head chef at Ripe. It shouldn’t have bothered him that everything was going so well now that Crowley wasn’t really as hands-on with helping him as he used to be. It shouldn’t have hurt him that the man was too busy to turn around and hug him after a soul-sucking day. He knew things in the kitchen could be finicky and time-sensitive, and he shouldn’t have been so fragile. But in this transitional period, he was. It sucked, and he hated it.

Irksome and untrue thoughts began to occur to him. Thoughts such as: see, he doesn’t need your help, doesn’t need your skills, doesn’t need your money. And worse: see, he doesn’t need you..

The further apart their meetings became, the more it festered. He leaned hard into his job as a consequence: staying later, showing up earlier, and unfortunately excelling at it. This went on for quite some time, long enough for those feelings to dull and be replaced with an ever-present despondency. He was disheartened by Aziraphale’s presumed lack of interest in him, and discouraged from missing a creative outlet.

Eventually, it wore him down too far. It didn’t matter if Aziraphale was too busy for him. He’d show up, wait for him in bed, and lean on his previous mantra from a while back, before they’d even been dating. He’d take whatever the other would give him.

He was often asleep by the time Aziraphale came upstairs. But his soft touches and sweet words were an oasis, and he sought them out like a parched man every time they woke him.

One of the few advantages to positions that aren’t very rewarding is that they tend to pay extremely well, and upon receiving his first paycheck Crowley was able to pay his rent and put the rest towards something he liked. He was decently clever, and knew when to spend and when to save. This time, he was saving every penny.

Yes, a nice new suit or an expensive watch might have been a nice pick-me-up, a fast cheat to get some serotonin. But one thing that pulled him through this hard time was hope: the idea that he would get through this, that Aziraphale still loved him past how useful (or not) he was, and hope that someday he might actually get something of his own off the ground and running. Something he enjoyed, and wouldn’t mind spending his life doing. Something creative, and worthwhile. Something new, challenging, always changing. And that something didn’t come from nothing; it came from money, time, and effort.

He was working on one, the other two would eventually follow.

It was a rainy Tuesday evening when Crowley made his way up to his flat with a bag of takeout in the crook of his arm. He fumbled his keys, cursed, and opened the door as he staggered in with both his portfolio case and food in his off-hand. He set his things down on the couch, went to the fridge to grab himself a beer, and turned on the news to accompany his dinner.

He’d only gotten two bites into his Pad Thai when he heard a knock at the door.

It was unusual for Aziraphale to come to him, firstly because he worked so much later than Crowley and secondly because he didn’t own a car and it was a lot more troublesome for him to make arrangements. But still, here he was, standing in Crowley’s doorway with his coat slightly darker at the shoulders from the weather and his curls damp but not drenched.

Crowley had seen a lot of Aziraphale’s smiles in the months they had been together, but this one was new. It was indecipherable at a glance: complex and secretive. It drew him in.

“May I come in?” he asked quietly. His voice was barely audible over the rain. “I have some news.”

“Of course, yeah,” Crowley stepped back to let the man in, shut the door and helped him out of his coat.

“...It’s been a while,” Aziraphale said with a tinge of sadness, and Crowley felt some guilt there. He hadn’t been keeping up with his texting this week.

“Yeah, it has.”

When had conversations gotten so difficult between the two of them? And why? Nothing had happened of consequence, as far as he knew. He hadn’t considered the possibility that Aziraphale was juggling his same doubts.

The man cleared his throat. Fortunately, there was a distraction from this uneasy topic that caught Aziraphale’s eye. He moved into the living room, past his mother’s piano (both parties had been too preoccupied to call the movers and get the thing back to The Gate; Crowley still dusted it every other day) and towards the couch. Crowley followed him. A couple of take-out bags were on the coffee table, some from that evening, others from earlier in the week.

“There must be four days’ worth of delivery here.”

“Five, really. The Thai food reheats decently well.”

Aziraphale turned to fix him with a look.

“Have you been eating fast food this often?”

Crowley put his hands in his pockets and shrugged, attempting to appear disinterested in the topic.

“Haven’t felt like cooking much. So, what’s this news?”

Aziraphale wouldn’t be swayed so easily. His sights became distracted again and he moved towards the kitchen, which had a few empty grocery bags and other generic containers. He rolled up his sleeves and opened Crowley’s fridge.

“Let me cook you something, then.”

“Don’t. You’ve been at it all day, and I could if I wanted--”

“It’s Tuesday. I’ve had the day off. I’ve been very busy with other things, you know!”

I’m sure you have, Crowley swallowed the thought. Aziraphale sounded excited, but there was a nervous energy to him that was foreign to his eyes.

“What if we made something together? Doesn’t that sound nice?”

The man put a few ingredients on the counter and sought out his gaze with a broad grin. Crowley was caught in it, and even through his exhaustion and the taste of that appetizing Pad Thai still on his palette, he knew he couldn’t deny this man anything.

“All right.”

It had been close to a month since Crowley had even picked up a chef’s knife, but now he was side by side with Aziraphale, dicing an onion and mincing garlic like it was yesterday. The vapor stung and the garlic was sticky, but when the butter hit the pan and the ingredients followed, the scent smacked his olfactories with old memories and it woke him from a month-long sleep. It was bittersweet. He was revisiting a world that he didn’t belong to anymore. But Aziraphale was there at his side, humming as if nothing had changed and pressing a sauce to his lips to taste like his opinion still mattered.

It needed acid, and he felt relieved in so many ways.

The Pad Thai was put in the fridge, to be taken to work for lunch some time in the near future. They sat down together at the kitchen island, and although Crowley didn’t have any wine around he’d pulled out two beers for them to share. Aziraphale, a beacon of courtesy, had accepted the bottle but didn’t finish it.

“So what’s this news, then?”

“Oh, right!”

Aziraphale held up a finger, bringing a napkin to his lips and swallowing the bite he’d taken. What he said next genuinely made Crowley spit his beer and cover it clumsily with one hand:

“I sold the restaurant.”

Chapter Text

Aziraphale had sensed a change in Crowley around New Year's Eve.

He had a pretty good idea as to why. It must have been hard to lose a career that he'd cultivated for nearly a decade, and harder still to find something to fill that void. He wanted to tell Crowley to lean on him however he needed, if that meant opening up to him or going out for a nice night on the town or even asking for money (he would find a way). Crowley had been so supportive and helpful whenever he was in need, and he wanted to do the same for him. Not because of any feeling of obligation. Because he loved him, and it pained him to see him this way.

But he’d only brought it up once, and Crowley asked if they could not talk about business while he was sorting himself out. So he respected that request.

Aziraphale became distracted from it soon enough. One crisp January morning, he’d come downstairs to see that there were actually a few people gathered outside the restaurant, waiting to be let in for breakfast. He'd never seen a line in his entire time working at The Gate.

It happened the next day as well, and the next, and soon he had to ask Pulsifer to adjust his schedule and come in earlier. Tickets were coming in faster than ever, to an extent that he actually needed assistance with expo. It was usually so slow he could afford to take his time, but now the hours were flying by thanks to his busy hands. When was the last time he’d actually broken a sweat running around in the kitchen? At least he was closing almost every night with a hefty profit.

Aziraphale discovered the reason for this bump in business a little further down the line. Because he didn’t check social media all that often, he had no way of reading the news until his physical copy of Good Food Magazine had come in the mail. However, since he’d been so busy, he’d wound up neglecting it for a few days. When he did settle down to read it, he nearly fainted when he saw a picture of The Gate taking up half a page.

The article used such kind words. Words like “balanced”, “ambrosial”, “highly developed”, “rich” and suchlike were used in reference to his food, “comfortable”, “inviting”, “welcoming” in regards to the atmosphere, and even “knowledgeable, passionate and proficient, while refreshingly without egotism” to describe himself. He’d almost teared up to see that a stranger had written such nice things about him. When he saw the author’s name, he finally bothered to pull out the old laptop.

