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-1-
It was a hot August night, but for Crowley it felt fresh and somewhat spring-ish. So much so, in fact, that if demons could be allergic to pollen, he would definitely start sneezing. It was not the blossom, though, that made the night special; it was the feeling of freedom, and Crowley could say for sure that neither he nor the angel could ever be allergic to that. The dawn of the second day of the rest of their lives would be breaking in a couple of hours, and they were going to face it with laughter and wine.
They might have had too much of the latter, Crowley thought, watching the angel lying in his armchair (too much for his always perfect posture!) and smiling absently at the ceiling, but they had their reasons, didn’t they? They were the champions, as the Bentley had told them earnestly on their drive from the Ritz to the bookshop, and that called for a proper celebration.
Aziraphale must have been thinking the same because the next moment he sat up and topped up their drinks.
‘To you never coming back there!’ the angel said and raised his glass. ‘I’m so happy you won’t have to anymore!’ he added with feeling.
‘Yeah, me too,’ Crowley agreed, clinking his glass against Aziraphale’s. ‘I’m happy you won’t have to come back either,’ he thought but never said it out loud.
There was a flash of some strange emotion in Aziraphale’s eyes that Crowley didn’t quite catch.
‘Really, dear, you’ve told me so many times that Hastur was a fucking dickhead, but I presume I couldn’t quite gauge how hateful he was.’
‘Wha– ’ Crowley chocked on his wine in surprise. Could angel actually be freedom-allergic somehow? Cursing instead of sneezing? Didn’t seem likely.
‘Are you alright?’ Aziraphale asked with genuine concern, moving to the demon.
Crowley looked in the angel’s wide and worried eyes. ‘ ‘M fine, must’ve misheard you.’
Aziraphale nodded sympathetically in his drunk understanding.
Probably, that was how Crowley’s tired brain tried to hint the demon that it would be nice to have a proper sleep, but Crowley was not going to ruin such a night. He was not a fucking dickhead, after all.
-2-
Crowley would have completely forgotten about his drunk-tired vision if a couple of weeks later the accident hadn’t repeated itself.
He was sowing the seeds of malice and discord on twitter, while Aziraphale was hidden somewhere behind the shelves, obviously rearranging his treasured collection.
Then there was a loud thud, a sharp inhale and a disappointed ‘Oh’ from the angel’s side of the bookshop.
Crowley didn’t remember how he crossed the room without knocking down any of the shelves, but in an instant, he was standing beside Aziraphale, ready to send any madman from Heaven or Hell back to where they came from –
Except, of course, there was nobody to send back. Aziraphale was leaning on the shelf and eyeing some of his books scattered on the floor. There was a thick book – Ulysses – in his hand; his other hand was rubbing his forehead.
The conclusion was obvious. The angel was clumsy. Crowley sighed with relief.
‘Are you alright, angel? You’ve scared the shit out of me!’
Aziraphale smiled at him, guiltily.
‘Sorry, dear. Didn’t mean to.’
‘Show me your forehead.’
Aziraphale closed his eyes, performing a minor healing miracle, and looked back at Crowley. He removed his hand, revealing perfectly undamaged skin.
‘Here,’ he smiled again.
Crowley glared at him exasperatedly. He might have overreacted, but one would be a bit on edge around the angel with his proneness to getting nearly discorporated by French revolutionists, or half-witted nazis, or his own books, or… The list could go on, really.
‘Must you always get hit with the thickest books you own?’ he snapped.
Aziraphale’s eyes darted to the book in his hands and filled with the purest sort of love. Oh, shit.
‘You’re quite right, my dear,’ said Aziraphale, petting the book carefully, ‘it is a fucking doorstopper, but still so precious to me!’
Crowley blinked. Slowly. Several times.
‘Excuse me?!’
‘Why, Crowley, I thought you appreciated modernism yourself…’
‘I might have told a couple of people that best punctuation is no punctuation, but…’ He took a breath in. ‘That’s beside the point! What did you just say?’
Aziraphale looked at him confused and started casually picking the books from the floor.
‘I said that the book is precious to me, why are you so worked up about it?’
‘What did you say before that, Aziraphale?’
‘Oh, that,’ Aziraphale looked at Crowley sheepishly. ‘You see, I’ve…’ he cleared his throat.
‘Come on, angel!’ Crowley prompted a bit too aggressively. Which was enough for Aziraphale to regain his confidence and some protectiveness, even.
