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Compared to the rural countryside of Aziraphale's hometown, London is loud, bright and chaotic. The Five Songs Church of Jesus Christ the Redeemer in Soho is about the same, and it's here that Aziraphale has been assigned to preach for the foreseeable future.
To say the previous minister was disorganized would be an understatement. The regional director hadn’t been specific when he’d transferred Aziraphale to London, but Aziraphale had managed to piece the situation together enough to know there’d been a scandal and the previous minister had ‘resigned.’ Now, with Easter quickly approaching, the stores of communion wine are all but depleted, and the task of purchasing more falls to Aziraphale.
Even after a week, the city of London is still novel to him, so it’s late when he finally finds the food and beverage section in the nearby supermarket. The wine aisle is blessedly empty, and Aziraphale rolls his cart with the squeaky wheel halfway down and pauses in front of the boxed wines. The selection is limited, and in the end he chooses something with a middling price point. Not the cheapest, but not the most expensive either. Unfortunately, the wine in question is on the bottom of the shelf, and Aziraphale knows in advance that it will be an effort to stoop, lift and place box after heavy box into the shopping cart.
With a fortifying breath, he rolls up the sleeves of his jacket and begins.
Halfway through the task, the quiet click of footsteps reach his ears from somewhere down the aisle, and Aziraphale realizes with a flicker of annoyance that he is no longer alone. He chooses not to look, praying the intruder will grab what they need and go, but he isn’t that lucky. The footsteps pause, and the stranger remains where they are as Aziraphale continues to labor over the boxes, struggling fruitlessly to control his heavy breathing now that someone is there to overhear it.
Eventually the shelf is completely cleared out, and with a rather loud exhale Aziraphale drops the final box on top of its cartmates and sweeps a damp grey curl out of his eyes.
“Rough day?” says a voice, the tone caught somewhere between amused and sympathetic.
Aziraphale takes a steadying breath before turning around.
The other shopper, a man in his forties by the look of it, stands at ease on the opposite side of the aisle, holding a simple basket in one hand and smiling as though the two of them are sharing a private joke. He has yet to have picked out a single bottle of wine, likely too distracted by the spectacle Aziraphale just made of himself to choose.
“Sorry?” Aziraphale asks. It comes out a little ruder than he’d intended.
The stranger gestures a long arm toward Aziraphale’s shopping cart.
“Oh,” Aziraphale’s mouth falls open with dawning horror. “No, that’s not all for me. I’m - well, I guess you could say I’m stockpiling.”
“What for? Armageddon?” The man asks, and it occurs to Aziraphale that his lopsided grin might be charming if it weren’t at Aziraphale's expense.
“No, nothing like that. It’s for work.”
“Not a bartender, are you?” asks the man, his curiosity evidently piqued. “You don’t look the type.”
Aziraphale’s brow arches involuntarily. “Would a bartender be buying boxed wine in bulk?”
“No, I guess not. But I can’t imagine what else it is you might do with half a dozen boxes of red wine on a Thursday night.”
“Trust me. You’ll never guess,” Aziraphale replies, and he grasps the handle of his cart in an attempt to indicate he’s ready to leave the aisle.
The stranger doesn’t take the hint.
“Well, if you’re interested in cheap wine that’s actually drinkable, might I recommend the Anciana?” A slim black bottle is plucked from the shelf and held aloft, and Aziraphale squints disinterestedly at the label from a safe distance.
“I’m really more of a white wine sort of person,” he says.
“So was I, before I tried this,” the man answers, and he actually wiggles the bottle in Aziraphale’s direction as if to say ‘go on, take it’. After a moment of confused surprise Aziraphale reaches out and accepts the bottle.
“I suppose I could give it a try,” he says slowly, turning the bottle in his hands. The cart is full, but he manages to stick it in a crevice before raising his eyes to the stranger once more. “Thank you.”
“Crowley,” the man supplies, sticking out a cool hand.
Aziraphale extends his own after a second's hesitation.
“Aziraphale.”
They shake until Aziraphale clears his throat and returns to the front of his cart.
"Well, best be going."
"Right. Those stocks won't pile themselves," says Crowley, and with a mutual nod of farewell Aziraphale wheels his cart out of the aisle as quickly as he can, feeling the stranger’s eyes on his back the entire way.