How on earth had Anathema Device come to his restaurant without him knowing? Surely he would have recognized her, or gotten a call, or… or something! He pulled up a quick search on “Anathema Device” and immediately recognized the young woman from a week or so prior. He took off his glasses and leaned back in his chair thoughtfully. She had asked to see the chef afterwards. She’d given him a handshake on her way out.

“My God… I shook Anathema Device’s hand!”

He laughed to himself and folded his glasses back into his pocket, letting that sink in.

“Well, I’ll be damned.”

The first thing he’d wanted to do when he’d found out this news was to show Crowley in person. He would be so happy for him when he saw the review! It was unlikely that he didn’t know who Ms. Device was, he would most likely be very impressed. But the next time he saw the man had been on a very busy night, and he’d had to call over his shoulder that he’d see him later while nursing a fruit curd so that the milk wouldn’t burn. Crowley had said he was heading upstairs, but by the time Aziraphale had closed for the evening and gotten up to his apartment, he was asleep.

He slept so much. Aziraphale was beginning to worry about him. His visits were becoming fewer and farther between, and whenever he did show up, he went straight to bed. He’d tried to wake him gently a few times, but Crowley would just mumble sleepily and curl up close to him. Even in the mornings, on weekends when he had the day off, he tended to sleep in as late as Aziraphale’s lunch break. And once he woke up, he’d head out saying unenthusiastically that he had to “work on a project for Monday”, or something similar.

They didn’t eat together all that much anymore, and they certainly didn’t cook together. The whole affair left Aziraphale feeling hollow.

That’s life, he’d reasoned. People get busy, and schedules conflict, and that was just how things were. Crowley’s life was at a pivotal moment, and The Gate was busier than ever. It was understandable that it was getting hard to see each other.

The days dragged on, and every time he went upstairs and Crowley wasn’t there waiting for him, he grew a little bit sadder. He’d tried texting him, just casual conversations to keep things light, but the man hardly replied to those anymore. He used to envy Crowley for his speed at replying to texts, but now he wondered if he even read them.

Horrible thoughts began to occur to him in the space between their visits. Thoughts like: now that he’s in another field, he doesn’t need those cooking lessons with you. And worse: now that he’s in another field, he doesn’t need you.

One might think that the amount of work there was to do with the restaurant would have distracted Aziraphale from this. And for a brief time, it was true. He’d managed to square away several debts that he owed, including a rather large loan that had been hanging over him for years. All of his personal debts could be handled later, (and there were plenty) but it was nice to get the most troublesome items mitigated.

He thought the boom would be short lived, but it wasn’t. He was constantly busy, constantly splitting his time between the kitchen and the floor, recommending wines and reducing glazes. Customers were leaving happy, telling their friends, leaving large tips, and best of all, Ripe was hands-off now, thanks to Newton’s singing voice.

By all accounts, Aziraphale should have been happy.

He spent most of his nights alone, recently. This gave him some time to think, and to reflect.

The Gate was finally stable. It had been for about a month. He could afford to set some loftier long-term goals now. He could hire kitchen staff. Maybe not someone of Crowley’s payscale, but somewhere in the area of eager teenagers looking for summer jobs. He could even get a couple more servers to help Newton out on the floor. He could order more inventory, expand his menu, and possibly add some more dessert items like he’d been hoping to do.

As he sat in his worn dark blue armchair, up in his small apartment above the restaurant, eating a sandwich because he was just too tired to cook and occasionally glancing hopefully to his phone for new messages, he realized that none of these long-term goals made him feel happy.

He had thought that most of his recent melancholies had come from failing as a businessman. But The Gate was at the peak of its popularity now, and he had no excuse to be sad. Yet here he was, the joy of success short lived and the loneliness winning out.

But what if we did it together? We’d make a brilliant team.

He thought of Crowley’s words frequently. What if’s were a nice distraction, but he had responsibility. This restaurant was his dream, his mother’s dream, and he couldn’t just abandon it.

...Good lord, how often had he thought that exact same thing to justify feeling unhappy?

Receiving Miracle Ltd.’s first offer letter to fully subsidize The Gate, and thinking about how nice it would be to not have a financial burden causing him sleepless nights. I can’t just abandon it. Taking mornings off to see different farmer’s markets as a consumer, and not a vendor. Having his weekends free again. I can’t just abandon it. Going overseas on holiday with Crowley. Accepting a business opportunity with Crowley. Imagining a future with Crowley… I can’t just abandon it.

What he “couldn’t abandon” was a nonliving thing. An idea. What’s worse, it was an idea that had gotten so far away from what it had been originally that Aziraphale wasn’t sure he’d gotten it right anymore.

His mother had wanted to start a restaurant with him, a place where they could work together as a family. Her dream hadn’t been to crunch numbers and make it in Good Food Magazine or be on Hidden Gems of London. Her dream had been… her dream had been to spend time with him.

The truth of the matter was, he could never make that happen. She was gone, and as much as he would have preferred it any other way, he couldn’t make her dream a reality.

Aziraphale’s mother had sent him away to culinary school and worked tirelessly to pay for his education abroad so that he could have more opportunities than she’d had. He could succeed, and grow, and flourish thanks to the head start she’d given him. And what had he done? He’d chained himself down in his mourning, and over the years that mourning had festered unhealthily into guilt.

He’d wanted so desperately to do this one thing in her name, hoping that it might make it easier to cope with her loss, or that it might somehow make her happy if she was watching over him, and he’d nearly driven himself mad over the past decade trying to do it. But she wouldn’t have wanted that. She would have wanted him to be happy.

He’d found happiness. It was in those late night pastry lessons, in strawberries and champagne, in long-distance telephone calls, and isolated slow-dances. He’d found it in Crowley’s text messages, in the man’s surprisingly excited voice explaining the booths he’d seen in New York, in his smile, in the way he looked at him, and only him, in a crowded room.

He had it, and he was losing it. He could feel the gap between them increasing as each day passed, and he was terrified to think that it might only get worse. He wasn’t sure if it was just Crowley’s new job, or Aziraphale becoming too busy to properly allot any time to him, or some combination of the two. In any case, if he didn’t do something, there might be some irreversible damage to the person he cared for most.

Aziraphale had learned two things from his mother’s passing. He’d neglected one of them.

“You what?”

Crowley towelled his hand free of the beer he’d spat on it, but his eyes were fixed wide and unblinking at Aziraphale.

“I sold it. Well, not all of it, but the majority share of it. I’m… no longer the owner.”

He finished this sentence with a nervous laugh. Crowley, with his freshly cleaned hands, reached across the table to rest one on Aziraphale’s.

“But-- but why?! I thought things were getting better recently?”

“They were,” Aziraphale confirmed quietly. He turned his hand over in Crowley’s so that he could hold it properly. He was doing his best to keep his voice steady and assured, even though he was still feeling residual nervousness inside about what he’d done.

“Better than ever, actually. And I think that’s exactly what I needed to step away from this…”

He trailed off, wondering how he might best explain it, but Crowley became impatient and started up again in a shocked stammer.

“I-- I’m really not understanding this. What about… you know. Wasn’t this your mother’s dream? I thought you wanted to protect it and all that?”

“No… I mean, yes, but not exactly... ” he started lamely. Everything he’d prepared to say flew out his ears with Crowley’s questions, and he took a moment to collect himself. He’d come to the conclusion already. He had his reasons, he knew them. He just needed to start talking, and they would come out.

“She did have a dream, yes. She wanted to create a place that we could own and operate together. As a family. But after she found out that she was ill, she never mentioned it again…” Aziraphale licked his lips and looked down at the table ledge. “I don’t-- I don’t think, in the end, that the restaurant was as important to her as spending time with me was.”