‘The thing is, Crowley,’ the angel said, adjusting the collar of his shirt and clearly missing his bowtie, ‘I’ve been always fascinated with the expressive power of human languages. And as a… well, as a full-time angel, I didn’t feel that certain means of expression would be appropriate…Now, however…’
Crowley was looking at Aziraphale with wide eyes. Of course, the angel was a surprising creature in many ways, but this particular speech somehow reminded him of their first conversation six thousand years ago. Crowley suddenly felt almost sentimental. Aziraphale must have misconstrued the demon’s emotion, because the next moment, he said:
‘But Crowley, if it makes you feel uncomfortable, I promise to avoid such strong – ’
‘No!’ Crowley said in a rush. ‘I would never deprive you of the expressiveness of human languages, angel,’ he smirked.
Aziraphale sighed, realising what he’d just brought upon himself.
‘Oh, please, Crowley, don’t you make fun of me…’
‘I would never!’ Crowley said defensively, in a miserable half-hearted attempt not to laugh. ‘If you want some assistance, angel, I could even teach you a word or two…’
Aziraphale rolled his eyes, ‘I’ll think about it, thank you.’ The angel turned his attention back to his books. ‘You seem more than comfortable with this sort of development, Crowley, but if at some point it makes you feel confused or frustrated, just tell me.’
‘Really, angel, I’ll get used to it.’
-3-
He never did, though. Aziraphale didn’t swear often, which made it unexpected every time. Besides, as an angel, he was rarely (or never, these peaceful days) motivated by anger or frustration – the emotions that mostly cause humans to swear, so his usage of the f-word was, at the very least, linguistically creative. So creative, in fact, that every time it happened, Crowley was too shocked to mention it.
Trying to satisfy his inquisitive mind, Crowley engaged himself in the long-running experiment aimed to define the circumstances that could make Aziraphale swear. It should be clarified that the experiment had everything to do with Crowley’s natural curiosity and was absolutely not related to the almost-childish excitement in Aziraphale’s voice whenever the angel pronounced a Bad Word.
So far, Crowley’s purely scientific data suggested that Aziraphale was most likely to swear when overwhelmed by fascination, which meant that putting two tickets to the Vienna State Opera on the angel’s table was a scientific method rather than a romantic getaway Anathema had advised Crowley earlier (why on Earth would she ever do it?).
‘Crowley, that’s so sweet of you!’ Aziraphale exclaimed, quite literally shining with happiness.
‘It isn’t. I’m a demon. I’m not sweet. I pursue my selfish interests.’
That didn’t sound right, did it?
Aziraphale squinted at him. ‘Are you, now?’
‘Sure, I am! Demon, you see,’ Crowley explained patiently.
‘What are your selfish interests then?’ Aziraphale asked, clearly amused. If Crowley didn’t know better, he’d think the angel was flirting.
‘I can’t tell you, naïve angel. I’m mysterious and secretive, and all,’ Crowley shrugged, ‘Sorry.’
‘That’s all right,’ Aziraphale smiled. ‘We’re going to Vienna then?’
‘Sure,’ nodded the demon. ‘And this time I’ll be ready for your f-bombs,’ he thought with determination.
***
Nothing happened. They’d spent a marvellous weekend in Vienna. Aziraphale had clearly loved the performance, and of course, the angel was quite verbose about it. He’d described it with words like ‘unforgettable’, ‘sophisticated’ and ‘dazzling’, but he hadn’t used any stronger vocabulary. Probably, he hadn’t liked it that much, after all.
They were walking down to the Stephansplatz. Crowley was clutching his coffee cup, trying to banish his slight disappointment. Aziraphale was chattering happily, and it clearly meant he was enjoying their trip, even if not enough to realise the ‘full expressive potential’ of the English language.
Aziraphale stopped, soaking up the sight. He looked at Crowley, and his eyes were shining.
‘Thank you so much, dear,’ he said quietly.
Crowley sipped at his coffee to hide his own inappropriately bright smile.
‘Just look around, Crowley,’ the angel continued, his voice shaking slightly with admiration, ‘it is fucking gorgeous, isn’t it?’
That evening, objective evidence confirmed that even Viennese coffee wasn’t much pleasure when gone up nose.
-4-
The angel must have been doing it on purpose. He was clever, and he could clearly see the effect his eloquence had on Crowley. But he wasn’t that much of a bastard, right?
‘Are you doing it for me, angel?’ Crowley asked once, not quite satisfied with the results of his experiments. It was early October, and they were strolling in St James’s Park. Aziraphale had just miracled a beige woollen scarf and was currently wrapping it around Crowley’s neck, which was confusing, but pleasant.
‘Obviously,’ the angel nodded. ‘I thought you seemed a bit cold.’ He suddenly became very self-conscious and stepped away (not before he’d finished with the scarf, though.) ‘Sorry, I didn’t ask if you actually wanted a scarf in the first place.’