Once out of the aisle, Aziraphale slows his pace. Though not the strangest encounter he's had in London to date, it certainly was unexpected. There's a certain amount of discomfort that comes from being judged by a total stranger, especially one who thinks it’s appropriate to wear sunglasses indoors. Though, it is rather a lot of wine. Perhaps he should have grabbed that adorable blanket out of clearance after all; he could have spread it out on top of the cart to hide the evidence.
Dinner is next on his list, and so Aziraphale heads toward the frozen food section with the intention of shaking the encounter from his mind. Normally, he finds the whole frozen foods idea objectionable, but seeing as the hotel he’s living out of isn’t equipped with a full kitchen it’s the best he can do. It's better than spending a fortune on fast food, anyway.
He’s just located a somewhat edible chicken pot pie for one when a squealing sound rises up behind him, like sneakers scrabbling for purchase on linoleum. A child’s voice cries out, “whoa whoa whoa!” and Aziraphale turns just in time to see a young boy slip theatrically, two gallon size jugs of chocolate milk sailing out of his hands, up into the air and crash landing just in front of Aziraphale. They burst instantly, sending a gush of brown liquid splattering onto his trousers and shoes.
Frozen in horror, Aziraphale stares at the leaking jugs as chocolate milk seeps through his clothing and trickles down his legs. After a few seconds the shock wears off, and he quickly remembers the child sprawled out on the floor and hurries over.
“Oh dear, are you alright?” Aziraphale asks, crouching down carefully so as not to slip in one of the milk puddles.
The boy, no older than twelve, opens his eyes and sits up with a groan. He clutches the back of his head.
“What happened?”
“You slipped and fell just now,” Aziraphale answers, encouraging him to remain still with a gentle hand. “Here, don’t move. You might have hurt yourself. Where are your parents?”
The boy shakes his head. “I-I don’t -”
“Oh, God, not again.”
The boy cuts off, and he and Aziraphale swivel in unison toward the source of the interruption. A store employee has just rounded the corner of a nearby aisle, a look of dead-eyed resignation on their face as they take in the gushing milk jugs and the child laid out on the floor.
“It’s alright,” Aziraphale calls, intending to convey that they are both physically unharmed.
Beside him, the boy quickly scrabbles to his feet and backs away. Aziraphale is just about to urge him to sit back down when a second child, red haired and wielding a camera phone, appears out from behind a snack display and whispers “run!" In an instant they book it out of sight, and Aziraphale is left alone to stare after them.
“Are you okay?”
The employee offers a hand, and Aziraphale takes it and rises carefully out of his crouch, still cautious of the milk puddles covering the floor.
“Yes, I’m fine,” Aziraphale replies dazedly, watching as the employee locates a WET FLOOR sign from behind a locked door and unfolds it nearby. A bucket and mop soon follow. He shakes his head slowly. “I don’t understand why he ran away. It... It was an accident.”
The employee gives him a pitying look. “I don't think it was an accident. There's an internet prank just like it,” they explain. “Kids pretending to slip as an excuse to throw milk jugs at people. Happens all the time." They laugh ruefully. "You have no idea how many spills I’ve had to clean up in the last year.”
"Oh." Aziraphale nods as the employee removes a small black walkie talkie from their belt loop and mutters something into it. Of course it was a prank. Of course it was. “Erm, is there a restroom nearby I might use?”
The employee points to an overhead sign a few aisles down, and with muttered thanks Aziraphale quickly retrieves his cart and wheels in that direction.
Depositing the cart outside the door, he ducks into the bathroom and stands in front of the mirror. The damage is fairly extensive; dark brown stains streak the khaki of his pants from knee to ankle, while a few errant drops just barely reach the bottom of his dove grey jacket. With a sigh, Aziraphale grabs a stack of paper towels from the dispenser and sets to work on the stains, blotting the moisture away and scrubbing what he can with a bit of water from the faucet. At length it becomes clear that the stains are not going to go away, and he re-emerges with his jacket tied around his waist in an effort to hide them as best he can.
The store is mostly empty this late at night, and Aziraphale sets off in a brisk walk toward the exit, determined not to be seen by anyone. The wet squelch of pooled milk in his shoes is disgusting, not to mention humiliating, and he's extra conscious of how ridiculous the giant piles of boxed wine in his cart must look when pushed by a man with suspiciously brown stains all over his trousers. He passes the blanket from earlier on his way to the check out stand and doubles back for it, spreading it out over the wine like a tartan shroud.