“I’ll admit that I was lost for some time without her, and that the restaurant helped to fill the hole in my heart. But I aggrandized it, and I started to obsess over it. When things became hard, I clung to it even harder. I don’t know if this will make sense, but in a way I… I didn’t want to lose her a second time.”

“But now… business is great,” he said with a thin laugh. “Phenomenal, even. My debts are mostly paid down, I’ve received very nice reviews, and the lobby is packed every night.” He shrugged and shook his head, his eyes gaining a faraway quality. “But I feel the same. I actually felt happier a few months ago, before all this, when you would come over almost every night and we would use the lobby for midnight dinners and wine tasting. You were such a good sport, drinking Sauternes when you hate sweet wines.”

Aziraphale squeezed Crowley’s hand teasingly, and the man smiled briefly and clenched it back while listening intently to his speech.

“Anyway, I suppose the point is… the dreams aren’t as important as the people who have them. She’s gone, and I’m... I haven’t thought about myself in all of this, and maybe it’s about time I did. All the happy memories I’ve made at The Gate, and my ties with the community, they aren’t fixed to that building. They’re with me, and they’ll always be with me. And I think it’s time I… let go.”

He smiled and gave Crowley’s hand another little squeeze, this time for his own sake. The other man stood from the table and crossed the space to take Aziraphale’s face in his hands. He kissed him wordlessly and ran his fingers through his curls, then drew back to stare down at him.

“So, are you... happy about this development, then?”

“Yes,” Aziraphale answered, his voice thick and his laugh a bit wobbly. “Scared, but… yes, I am.”

“Good,” Crowley said with a kind smile, offering Aziraphale help to his feet. “Good, because I’m so happy for you. I didn’t want to poke my nose where it didn’t belong, but I’m relieved to hear that you’re finally thinking about your own happiness.”

Aziraphale put his arms around Crowley’s shoulders and kissed him back properly, and the two made their way to a piece of furniture that would better facilitate them sitting close together. Namely, the sofa. A thought seemed to occur to the redhead and he turned to him, wide-eyed.

“Oh God, please don’t tell me you did this because I was being mopey.”

“Were you? I’d hardly noticed.”

Aziraphale got a pinch to his love handles for that tease, and he supposed he deserved it.

“No, my dear boy. Although I think it helped make things clear, you not around while The Gate was thriving. I promise, I made this decision for myself.”

Crowley looked conflicted, but accepted this answer and leaned back against the furniture. His voice was small when he spoke again.

“...So what are you going to do now?”

“Well,” Aziraphale folded his hands in his lap and leaned back as well, conveniently against the nook of Crowley’s draped arm. “The official transfer of ownership date is the end of next month. I’ll have to tie up some loose ends. I will still be the chef de cuisine after that, and from there I expect I’ll be working closely with the new owner to make whatever changes they plan to go forward with…”

He watched Crowley’s face closely, which was mostly indecipherable until his last sentence, where he nodded solemnly and a frown touched his expression.

“Ah.”

“But you know,” Aziraphale made a finger wag and adjusted his position as if he were recalling something, “I have been giving your words a lot of thought, my dear boy. I know it was a while ago, but do you remember what you mentioned on Christmas Eve?”

He watched Crowley lick his thin lips slowly and nod cautiously.

“The bit about starting something of my own?”

“Yes. That’s it.” Aziraphale folded his hands over his lap. “Now, admittedly I’ve never entered into a business partnership before, but I do have some experience in opening and running a restaurant on my own. I think you could benefit from my expertise.”

Crowley’s circumspect expression melted away with a laugh. He turned to face Aziraphale more fully on the couch. His ankle, draped across his neighboring knee, wiggled with one of those patent, shiny shoes.

“Are you-- am I interviewing you now?”

“I have a list of references if you’d like to see them.”

Aziraphale reached into his coat pocket, then admitted he didn’t actually have a list of references and Crowley put a hand over his reddening face to stifle his laughter.

“I needed that,” he wheezed at length. “It’s been a hellish month, I won’t lie. I don’t remember the last time I laughed at anything, really.” When the mood calmed back down, Aziraphale noticed something hopeful but guarded take over Crowley’s expression.

“Are you serious? You really want to jump into another commitment like this?”

It was frightening, truthfully. He wasn’t a young man anymore, and starting up another business in his forties could be disastrous. But this time, he wouldn’t be alone. He had spent many nights by himself wondering what his dream was, and each time he tried to come up with something that made him happy, it all circled back to one person.

He smiled and sought out Crowley’s free hand with one of his.

“Absolutely. You were right. We make a great team-- a wonderful team. You’re so clever, Crowley, the things you come up with astound me. I’ve only gotten to work with you in a professional capacity a handful of times, but I was honored to work beside someone as talented as you. You know, that evening you helped me with the wedding cake was one of the best nights I’ve had in that kitchen. I want that again, every day, for the rest of my life. And, well… I hope that’s something you might want, too…”

He hadn’t realized it, but Crowley’s hand had gradually tightened around his and his knuckles were pale from the grip. He nodded, and once Aziraphale had finished his speech the other man cracked a smile and laughed on a relieved exhale.

“Of course it is, you idiot. ...But you know, it’s not as easy as you might think. Starting a business is very difficult.”

He was parroting Aziraphale’s own words. He realized how much they must have stung when he’d first said them to Crowley, now that he had the same amount of hope in his heart.

“I know.”

“It’s going to take time, and a lot of money and effort.”

Aziraphale smiled and smoothed his palm over Crowley’s thigh.

“I suppose we’d better start right away, then. Mister marketing, do you have a pitch for me?”

“Do I!”

Crowley’s arm encircled him more fully and he swept the other up into a series of slow kisses. Somewhere in between them, the suggestion “brainstorm over dessert?” came up and soon they were in the kitchen fishing out bowls, cartons of ice cream, and hot fudge.

Both men had work in the morning. And yet, fully aware of this, the two stayed on the couch long after their sundaes were finished, tossing ideas back and forth, saying whatever came to mind, writing some things down on crumpled pocket receipts so they wouldn’t forget later, and in general scoping out the potential possibilities before them. A pot of tea was put on, feet were propped in laps, and knots were worked out of ankles while they tried to decide whether an alliterative name was too much.

It was in the small hours of the morning that they finally started to lose momentum. They relocated to the bedroom, went through the motions of getting ready for bed, and curled up together under Crowley’s soft black sheets. And even though Crowley had a loathsome job to look forward to in a matter of hours and Aziraphale was down a restaurant, they were both falling asleep with something very important: a dream. A new dream for the both of them, one they could grow, tweak, nurture, and look forward to together.

Chapter Text

“What do you think about a food truck?”

Aziraphale paused his stirring and turned halfway to look at Crowley, equal measures shocked and humored.

“You’re not serious.”

“What? Why not?” Crowley watched as Aziraphale made a face and kept whisking his mixture in the bowl in his arms. He drew himself away from his lean against his black marble countertop and loitered behind the chef. He took advantage of the other being preoccupied to put his hands on his waist and press himself flush against his back.

“S’mobile, which is nice. We can go where the crowds are, and where the money is. Less expensive than a brick and mortar shop… I imagine you and I could afford one in a short amount of time. Especially if I applied for a loan.”

“But… it isn’t very elegant, is it?” Aziraphale whined quietly. Crowley dipped his head down to kiss at his ear, but he continued to naysay. “And the cost of repairs and petrol over time, I imagine it would be the same as renting out a smaller location, don’t you? Besides, I don’t like to cook in confined spaces and that is definitely too cramped for my liking.”

“My business partner is so picky,” Crowley teased on a low hum. It was so satisfying to say that. Business partner.

“And mine is too randy. Hands above the waist while I’m working, please.”