‘Hmm, yeah, it’s ok, thanks,’ Crowley mumbled, trying to understand how the angel could always avoid the actual topic of the conversation, ‘but I’m not speaking about the scarf.’
‘Oh, all right,’ Aziraphale went on walking. ‘What was it, dear?’
‘Do you say this stuff for me to hear?’
‘What, you mean ‘dear’? I’m afraid I use it to address other people as well…’
Crowley rolled his eyes. ‘I know that, angel, ok? I mean your swearing. Is it just for me?’
Aziraphale looked genuinely surprised. ‘I don’t understand what you’re speaking about, Crowley. Why would I be swearing for you?’
‘Because I react’, Crowley wanted to say. ‘Because you’re provocative and amusing, and in your strange brilliant mind it could pass as some sort of coded flirtation.’
‘I bet you can’t say it when other people can hear you,’ he said instead.
Aziraphale raised his eyebrow, exasperated.
‘Come on then, angel. Prove me wrong,’ Crowley grinned. ‘Shout something for everyone to hear,’ he said, putting on his best tempting tone.
‘Goodness, Crowley, I’m not doing it! It would be extremely rude, don’t you think?’
‘Come on, angel,’ Crowley continued with badly hidden amusement, ‘just shout ‘fuck’. You can do it!’
‘I know that I can, Crowley. And you know that I’m not doing it.’
‘Anything. Shout ‘Bitch’, for instance.’
‘Sorry, dear.’
‘Whore?’
‘Definitely not.’
‘Prick?’
‘Crowley,’ Aziraphale smiled weakly at him, ‘if you keep coming up with offensive words without proper predication in your sentences, I’m going to think you’re trying to be rude with me.’
‘Ok, angel, you don’t have to shout,’ Crowley conceded. ‘Just say it louder than me.’
Without waiting for the angel’s agreement, Crowley filled his lungs with as much air as possible, just to find the angel’s palm pressed tightly against his mouth.
‘Stop it!’ Aziraphale hissed, ‘there are kids in the park!’
He must have felt Crowley’s smile spreading against his skin because the angel was now blushing. Still, he didn’t remove his hand until he felt Crowley breathing out.
‘Proves my point,’ the demon said, victorious. ‘You’re doing it for me.’
‘Whatever makes you happy,’ Aziraphale responded weakly, ‘but I’m not going to prove anything.’
***
‘You know,’ Aziraphale said about a week later. ‘I’m thinking of holding a poetry evening here in the bookshop.’
‘Why would you do that?’ Crowley asked incredulously, ‘You hate people breathing on your cherished books.’
Aziraphale gave him a look. ‘I don’t hate people, Crowley. I’m an angel. Anyway, it’s Wilde’s birthday soon, and I thought it would be nice if people could get together and read some poetry here.’
‘Alright,’ Crowley drawled, absolutely unconvinced, ‘and that’s your only reason for doing it?’
‘Sure,’ Aziraphale answered. ‘Do you think you could help me with posting some advertisements online?’
‘Erm, ok, if that’s what you want…’
***
On the 16th of October, the bookshop was crowded. It had taken Aziraphale some time to hide his most precious first-editions before he welcomed several dozens of people to his territory. Crowley had been having too much fun watching the angel fussing throughout all the preparations, and even the fact that his own flat was now storing hundreds (or thousands) of books and bookshelves couldn’t spoil it.
After some temporary alterations, the bookshop turned out to be surprisingly spacious. One could even think that it was bigger on the inside, which might or might not have had something to do with Crowley’s little miracle.
Instead of the counter, which had been moved to the backroom of the bookshop, there was a tiny stage now, and stylish antique chairs and coffee tables appeared here and there all around it. Crowley had to admit that the arrangement was quite cosy, even if too old-fashioned. People could roam around the shop freely or sit down and have a nice cup of tea, while listening to poetry.
It was mostly Wilde, of course, but, to Aziraphale’s pleasure, some visitors decided to remember other poets’ works as well.
Crowley was perching on the windowsill near the door, when Aziraphale came to the stage to thank all the guests for their presence and performances. He was going to end the event with some Shakespeare, and nobody seemed to mind.
Aziraphale smiled at Crowley across the room. He was holding a book he clearly didn’t need.
‘Show-off,’ Crowley mouthed at him, smiling back. Aziraphale raised his brow but kept the eye-contact.
‘Thus can my love excuse the slow offence
Of my dull bearer when from thee I speed:’
The angel must have been rather inspired: he decided to put on his best 16th-century accent to recite Sonnet 51, and it was rather appreciated by the audience, even if impeded their understanding of the text itself.