Miraculously, Aziraphale manages to make it to the front of the store without further incident. There’s only one cashier, but the line is relatively short, and Aziraphale pushes closer as quickly as he can, wincing as the squeaky wheel of his cart begins to complain. Nearly there, he falters. Behind the giant Blu-Ray display rack is the man from the wine aisle, Crowley, with his simple little basket of tiny, nondescript items.
Mortified, Aziraphale contemplates continuing past him or ducking into a random aisle, but it’s nearly closing time and he’ll be damned if he has to come back and do it all again tomorrow. Besides, his dinner's in the cart, and he's fairly certain that one more trip to McDonald's constitutes a full-blown addiction. With a look of steadfast determination, Aziraphale soldiers the cart forward as stealthily as he can and takes his place behind the man in line.
Please don’t turn around, he thinks, lifting up a silent prayer to God.
Perhaps it’s the wet squelching sound of his shoes or the sickly sweet scent of chocolate milk that clings to his clothes, but Crowley does turn, his expression lighting up at the sight of Aziraphale in line behind him.
“Nice blanket,” he says, gesturing toward the makeshift cover Aziraphale has created.
“Thank you,” Aziraphale replies stiffly, fiddling with its edges in an effort to cover up more of the wine boxes.
Crowley watches him do this for a moment before his eyes travel to Aziraphale himself and the rather alarming stains on his pant legs. His face immediately twists into one of horrified surprise. “Jeez, what happened to you?”
Aziraphale can feel the heat rise in his cheeks.
“Nothing,” he says, attempting to brush it all off. “An accident.” At Crowley’s disbelieving look he eventually continues. “Some little boy slipped in the dairy section and dropped two chocolate milk jugs next to me.”
The look of shocked curiosity on Crowley’s face shifts almost imperceptibly, his mouth turning down at the corner.
“Slipped, did he?”
“Well, that’s what it looked like, at least. One of the employees seemed to think it was part of some internet prank.”
“Yeah, I think I’ve heard of that one,” Crowley mutters. "Wow. Kids these days, am I right?"
It’s difficult to tell behind the sunglasses, but if Aziraphale didn’t know any better he’d think Crowley was scanning the store behind him, looking for someone or something.
Aziraphale shakes his head. “You know, I blame the parents. Kids can get in a lot of trouble without supervision, and he was all by himself.”
“The parents, right. Gotta blame the parents," Crowley says, before gesturing toward Aziraphale's trousers. "Do you think those will come out, at least?"
“I tried to scrub them in the bathroom, but it didn't work. It's a shame, really. These are a brand new pair of trousers-”
Aziraphale cuts off mid-sentence as someone bumps into him from the side - two very small someones, cutting past him in line and marching straight up to Crowley. The curly haired one, whose blue jeans are just the slightest bit damp, holds something out in his hand.
“Dad, can we get this?”
Aziraphale’s mouth drops open in horror.
Crowley ignores the item and the question, instead looking directly at Aziraphale over the little boy’s head.
“Is this the culprit?”
Aziraphale says nothing. His eyes feel on the verge of bulging out of his head, and it occurs to him that the best thing that could possibly happen in this scenario would be for a sinkhole to open up in the earth and swallow him whole.
Crowley seems to take his silence as an admission, because he turns next to the child and asks, “Adam, did you do this?” He gestures to Aziraphale’s ruined slacks.
The boy called Adam says nothing, suddenly very interested in his shoes.
“Answer me.”
A tiny nod, and Crowley claps a hand over his forehead in disbelief.
“I don’t believe it. Adam, you apologize right now.”
“Sorry,” the boy mumbles, scuffing the toe of his shoe across the linoleum.
“Sorry for what?” Crowley prompts.
“I’m sorry for throwing milk jugs at you.”
After a second of stunned silence Aziraphale gives a mechanical nod and turns away. It’s the best he can do under the circumstances.
“I’m so sorry,” Crowley says, and he nudges Adam out of the way toward the front of the cart where the other boy has been hiding. “I thought it might have been him, but I hoped... Really, I have no idea where he learned that from.”
“It’s okay.”
“No, no, it’s not," says Crowley, and he begins rummaging in his wallet. "Listen, can I pay for your dry cleaning?”
Aziraphale looks down at his ruined trousers.
“Erm...”
“No, you’re right, they’re ruined,” Crowley pronounces, pushing a hand through his hair. “I’m so sorry. Look, I’ll pay to replace them.”