Crowley grunted and reluctantly removed his palm from the front of Aziraphale’s trousers. His reward for his good behavior was a kiss and a spoonful of what Aziraphale was making, He let the whipped cream linger on his palette for a moment before he licked his lips.

“Earl Grey?” Aziraphale looked pleased, but not surprised.

“Clever boy. Bergamot.”

“Okay, how about this.” Crowley followed Aziraphale to the refrigerator and held open the door for him as he removed the cake from earlier. “Television. We could have a baking show. Equal parts baking, equal parts decorating.”

Aziraphale set the cake down and began to fill a piping bag with his whipped cream. His spatula stilled mid-dollop and he shot Crowley an incredulous look.

“Television? Crowley, you know how I am with crowds and… speeches and such.” He waved a hand to allude to more examples when he came up short. “I could never be in front of a camera. That may be your forte, but it certainly isn’t mine.”

“I think you’re wrong.” Crowley sidled up beside Aziraphale and propped his elbows on the counter to watch what he was doing curiously.

Once Aziraphale had signed away the ownership of the restaurant, he’d been taking mornings off. In the brief window of time the restaurant was still his, he had become more lax with the hours of operation. He’d even put up a sign that said they would be closed on Sundays for the rest of the month for “renovations”. The clever bastard.

On this Sunday morning, both men were enjoying their first ever shared day off together. Each man had a list an arm’s length of recipes they’d been considering, eager to test out on one another, eager to cook together again, and to see what they enjoyed the most and collaborated on best. Sunlight filtered in through Crowley’s floor-to-ceiling windows, spreading a much-needed warmth to the sterile, gallery-like coldness of his interior. It lit Aziraphale’s blond curls from behind and made his eyes glow like ice reflecting the winter sun. Crowley found himself entranced by him.

“I think you’ll get in front of a camera, forget it’s there once you look into my eyes, and act as you normally do. And then the world will fall in love with you like I did and you’ll get loads of letters from fans wanting to steal you away, and you’re right the telly idea is rubbish let’s not do it.”

Aziraphale laughed while he piped his bergamot whipped cream on one of his layers of cake. He placed the second layer of cake atop that, another layer of cream, and the final layer on top. Crowley traced his fingertips over his lips in thought while Aziraphale started a crumb coat.

“I liked our original plan,” Aziraphale contributed while he worked. “To just start slow. Let’s focus on the food first. Everything else will fall into place once we have a concept.”

The cake was slowly transformed from its unfinished state to an iced and completed piece. There weren’t any decorative touches added, partly because they were just taste-testing recipes and partly because Aziraphale was less confident about his own artistic skills, especially in front of Crowley’s hawk-like gaze. He handed a piece to Crowley, and they took a bite around the same time.

“God,” Crowley said as he dipped in for a second bite. “Those candied walnuts in the sponge are fucking fantastic.”

“Really? Not too sweet?”

“No, the bergamot was a great choice. Adds a real brightness to it. And that sponge is so light, but with the texture…” Crowley shrugged as if he had no other words. “It’s brilliant. This would be fantastic with a cup of tea.”

They made a pot, shared a slice of cake and tossed some name ideas back and forth. Nothing stuck, so they decided to put a pin it in.

Crowley was next, and his was a savory dish. He made a bruschetta with prosciutto, paper thin slices of cantaloupe, and a custom fig, pepper, and honey gelée on top. A little bit of a microgreen garnish on top and he presented it to Aziraphale. He watched the chef eagerly while he took a bite.

“My goodness, this gelée is delightful! I think you were right to pair it with this prosciutto, it really benefits from the savory element.” He coughed and set his food down, placing his fingers to his lips. “That pepper is quite strong, though.”

“Yeah, I wanted a bit of heat to it.”

“And you were right to add it. But maybe with a lighter hand, next time.”

Crowley shrugged and scooted closer to his partner, resting his palm on his inner thigh under the table. “You usually like when I’m liberal with my hands...”

This was how the rest of their morning proceeded. In fact, most of their combined days off followed this same pattern: chat, bake, cook, flirt, and wind up in bed for the rest of the afternoon. Their progress over the next few weeks was slow, but their passionate pursuit remained, which was a good sign.

Seeing as how Crowley’s kitchen was larger and Aziraphale was busy preparing The Gate for the transfer, they usually met at his flat. However, Crowley still had the key that Aziraphale had given him, and one Tuesday night when he wasn’t too tired after work, he showed up at the restaurant and made his way up the stairs. He unlocked the door and let it shut behind him.

“Angel, are you in--”

He trailed off in a flurry of profanities as he grabbed his foot and leapt away from the heavy cardboard box he’d tripped over.

“What’s-- what’s that doing here--? What are these doing here?” He corrected himself as he noticed the piles of boxes lining the walls and next to the furniture. “Aziraphale? Aziraphale are you--”

“Yes, I’m here,” he said breathlessly as he came from the other room and set one box atop another. Crowley stared at him, befuddled.

“What is all this?”

Aziraphale met his confusion with a similar expression.

“What do you mean?”

“You’re moving?”

“Well… well yes. I sold the restaurant, Crowley. I’ve told you this.”

“Yeah but you--” he stopped himself from stammering as he came to the realization slowly and muttered under his breath, “--your flat is inside the restaurant.”

Aziraphale gave him a look similar to a parent watching their child realize the tooth fairy doesn’t exist. Crowley felt a bit idiotic.

“They’re going to add a second floor...” Aziraphale said softly, but soon he clasped his hands together in front of him to regain that upbeat aura. “More seating. It’s better this way, I think. This will give me a fresh start!”

Crowley frowned as he navigated the cardboard jungle and followed Aziraphale on his journey to the bedroom.

“You could’ve asked me to help you pack.”

“I’ve just started this morning, but I’ve been at it all day. I’m making some good progress, don’t you think?”

He sounded chipper about it, but Crowley knew him well enough to tell his tone was artificial. He took a box from Aziraphale’s hands and put it where he asked. He finally got the other to stop when he asked “have you eaten?” and the answer was a comically timed stomach growl.

They ordered a pizza and stopped for the evening when it arrived. Crowley went downstairs to fetch it for them, and they ate on the worn couch surrounded by cardboard boxes.

“Have you found a place, then?” Crowley asked as he plucked out his second piece from the box. Even with pizza, they had very different preferences and had to order it split down the middle. Crowley’s half was topped with pineapple and ham.

“No, not yet.” Aziraphale answered as he bit into his slice topped with basil, mozzarella and grilled tomato. “But I’ve made some real headway and I have it narrowed down to a few places. I was planning on calling the landlord of one in my price range for a visit this coming Sunday.”

Crowley nodded for longer than strictly necessary to show his understanding. He chewed thoughtfully and stared down at his slice.

He’d been so excited to get a key to Aziraphale’s place. Not because it meant he could come and go as he pleased, but because Aziraphale had been the one to take that step first. He’d shown Crowley in that small gesture that he was also thinking about furthering their relationship, and that he was comfortable sharing a space with him. This was huge, considering he knew Aziraphale valued his alone time very much and often wanted to fall into his introverted habits with only the company of a good book and a glass of wine.

Crowley set his pizza down and put the plate aside on the coffee table. Aziraphale had been comfortable giving him a key. Would he feel the same if he received one?

“Well there’s… there’s always my place.”

Aziraphale laughed at the idea, and Crowley felt like he’d been suddenly dunked in ice water.

“My dear, that’s very kind of you,” he said after putting his own empty plate aside and wiping his hands clean on a napkin. “But there is absolutely no way I could afford it. Even half of your rent is…” Aziraphale trailed off and mumbled, “Well, let’s just say it’s outside my price range.”

It was a relief, at least, to hear that Aziraphale’s humored response had been about money and not the idea of living together. Crowley flung his arm loosely over the back of the couch and turned to look at his partner.

“You don’t have to pay for half. What if you just paid whatever you already budgeted for?”