‘From where thou art why should I haste me thence?
Till I return, of posting is no need.’
The angels voice sounded deeper than usual, resonating soothingly in the bookshop. Some people had closed their eyes and were listening to Aziraphale’s interpretation of Shakespeare with pure contentment written on their faces. Crowley would have done the same, if he had managed to get his mind past the first line. He was suddenly reading too much into it, but it was difficult to stop with the angel looking at him with such a soft expression.
‘O! what excuse will my poor beast then find,
When swift extremity can seem but slow?
Then should I spur, though mounted on the wind,
In winged speed no motion shall I know,’
Alright, okay, so having had a choice of 154 Sonnets, the angel decided to pick the one with this blasted metaphor of speeding up one’s horse and hurrying to one’s beloved. Crowley swallowed.
Typical Shakespeare, though. Might as well be a coincidence.
But before delivering the next line, Aziraphale winked at Crowley.
‘Then can no whores with my desire keep pace,
Therefore desire….’
Wait, what?! It should have been ‘horse’; Crowley knew the text well enough, it was ‘Then can no horse with my desire keep pace’, he must have misheard the – Oh… The bastard had winked at him!
When, in the middle of Mr. Fell’s performance, a red-haired man in sunglasses suddenly ran out of the bookshop in a fit of cough or laughter (or both), the most attentive members of the audience could notice that the ever-so-sweet bookshop owner didn’t seem upset about the interruption at all. If one were really observant, they would even spot a pleased smile tugging at the corner of his lips.
The only person who knew Mr. Fell well enough to suspect this sort of scenario was trying in vain to catch his breath and stop laughing outside the bookshop.
-5-
When all the visitors had left, Crowley came back to the bookshop with a wide grin and a wine bottle.
‘So,’ he said slowly, putting the bottle on the counter, which was the only piece of furniture that had already been brought back to its place, ‘all the preparations,’ he took a sit at one of the coffee tables, gesturing at the next chair, ‘all the miracles it took – all just to prove me you can say ‘whores’ for everyone to hear?’
Aziraphale took two glasses and the bottle from the counter and perched on the chair next to Crowley.
‘No, it really is quite a gesture,’ the demon continued, ‘I’d even call it romantic in its own way.’
‘You didn’t stay till the end, though, did you?’ Aziraphale asked with a tiny smile and poured them some wine.
‘Oh, no, had some things to do, you know.’
They both looked at each other for a moment and burst out laughing.
‘Really, angel, I can’t believe you did it,’ Crowley said, looking at Aziraphale with awe. ‘With all due respect, you’re a crazy bastard, that’s what you are!’
‘Thank you, dear, I’m sure you mean it as a compliment,’ Aziraphale said and somehow managed to give Crowley a smile that was shy and smug at the same time.
‘Does it count, though?’ Crowley teased, ‘They probably didn’t even catch it, with your accent and all!’
‘Well,’ Aziraphale said primly, ‘you did catch it, so it counts.’
‘Aha!’ Crowley cried triumphantly, ‘so you do swear for me!’
‘Pity you didn’t stay till the end,’ Aziraphale said softly, ‘I think you’d have liked it.’
Crowley’s heart missed a bit. But now he knew the pattern. Aziraphale was obviously on the verge of some linguistically unconventional excited swearing, and Crowley didn’t think it could surprise him anymore. He put his glass away, to be on the safe side.
‘Was there something better than the “whores” bit?’
Aziraphale blushed a little. ‘Well, I’m not sure whether it was better or not,’ he fidgeted slightly and took Crowley’s hand, ‘it’s for you to decide. It went like this:
Therefore desire, (of perfect’st love being made)
Shall neigh, no dull flesh, in his fiery race;
But love, for love, thus shall excuse my jade-
Since from thee going, he went wilful-slow,
Towards thee I’ll run and give him leave to go.’
Crowley watched him with wide eyes, and then groaned, still holding the angel’s hand tightly.
‘For God’s sake, Aziraphale, how do you always manage to catch me off guard?’ he asked, taking off the glasses and rubbing his eyes with his free hand.
‘Did you just say: “for God’s sake”?’ Aziraphale smiled weakly.
‘Did you just say: “I love you”?’ Crowley retorted.
‘I suppose I did,’ Aziraphale nodded.
Crowley bent down a little and whispered to Aziraphale’s ear, ‘It really was better than the “whores”, angel.’
‘Glad you aren’t disappointed,’ Aziraphale laughed.
‘Now,’ Crowley said, looking over the bookshop that was for once not too cluttered with books and furniture, ‘do you want your books miracled back here now, or will you dance with me?’
And so, they danced.