Aziraphale shakes his head quickly. “No, that’s alright, really. It’s not necessary.”
“Are you sure? Really, it’s no trouble.”
“Dad,” Adam interjects, reappearing out of nowhere and tugging on his father’s sleeve. “Dad, can we get this?”
Crowley holds up a finger to Aziraphale and takes the movie case out of Adam's hands. He flips it to the back.
“PG-13?” He raises an eyebrow.
“Brian’s parents let him watch PG-13 movies at home all the time,” Adam insists.
“Well Brian didn’t just throw milk jugs at a stranger in the supermarket,” Crowley replies, tucking the Blu-Ray back on its display shelf with finality. “You’re lucky I don’t make you put back everything you picked out.”
Wide-eyed, Adam scurries away and Crowley sighs tiredly in his wake. The line shortens by one, and everyone shuffles down. Crowley begins placing his items on the belt as the boys begin doing the same, unloading armfuls of candy, soda and chip bags.
“So, these are your sons?” Aziraphale asks faintly, attempting to change the subject.
“Just the trouble-maker. Adam,” Crowley indicates, placing a hand on top of the curly haired boy’s head - his left hand. No ring, Aziraphale notices without meaning to. Adam ducks out from under it and scampers away toward the training card display where Brian waits.
“Adam’s having a sleep over tonight. Or he was, anyway,” Crowley raises his volume slightly so that the kids may overhear him, “if I don’t drop Brian back off on the way home.”
“We’re sorry!” The boys chorus together, and Crowley sighs and shakes his head.
“How fun,” Aziraphale manages.
“For them, maybe,” Crowley says. “You can see now why I need the wine.”
“Well, you can help yourself to one of my boxes, if you’d like,” Aziraphale offers automatically, and he can’t tell who is more surprised to hear him say it, Crowley or himself. Crowley’s embarrassed smile turns into a tentative grin.
The line shifts again and space opens up on the conveyor belt. Aziraphale takes a long look at his overflowing cart before hefting the first box of wine up onto it with a grunt.
“Here, let me help.”
“Oh, no, you don’t have to,” Aziraphale protests, but Crowley’s already grabbed a box in either hand, efficiently placing them one after the other on the belt. Gradually, Aziraphale relaxes and accepts the assistance. “Thank you. It was rough enough moving them all the first time.”
“I know,” Crowley smirks. “I was there.”
The cashier finishes ringing up Crowley's items as Aziraphale loads the final boxes onto the belt. Once finished, he expects to bid the trio of shoppers farewell, but Crowley dawdles as the cashier begins scanning the wine boxes.
“Dad, come on,” Adam calls, pausing in the middle of a complicated dance that involves swinging his shopping bag laden arms back and forth in between his legs.
“In a minute,” Crowley says before turning back to face Aziraphale. “Do you need any help loading these into your car?”
“No, that’s okay, really. I’m sure I can manage,” Aziraphale demurs, digging in his wallet for the congregation credit card.
“You sure?”
“Yes, thank you again.”
“Cause I mean really, it’s the least I can do,” Crowley says, and he lowers his voice plaintively. “Please. You’ve gotta let me do something.“
Aziraphale hesitates. The offer is tempting; the task of unloading the wine and storing it in the basement pantry of the church will fall to him alone once he gets back, and the thought of journeying up and down those steps a half dozen times makes his sore arms twinge.
“I suppose that would be alright,” Aziraphale tentatively accepts, and Crowley beams at him as he reloads the wine into the cart.
Aziraphale pays quickly, and before he knows it they’re on their way out of the airlock doors together and walking through the car park. The Spring evening is cold and damp, and a drizzle of rain falls around the four of them as they walk briskly toward their vehicles.
“You kids get in the car and stay put,” Crowley orders, tossing the keys deftly to his son as they roll to a stop. The boys scramble inside an old black car with their grocery bags and close the doors behind them. With their chatter silenced, the night is suddenly much quieter.
Aziraphale clears his throat and gestures toward his own car.
“This is me,” he says, popping open the hatchback as Crowley begins unloading the wine from the cart. Aziraphale assists, and together they pack everything in neat rows apart from the bag containing his blanket, dinner, and the bottle of wine Crowley recommended, which goes in the backseat.
“I’m starting to think this many boxes might have been overkill,” Aziraphale remarks between breaths as he loads the last box in and shuts the door.