Aziraphale’s brows knit pensively, and Crowley reached out a hand to trace the line of his shoulders. The last thing he wanted to do was to give the other man more worries; his proposal had been intended to relieve him of that. Yet here he was, looking fretfully down at his own intertwined hands.

“That wouldn’t be very fair to you. And I can only imagine that, after a while, you would start to resent me for not pulling my weight.”

“Bollocks.” He moved to sit closer to the other and fixed him with a serious stare. “Aziraphale, I’m already paying for this place alone, so there’s no ‘pulling your weight’.” He slid his hand curiously closer to Aziraphale’s clenched ones, and was happy to see them open to accept his in their grip. “I know it’s a bit fast, so just say no if you don’t like the idea. I won’t be offended.”

Aziraphale was smiling, and he’d tilted his head thoughtfully. Regardless, he was still hard to read. Did he like the idea, or was he carefully plucking the best words to refuse him gently?

“It’s been a very long time since I’ve lived with anyone,” Aziraphale said quietly. “I’ll admit, the idea is intimidating. What if we don’t get on well once we’re living together? What if you discover I have some weird habits that are unbearable? Or vice versa? I know you like those cigarettes...”

“Hey now. I’ve been clean for over a month.”

“Have you?”

“Yeah! Didn’t you notice? Smell me, not a trace of smoke.”

Aziraphale released his hand and moved to kiss his temple, his jaw and his collar bones, lingering after each one to try and detect any notes of tobacco. Crowley’s eyes fluttered closed and for a moment he forgot what they were talking about.

“Is that why you’ve been grouchy this month?”

“Well,” Crowley shrugged when he felt Aziraphale’s fingertips at his shirt collar. He took his tie in both hands and smoothed over it a few times before tugging the windsor knot loose. Crowley watched this display guiltlessly, the visual symbolism going straight to his cock, and held his breath when Aziraphale started to undo the first few buttons at his throat. “Bad mix of quitting cold turkey and starting a new job.”

“You should have let me know,” Aziraphale said with a raised brow and playful look. “I could have set some milestone rewards to congratulate you.”

Crowley felt them inching farther and farther away from the topic at hand, but he liked the direction Aziraphale was heading. “Oh?”

“Mhm. For example, your first day. First week. Two consecutive weeks. A full month…” He punctuated his words with kisses down Crowley’s bared throat and collar bones. His curls ticked the underside of his jaw, and he became consumed with the desire to feel Aziraphale’s loving hands on him. He was successfully swayed from the topic, whether or not that was Aziraphale’s intention, and put his hands on the other man to draw him closer.

“Is it too late to claim those milestones?”

Aziraphale made a thoughtful sound from his lowered position and answered, “I think they’re still available.”

Crowley forgot all about his original offer until after he’d been brought to a toe-curling, visceral orgasm (twice: once right there on Aziraphale’s couch, and a second time after they’d collected themselves and thought to share a shower).

They were tangled up together in Aziraphale’s bed, in a surreal skeletal version of his room which had no books on the shelves nor clothes in the closet save for a few everyday outfits he’d set aside. He blearily surveyed the room in the dim light while Aziraphale traced his fingers along his bare chest, half asleep.

Crowley turned to whisper into his hair, unsure whether or not his words would be heard.

“...I want to live with you.” He kissed the man’s hair and closed his eyes on a slow inhale. “There's plenty of room for you at my place. But only if you want. It's up to you.”

Aziraphale didn’t answer him. He was breathing evenly and slowly, which made him wonder if he was asleep, but his fingers were still moving. Perhaps just thinking, then. This was confirmed when the blond whispered against his neck.

“Everything in my life is changing so suddenly.” His voice was thick with sleep, even on a whisper. “I’m finding it very hard not to be a little afraid.” And then: “...I’m sorry.”

Crowley felt some disappointment sink in, but didn’t let it linger as he listened to his more reasonable thoughts. It was pretty early in their relationship to suggest moving in together. But it seemed like a good opportunity to make his wants known.

“Don’t be,” he whispered back genuinely. “I know. A lot’s going on right now, isn’t it…” He smoothed his hand over Aziraphale’s shoulders. “Is there anything I can do to help? Can I go with you to the place you were looking at? We can make a day of it. Go to that bakery you’ve been talking about afterwards, get some of those fruit tarts you wanted to try...”

He heard Aziraphale gasp in delight and he laughed.

“Yes, I think I’d like that very much.”

Why did Crowley have to say anything?

It was Sunday morning, and Aziraphale was far less excited to see this affordable flat next to Tottenham Court than he had been on Tuesday. It was just on the outskirts of Soho, but close to the restaurant that he could walk if he so chose. But he’d had four days to sit on Crowley’s words, wondering if he was making the right choice again.

Aziraphale hadn’t been overreacting when he’d said that everything in his life was changing quickly. He’d made some very big decisions recently: selling the restaurant, moving out of his apartment, embarking on a new entrepreneurial adventure with Crowley… but now the option of living together with him was also up in the air. He’d left it for Aziraphale to make the decision. But Aziraphale, having already taken the plunge on so many things in the past few weeks, would really have preferred to just bury his head in the sand at this point.

Crowley had the best intentions, he knew this. It was a very kind gesture, looking at it in isolation. He couldn't have known that proposing they take things a step further and move in together would only add to Aziraphale's steadily growing heap of anxiety.

He’d signed away the restaurant, that was over and done with. But that didn’t mean he wasn’t having doubts, sudden waves of panic, and restless nights about it. He was moving out of his apartment he’d had for over ten years in the middle of a storm of uncertainty. He was leaving one start-up business for another, with no guarantee this one would be successful. And now Crowley thought they were ready to live together…

It would have been nice to mull the idea over with the luxury of time. Right now, he had a week and a half to find a place before the ownership of The Gate was transferred and he needed to be completely moved out. Time and Miracle Ltd. were breathing down his neck on this one. These were definitely not the circumstances he would have liked to make any major relationship decisions under.

“This is it?” Crowley asked as he snapped the Bentley door shut behind him. He looked up at the complex with a sour expression, and Aziraphale could tell he was squinting even with his sunglasses on. “...Looks a bit run down.”

“Well, you try finding a place for twelve-hundred a month in Soho.”

Aziraphale rang for the manager and waited outside with Crowley, who was still regarding the building warily but had enough tact to keep his mouth shut.

The manager was a short woman with a hoarse voice and sunken eyes. She didn’t mince words and ushered them in with little gravitas. Aziraphale and Crowley exchanged looks before following her up the stairs.

“We take the deposit and first month’s rent up-front,” she started dryly, “no smoking, no pets, no visitors longer than two days. You cover utilities, any repairs that are—”

“I’m sorry, the utilities aren’t included?” Aziraphale piped in quietly once they reached the top of the stairway. He could feel Crowley keeping close to his side, possibly from affection but more likely because the hallway was cramped. “Isn’t that… standard?”

The landlady eyed him warily. “Garbage only. Water, electricity, internet, cable, the renter pays.”

“Makes sense they cover the garbage,” Crowley muttered in Aziraphale’s ear, eyeing up a sizeable crack in the wall outside the doorway. “This whole place is a heap of it.”

“My dear, if you’re just going to nitpick I’ll have you wait in the car.”

Aziraphale stared at him sharply and Crowley backed off, gesturing with a zipper motion over his lips. They continued inside the flat at the manager’s curt bidding.

“This is the main area. No balcony in this unit, but you can see the park from the window, so you get a good view for the price.”

Aziraphale raised his eyebrows encouragingly at that and smiled at Crowley. The man smiled a little too saccharine to be genuine and remained perfectly silent. They moved on.

“The bathroom. Not much here. Kitchenette. The pipes are old, so don’t expect us to cover the repairs if you clog the drain with food.”