“Not if you’re stockpiling,” Crowley says, and Aziraphale manages to return his smile without reservation. They walk to the cart return together, halfway between Aziraphale's car and Crowley's, where they stop to part ways. Aziraphale pushes the empty cart through the silver gate before turning to face him.
“Thank you,” Aziraphale says, and he finds that he genuinely means it.
“Of course. Like I said, it’s the least I can do,” Crowley replies, his smile fading slightly as a look contrition overtakes his handsome features. “I just feel so bad about the whole thing. I feel like it's my fault."
"I don't think you should blame yourself," Aziraphale says, praying that Crowley won't point out his earlier statement toward the contrary. "Even good kids make mistakes."
These words seem to be of some comfort to Crowley, and he breathes a soft sigh. "I suppose you're right. Thanks. That means a lot, actually." He takes a deep breath, and the next words come out in a rush. "It's just, things haven’t been easy since Adam’s mom died, you know?”
Aziraphale feels his mouth pop open in shock and quickly closes it.
“Not that that’s any excuse!” Crowley says quickly. “I just, you know. Never intended to be a single dad." He trails off, and Aziraphale gets the impression that Crowley thinks he's said too much.
"It's alright. I understand," Aziraphale says quickly, feeling a tug of compassion. He musters up the courage to lay a comforting hand on Crowley's forearm. "I'm sure you're doing a fine job."
Crowley sniffs. "Yeah, well. Tonight wasn't exactly my proudest moment," he admits, shuffling his feet with his eyes trained down. Aziraphale is struck in that instance by how much he resembles his son. "Anyway. Sorry to hold you up. I'm sure this wasn't how you imagined your night going."
"I'm starting to learn not to have expectations in this city," Aziraphale says honestly, and Crowley laughs.
"Well, I'll let you go, then, if - as long as you're sure there really isn’t anything else I can do. Anything at all. You name it."
Aziraphale hesitates. An idea is taking shape in his head, a way to ease Crowley's guilt and potentially help he and his son. “Well, I suppose if you really insist on making amends -”
“I do,” Crowley says firmly.
“Then perhaps you could have Adam do some volunteer work at my church. We have a youth group that does some charity work from time to time - clothing drives, food pantries, community gardening, that sort of thing.”
Crowley’s eyebrows draw ever so slightly together. “At… your church?”
“That’s right.”
“As in you go there, or…?”
“I’m the minister," Aziraphale replies. "Well, temporarily. I’m just filling in. The Five Songs in Soho.”
Crowley looks a bit as though Aziraphale has just slapped him across the face with a raw fish.
“If that’s a problem -”
“No, no. No problem at all. Just surprised me is all,” Crowley says, and he attempts a smile. “It’s probably better that he’s the one making the amends, anyway. Why should I have to pay for his mistakes, you know?”
“You’re welcome to volunteer as well," Aziraphale says. "We could always use a pair of extra hands.”
“I’ll keep that in mind. Oh, here, let me give you…”
Crowley digs in his wallet and extracts a business card, and Aziraphale hurriedly does the same.
“Anthony?” Aziraphale asks, looking from the name to the man’s face.
Crowley grins sheepishly. “That’s me. No one really calls me Anthony, though.” He puts his hands in his jacket pockets. “So, my number’s there. Just give me a call and let me know what time to bring him round.”
“I will,” Aziraphale says, tucking the business card securely in his wallet. Crowley extends his hand and Aziraphale shakes it, far less reluctantly this time around. The man's palm is warm and soft, a welcome touch in the drizzly rain.
“Well, I’d better go before they pop the emergency brake,” Crowley says, releasing Aziraohale’s hand and taking a backward step in the direction of his car.
“Right,” Aziraphale says. “Drive safely.”
“Will do,” says Crowley, and with a little wave he lopes off in the direction of his car. Aziraphale watches him go for a moment before climbing into his own vehicle, but not before setting the tartan blanket down on the seat to protect it from any milk drips.
By the time he glances in his rear view mirror Crowley’s car has been reduced to tail lights in the distance. Aziraphale watches until they disappear before pulling up the GPS on his phone and popping in directions to his hotel. The wine can stay in the trunk until morning, when he will hopefully have the energy to carry it all into the church (or even better, some help).
With that thought, Aziraphale begins the short drive through the unfamiliar city to his hotel, a small glow of warmth in his heart at having extended the church's resources to a single father in need, and he thinks that even if that's the only good deed he's able to accomplish during the entirety of his stay in London, it will have been enough.