She bustled past them quickly, as if loitering in one room for too long might deter them from renting. Aziraphale got as much of a look as he could at the space before following obediently. Crowley, who had no predilection to people-please anyone except Aziraphale, stayed behind the longest to trace his fingers over flaws and inspect the appliances closely.

“Bedroom is here—”

“...This is a den.”

Aziraphale took note of the doors; two bifold doors much like one would find in a closet on either side that closed off the next room but didn’t quite meet in the middle. No lock, either. He supposed if he was living by himself, that probably didn’t matter all that much. Still, when he glanced over his shoulder at Crowley, his expression mirrored what he felt: an overwhelming urge to comment on something unpleasant, but the inability to do so.

“You can put a bed in it and it’s a bedroom. What else. No parking. No washer or dryer in the unit, but the laundry room is open until ten. And it’s a twelve month lease for the first year, after that it’s month to month. If you’d like to sign the papers, I’ve got them in the office.”

They came to the end of their small tour in the living room, where they had begun. Aziraphale brought his hands together in front of him.

“Do you think I could have a moment to inspect the place alone?”

“Take your time. I’ll be downstairs.”

The woman left and Aziraphale exhaled a sigh. He turned to his partner, raised his hand to Crowley's lips and made the gesture of unzipping his mouth, which caused the redhead to grin.

“It’s a shithole.”

“...Yes. Yes it is, rather.”

Aziraphale went to the window, which really did have a very nice view of the park, and Crowley followed him.

“It’s your decision, but I just can’t let you pay twelve-hundred a month to live here for an entire year. Look at this.” He took Aziraphale’s elbow and led him to the bathroom and crouched. Aziraphale followed suit. “That exposed pipe’s got fucking duct tape on it.” He stood up and pointed to the ceiling. “And look at that water damage! There could be mold here!”

“I know.” Aziraphale morosely worked his way back into the living room. Crowley took his hands and made an imploring suggestion.

“Let’s keep looking. I’ll help you. I bet I can find you something good.”

Aziraphale smiled sadly and squeezed the other’s hands. “I don’t have time. I’ve already looked, and I need to be moved out in less than two weeks.”

“Don’t worry about time. If you need to, move your boxes to my place. I know you don’t want to stay with me, but if it’s just temporary until you find a place, that wouldn’t be so bad, would it?”

An elegant solution. Just as always, Crowley had found a way to help him when the chips were down. But did he really think he'd refused him because he didn't want to live with him? How could he have led Crowley to believe that? He needed to be more careful with his words, apparently.

“My dear boy, it isn’t that I don’t want to stay with you.” He stepped closer to the other and shook his head. “It isn’t that at all. It’s just as I told you. I’m afraid. You’re the one thing that’s going right in my life right now, and I don’t want to risk losing you if I… I don’t know, if I grind my teeth at night or sing off-key in the shower or put my toothbrush on the wrong side of the sink.”

He put his hand on Crowley’s cheek, hopeful that the other understood his trepidations. “There are a lot of unknown elements to moving in with someone. And since I haven’t lived with anyone for most of my life now, I’m afraid that it might harm our relationship. Does that make sense?”

Crowley surprised him by smiling at the end of this explanation.

“Would you break up with me if I left my socks in the living room?”

“Well… no.”

“Or if I didn’t do dishes right away? Left them out on the table?”

“I’d certainly be cross about it, and might give you a talking to, but I wouldn’t break up with you over it.”

“I wouldn’t either,” Crowley reasoned. “Whatever weird things we find out about each other while living together, I think we’d be able to handle it like adults.” Aziraphale felt his hands on either side of his face.

“Look. You can put it to any kind of trial, weird singing, teeth-grinding, sock… abandoning, and I know for a fact it would take a lot more than some funny habits to drive me away from you."

How was it that Crowley was able to make Aziraphale fall in love with him all over again almost every time they saw each other? Genuinely touched, he put a hand on his chest and smiled up at him. The fear of annoying him or falling into a mundane lull was still present, but it was outshined far and away by his own desire to see Crowley every morning first thing, and to fall asleep next to him regardless of the day he’d had.

“...Of course I'll have to redecorate a bit, your place is too dark for me. You never told me your thoughts on floral wallpaper…?"

He hadn't expected "floral wallpaper" to ever be an instigator for a passionate kiss, but here he was, swept up in Crowley's delight, sealing the deal with a snog in an empty, run-down living room.

Chapter Text

“It was raining like this when we met, wasn’t it?”

Aziraphale held his palm out with his eyes to the sky while Crowley fought with the umbrella to get it open. The clouds had darkened at a very inopportune moment during their walk. Why today?

“Sure was.”

Once it was open, Crowley held the umbrella between the two of them before they could get too wet. He had really been hoping the weather would hold off at least until they'd finished their circuit through the park. This was putting a real damper on his plan.

Aziraphale tossed the last of his duck food into the lake and pocketed the paper bag neatly to dispose of later. He brushed off his hands briskly in the same manner he did after hand tearing some bread or picking up a single chip, then sought out Crowley's hand between them. Crowley shifted the umbrella to his off-hand to take it.

"It's about that time of year again though, come to think of it. The hydrangeas are almost in need of pruning. I can't believe how long it's been..."

Indeed, Aziraphale's hydrangeas had already bloomed for the year and were now becoming dormant once more as autumn settled in. Still, even in their green sleep they looked quite nice on Crowley's balcony railing. On their balcony railing.

It was the right choice to move them. As soon as the ownership of The Gate had legally transferred in the early spring, much of the restaurant had changed. Many beloved items disappeared in the chaos of the renovations: bookshelves, couches, tables Aziraphale had owned for almost a decade, but at least he'd saved some of the small, sentimental things. His hydrangeas, watercolor paintings, and antique glass bowls were all safe in their flat.

Spring had been hard. It had ushered in the end of an era, and Aziraphale had watched it happen in slow motion with each new chair and coat of paint. There had been plenty of nights that Aziraphale had come home looking lost, conflicted, and lacking his usual glow. But Crowley was supportive, and whether Aziraphale needed a distraction or some alone time, he had provided for him.

Things had finally normalized in the summer. As the chef de cuisine, Aziraphale was only responsible for the food that came out of the The Gate’s kitchen, which meant he had more of a work-life balance than he'd ever had previously, and Crowley had fallen into a rhythm at his new company for the sake of saving money for their start-up. They didn't eat out as often, and only splurged on drinks or outings if they both needed an emergency pick-me-up. Every other scrap of their paychecks went into savings.

"What did you think of the first place?"

It was an overcast autumn morning when they had finally started seriously looking at commercial venues. It felt safe to do now. A few months of cohabitating was a good litmus test to prove they worked well together, even if they sometimes grumbled at one another over various domestic irritations. Now that they knew they weren't going to suddenly hate each other, and they had enough of a nest egg for a down payment somewhere, they had started putting feelers out.

Aziraphale shifted closer to Crowley as the wind picked up, brisk and frigid, and looped an arm around his bicep.

"The place itself was nice, I'll admit, but I wasn't overly fond of the location. The second one, however, had the opposite problem."

"Yeah. Really convenient, but in desperate need of a face lift."

They continued to discuss the venues they had seen in detail on their stroll. Despite the chill, Crowley felt overly warm the further along they went, but not because of the physical activity. His heart was racing, and his pocket felt heavy.

"My, it's not letting up, is it?" Aziraphale commented as the rain came down more aggressively around them. "Shall we head back?"

"...I like the rain," Crowley lied to buy himself some time while he mustered some bravery.

Aziraphale squinted at him. "No you don't. You hate cold weather! You always come home grumpy when it rains."

Crowley licked his lips while he tried to think of something clever. Nothing came, except the eventually tug at his elbow.

"Oh fine then. Look, there's a bandstand just over there. Let's duck under it."

Aziraphale led the way and Crowley strained to keep the umbrella over him as he walked. As much as he personally hated the rain for poor circulation reasons, Aziraphale was just fussy about getting his clothes wet.

He lowered the umbrella once they were sheltered and shook it out before propping it aside against one of the stone pillars. Aziraphale raked his fingers over his own sleeves to rid them of water, then turned to him. A smile broke across his features that warmed Crowley to the core.

“Ah, looks like you got some of it too.”

Aziraphale brushed a few damp red locks away from his cheek. Crowley returned the smile and ducked his head to remove his sunglasses. Not much need for them now.

Aziraphale's eyes lifted to the ceiling of the bandstand. Crowley's followed suit, and a strange quiet fell over them. It blocked even the persistent rain around them, like being submerged underwater, ears self-testing, or the final phase before losing consciousness. Were his nerves affecting him?

“How odd. I just had a bit of deja vú, I think.” Aziraphale whispered.

Was that it? Crowley had felt something too, but it wasn't quite that. It was familiar, but frightening. Perhaps it was the rain that suddenly let him feeling inexplicably hollow, and lonely. He sought out Aziraphale's hand. The grip was returned with a squeeze. He really hated the rain.

Maybe this wasn't the time to do this, he thought. Maybe he should give it another day, or wait for the weather to clear up, or relocate. But Aziraphale pulled his hand away and the loss of warmth was a shock in the cold air. He was nearly consumed with one thought: Now. Do it now. You have to do it now.

“All right, you stubborn thing,” Aziraphale stepped back to approach one of the stone banisters. “I know how you get when you put your mind to something. If you want to make this decision on a stroll through the park, even in this downpour, we can do so.”

“Aziraphale.”

“Personally, my vote is for the third location.” He continued on as if he hadn't heard him. “It's only a short drive away, and close enough that I think some of our old regulars might just come by.”

“Aziraphale.”

“I know the down payment is a bit steep, but I was thinking we could— oh, hello there,”

Aziraphale finally stopped his train of thought when Crowley touched his waist. He turned to look at him, and that hand slid slowly around his middle.

“I'm sorry about the rain.”

“What?”

“Do you know what today is?”

Aziraphale looked properly confused at being blindsided by two unexpected utterances. He stammered for a moment and his eyes skimmed Crowley's shirt while he thought.

“Er… Saturday?”

“The sixth.” Crowley smiled when Aziraphale met his gaze again. “You were right, it is about that time of year again. This time last year, I walked into your shop for the first time and ordered the coq au vin.”

Aziraphale's face lit up, and whether it was from Crowley remembering such a small detail or the fact that this was essentially the anniversary of their meeting was left a mystery. His smile turned soft, and he traced a thumb along Crowley’s collar lovingly.

“Ah yes. Poor thing, you looked about as soaked then as you do now.”

Crowley grinned and dipped his head to kiss Aziraphale’s knuckles before continuing his train of thought.

“You know, the thing is, it took me a while to realize how far gone I was for you. But I think I was yours right from the start.”

Aziraphale chuckled and put his arms around his middle, too. “I doubt that.”

“No, really. It's funny, but I think it was that cigarette. Do you remember it? Well, you said “they’re bad for you” and plucked it right out of my mouth, like you cared about this complete stranger, and that was the moment you had me. Couldn't stop thinking about you after that."

"And then you called me…" he continued, momentarily lowering his eyes to his feet. "You said you'd had a bad day and didn't know who else to call. I was so happy that you thought of me that I ran over. I want to be the person you think to call when you're upset, because I want to be the one in your life who makes you feel better, no matter what."

Aziraphale had moved closer to him during this little speech. Crowley tended to have his rants, some out of fondness and some out of grouchiness, and Aziraphale always let him talk it out while stroking his hand or rubbing his shoulders. But today's soliloquy was pointed and loving, and he was also drawn into it.

“That night,” Aziraphale chimed in, “the night I called you… I think was when you had me, too. Of course I thought you were handsome before that," he clarified with a strum of his fingers down Crowley's chest, "but when you showed up just because I said I was having a difficult day… no one had ever done that before. I can't tell you how touched I was."

Aziraphale leaned up to give him a small kiss, and Crowley's free hand secreted into his pocket.

“You've given me so much from the very beginning, my dear."

"I want to give you more," Crowley whispered against his lips as they parted. He held his hand between them and waited until it had arrested Aziraphale's attention. "I want to give you everything."

“Crowley…"

Aziraphale must have come to the right conclusion upon seeing the small box in Crowley's palm.

"Again, sorry about this bloody rain. Really wish it had been clear, but I had my heart set on doing this today."

Crowley's eyes darted over Aziraphale's expression for any signs or tells, but the other man was shocked into stillness.

"Also, sorry we couldn't, you know, take a trip to Paris or New York or somewhere romantic to do this. I think with the new restaurant, money's gonna be tight for a while."

Crowley licked his lips and looked down at the little black box, opening it and offering it forward to Aziraphale.

"I, uh, was planning to get on one knee but everywhere is soaked. I still can if you like–"

"Oh don't, you silly boy." Aziraphale said in a voice thick with nervous joy. "I know you like these trousers."

"I do like them, yeah," he said with a nervous chuckle to match Aziraphale's.

"... We're about to start something new with this restaurant. It's gonna be hard, and probably terrifying as hell. But I know I can manage anything if you're with me."

He took the ring out of the box and held Aziraphale's hand with the other.

"What do you think, Angel? Up for spending the rest of our lives together?"

Aziraphale's reply was delayed, but only because he was collecting himself while wiping under his eyes with his free hand.

"Obviously," he laughed at length. "Yes, Crowley. Yes, of course!"

As soon as the ring was on his finger, Aziraphale's arms flung over Crowley’s shoulders and the man staggered backwards against one of the pillars. They took a few moments to work out their passion with some enraptured kisses (vaguely toned down considering the public setting) until it simmered down to something softer and sweeter.

“I really thought I would be the one to propose to you,” Aziraphale admitted on a murmur against his lips. “I thought you weren't big on ceremonies?”

“I'm not,” Crowley clarified, “but I'm big on you.” He looked down and traced the ring on Aziraphale's finger. The subtle filigree on the band reminded him of angel wings, one of the reasons he'd been drawn to it. “I gave it a lot of thought... I really want this, more than anything.”

Aziraphale's hand delved into Crowley's hair at the base of his neck, and the man melted back into it.

“I do, too.”

There was no break in the dark clouds overhead, no ray of sunlight to christen the start of their new chapter together. It continued to rain, cold and grey around them, and the weather persisted impartial to the people below. But it was all right. They didn't need fortuitous weather, sunbeams, or fairytale romantic moments. They had made their own happiness, regardless of the circumstances, and they would continue to do so as they had always done before.

The culinary world of London was constantly changing. New stars were always on the rise, especially with the fad of food trucks and farmers markets expanding their reach, and in their wake previous titans of the industry would gradually fall. Some faster than others.

A restaurant by the name of “Ripe” (once the go-to spot in Soho thanks to its internet following and a few appearances on the television show "Hidden Gems of London") was rumored to have hit hard times after losing their head chef of ten years. Combined with a sudden lack of media presence, a few unfavorable reviews about the new menu and food quality, and the decline in their health rating from a “B” to “C”, business had become stagnant. And as someone had once explained, when business becomes stagnant, you’re in quicksand. Preferences change, people get tired of one thing, and paradigms shift.

“The Gate” had also fallen, unfortunately, but only in name. In its place was a new establishment called “Eternal”, and it had hit the ground running. Miracle Ltd. was very good at garnering business, and they had been gifted a great springboard. They had changed the interior of the restaurant into something almost sterile: white tile, glass and futuristic, with two stories of seating, sleek tables, and bright lighting. It was a drastic change, but it did look very upscale. Very expensive.

Eternal had a much more professional presence in the media than The Gate had ever had: paid advertisements, booths set up at expos by skilled trade show coordinators, and even radio commercials. And even though they also lost their chef de cuisine a few months after starting under new management, the rumor was that he had stayed long enough to train his replacement closely and make the transition easier.

Another rising star was cultivating an audience in central London, slowly extending its reach through small shows and inexpensive booths, catering gigs, and charity events.

This little start up first appeared as a small booth at King’s Cross Station at one of their canopy markets. No one had heard of them before; just two blokes in an unassuming street food stall with nothing but a banner, some business cards and an amazing smell wafting from their tent through the heart of the station.

The latter was enough to draw a small crowd, and week after week minor changes were made. One week, their booth had a canvas printed menu. And the next, a nice tarp to go over their table. And then charming mini chalkboard signs with prices for each item, and tiered wooden display stands for their goods. And then a plexiglass pastry case. Soon they even had to invest in a nicer POS to expedite the line.

The food was amazing, and every week there was always something different. The fan favorites remained staples: mainly the crepes and bruschetta. But apart from those, they had canapes, amuse bouches and other bite-sized hors d'oeuvres to tantalize their audience and draw in a crowd. Every week, they came with an impressive display of skill, flavor, and versatility, a mixture of sweets and savories, and excellent customer service.

Anyone who came to their booth could tell these were folks who loved what they were doing. The tall, rakish looking one often left the booth to enthusiastically work the line and take orders and money when it was exceptionally busy, and he would wander off to find people to schmooze and persuade to come over when they weren’t.

The blond one with a kind smile liked to go on at length about the preparation of the food to anyone who would listen, and often needed to be reminded by his partner to keep the line moving. But when things were slow, he encouraged several guests to come back next week, to find them on social media, and to stop by their new physical location.

This new location, as anyone who spoke to the sweet older gentleman or picked up a business card would know, was tucked away in a little alleyway in Islington. It was unassuming and modest in size, but not far from the main thoroughfare. They saw a lot of foot traffic, and although they only had abbreviated hours of operation, curious noses always peeked inside when they were open.

And who wouldn’t be curious? The cobblestone sidewalk led to a most inviting storefront, with decorative hedges outlining the perimeter, some hydrangeas hanging from the iron-wrought fences framing the small patio, fairy lights overhead and a simple wooden sign over the door that displayed the name of the restaurant:

“The Garden”

The inside was very minimalistic. The walls were a simple brick, the lights exposed bulbs that were hung sporadically overhead, and the tables a mixture of warm wood tops and cool metal bases. Faux plants and shrubbery gave the place some color and accentuated the theme, and with the tall windows that stretched to the ceiling of the building, the natural light that filtered in from behind the patio bushes during the day really made the lobby feel like a cozy gazebo in the middle of a garden.

It was tasteful in its style and subtle in decoration. Because, after all, the main attraction was the food.

It was a fusion; a marriage of molecular gastronomy and haute cuisine; of new and old school techniques. Nothing was “simply” one thing or the other. It was all collaborative, all ingenuitive, and all unique. A perfect balance of style and substance.

When you put love into something, it shows. The Garden was a labor of love, as was every item carefully cultivated on their menu. And labors of love tend to attract crowds.

They had done things in the right order at The Garden. What started as a small booth in King's Cross market promoting their catering services had finally become a brick and mortar bistro, open in the evenings and available for catering in the greater London area. And thanks to their hustle and hard work, it was a full house almost every night since the opening.

Within these crowds were, quite fortunately, familiar faces. Aziraphale's Friday afternoon ladies were more than happy to skew their meeting time an hour later in order to come to his new establishment. "The Gate, oh sorry, it's "Eternal" now, isn't it? Well, whatever it is, it just isn't the same anymore, I'm afraid," the butcher's wife had said to him, "everything is 'healthy' over there now. I'd much rather follow you, dear, because I know you aren't afraid of a little butter."

Other recognizable faces showed up gradually as well, as the days went on: old colleagues of Aziraphale's who had heard about his newest project, some acquaintances of Crowley's from when he'd first started out as a sous chef, and even some younger blokes who showed up just to "get selfies with the punching chef". (Crowley was less pleased about that one, but it did attract a lot of business, which neither could complain about).

One day, quite some time after The Garden had become well-established, they even received a guest that made Aziraphale gasp in delight.

"Newton, my boy!"

He shook his hand firmly, then thought better of it and went in for a hug. Newton returned it with an awkward laugh, and when he was released he fixed his glasses which had become crooked in the exchange. Aziraphale tore his eyes away from him long enough to realize someone else was standing next to him as well.

"It's been a long time, hasn't it? And who is your friend– oh my stars," he collected himself in his realization and extended a hand to take hers respectfully, "Ms. Device! Oh, it's delightful to see you again."

"Likewise," she answered amiably, collected but still with quiet enthusiasm.

Aziraphale looked at the two of them as if he were doing some mental math and raised his eyebrows expectantly. "You two came here together then?"

"Oh!" Anathema put a hand out to clarify. "No. Well, I asked Newt here where you'd gone and he said he'd show me."

Aziraphale glanced to Newton, who nodded to confirm this story but also looked very much like he wanted to hold her hand. He smiled and rested a palm heavily on his shoulder.

"Well, may I offer you a place at the chef's table?"

"We don't need anything fancy, Mr. Fell–"

"Oh nonsense. I'll even give you a little tour. You know, Ms. Device, Newton here was my very best server. Absolutely essential to The Gate, well, as it was when I owned it. Give me a moment, I'll set you right up."

Aziraphale disappeared into the kitchen while Newton and Anathema lingered behind. She nudged him and whispered in a humored tone.

"Very best server, hm?"

Newton made a slanted smile and replied blandly. "I was the only server."

"Essential to The Gate?"

"...He's exaggerating."

"I think he's being your wingman. It's cute."

They were shown into the kitchen and Newton only had a brief moment of paralysis when Crowley walked past them with a tray of food.

"Ah, Ms. Device!"

"Mr. Crowley. It's been a while."

"Oh! I wasn't aware you two knew each other." Aziraphale mentioned as seated the two guests at the chef's table.

"Briefly acquainted," Anathema clarified. "Wait– how could you not know? He was the one who requested I write a review for The Gate."

Three sets of eyes fixed on Crowley, who suddenly decided to have sensitive nerve endings in his fingertips.

"Hang on, hot tray."

He hurried out of the kitchen while Aziraphale turned to their guests.

"I'll be back momentarily with your first course. May I also recommend a wine for the table?"

"Please."

For the "not-couple-just-acquaintances", he came back with a bottle of Merlot that would pair wonderfully with both Crowley's appetizer and his own entree. He gave them each a sample pour, even though Newton looked less than pleased to have to drink wine again. Anathema's reception compensated for it; she took a moment to savor it, approved, and he finished the five ounce pour and left the bottle for them.

When the redhead returned with an empty tray and three more tickets, Aziraphale caught his ear with a murmur while they prepared the orders alongside one another.

"You always call me angel, but I think it's you." Aziraphale glanced at Crowley out of the corner of his eye. "My guardian angel. You were the reason The Gate did so well at the end."

"I wasn't," Crowley said, not missing a beat even as he bruleed the top of his appetizer with a handheld blowtorch. "That was all you. You did everything, you deserved the review you got." He turned off the torch and looked at Aziraphale with a sharp grin. "I just set up the podium for you."

Aziraphale smiled, kissed Crowley's cheek, and sent him on his way with another tray full of food for table seven.

If it was a slow night and the patrons were lucky, they might see both of the owners on the floor. It was rare; usually the redhead worked the front of house, but occasionally the house sommelier would pop out too after all the food had reached the tables. And anyone with eyes could see from the identical wedding bands and the frequently stolen cheek kisses that the food was not the only example of a perfect collaboration and a happy marriage at The Garden.