Chapter Text
The poignant sting of being a demon in unrequited love with an angel, Crowley mused, was how terribly off-brand it was. Presentation meant everything, Crowley knew that. Did anyone think Eve would have eaten that apple if she knew the Serpent of Eden was smitten for a fluffy-headed bookkeeper who foisted creme cakes and meringue upon poor, hapless ne’er-do-wells attempting to break into his shop, and who never pulled Crowley’s card on the first try, no matter how many times he roped the demon into another third-rate parlor trick?
“Now, I’m quite sure it’s one of these,” Aziraphale said, holding up four playing cards with their backs to him. His cheeks were flushed. His eyes flitted between the cards as he bit his lip, eyebrows furrowing in concentration. Crowley slunk against the counter at the front of the bookshop, attempting to hold in his smirk.
“Let’s see, then,” the demon said in a drawl that curled at the edges.
Aziraphale hummed in response, still eyeing the cards in his hand, then dragged his fingertips across them to search for supernatural signatures. Before Crowley could protest this obvious bit of rule-breaking, the angel looked up at him, eyes wide with dismay.
“Oh dear,” he said, picking up the deck he’d left on the table. “I don’t believe I’ve found your card, after all.”
Bloody torture, is what it was. Why him? Of all the innocent, chaos-making demons in the cosmos, why had the infinite universe chosen him to have a laugh at?
Crowley sighed, long-suffering. He turned and leaned back on his elbows on the countertop.
“Try again?” he offered.
He listened as Aziraphale gathered the cards together. “Thank you, dear boy. Yes, I think I know where I went wrong. One more time should, ah—” an aborted shuffle, followed by the scattering of what sounded like half the deck “—should be the ticket.”
Was the Almighty pranking him? Crowley knew She had a sense of humor, but this didn’t seem like Her Kind of Joke: stationing Her most perfect angel, who was soft and courageous with a bastard streak that could be seen from space, on Earth where Crowley would find him and follow him and become so irrevocably attached to him as to hang around all day in a dusty bookshop, except for when he nipped down the street to pick up the angel’s pastries and dried teas?
No, not a prank, then. A Punishment.
“Here we are,” Aziraphale announced. Crowley glanced to the side. The angel held his freshly-rearranged deck out over the counter. “Pick a card, any card, my dear, but don’t let me see which one it is.”
Crowley rolled his eyes and reached for the deck.
Aziraphale yanked back the cards. “Not that one!”
Crowley let his hand fall with a slap onto the counter. “You’re ridiculous. Why don’t you just tell me which one to pick and have done with it, hm?”
The angel brightened. “Oh, alright then. It does help the spectacle if you just pick the right one to begin with.” He pushed his round glasses up his nose and flicked the deck over to peruse their faces. “There.” He wiggled the seven of hearts slightly out of place and turned the cards back over, then looked up at Crowley expectantly.
The demon took a deep breath through his nostrils. It was disgraceful how charmed he was. That was the poignant sting of being in unrequited love with Aziraphale. His angel went about his business as absurdly as he pleased, yet Crowley was the one made indecent by witnessing it.
Crowley lowered his gaze. He pulled the indicated card and held it to his chest.
They went through the motions of the card trick that Aziraphale had been attempting for millenia, it felt like. Crowley kept watching his face. He couldn’t look away. His angel was so expressive, so delighted to share his abysmal magician’s tricks.
“I think- oh, yes, I’m almost certain this time, my dear- Is this your card?”
Aziraphale flicked the other cards aside, brandishing the seven of hearts, his sweet face alight with excitement. Crowley burst into applause, then took the card and jumped upon the countertop, holding it above his head.
“Did you see that?” he demanded of the empty bookshop. “He pulled my card! And on the first try, too!”
“Alright, you’ve made your point—” Aziraphale tutted, glancing up at the ceiling for patience.
“The amazing Mr. Fell, my good people!” Crowley flourished the card at him. “Your humble proprietor, collector of rare and unusual books, is a downright angel of the illusionary arts—”
“Get down, get down,” Aziraphale hissed behind his smile, grabbing Crowley’s hand. He tugged gently, and Crowley obeyed his request, stepping down from the counter to Aziraphale’s chair and then to the floor.
“That’s better,” the angel said as he fussed with Crowley’s jacket, flicking at a piece of lint the demon hadn’t noticed. Crowley could see the smile he was only half-successful in suppressing. “I’d hate to see you fall and injure yourself before our trip.”
“I would never,” Crowley protested. “And miss out on Ye Grande Holiday Shenanigans Tour? You’ve lost it, angel, if you think you could get rid of me that easily.” He disentagled himself from Aziraphale’s grip and sauntered across the foyer. He spent more time than strictly necessary examining the bookshelves before he picked one to sprawl against, which was why Crowley didn’t immediately notice Aziraphale wringing his hands together like he was attempting to build himself up to saying something. The demon’s eyes narrowed behind his shades.
“Get rid of you?” Aziraphale repeated with a breathy laugh. “That’s not— that’s the opposite of what I want, you silly serpent. I was a little nervous you might have forgotten about it, in fact—”
Crowley made a face. “”Course I didn’t forget. It’s not every day an angel asks you to go tromping around the country, spreading mischief for the holidays, after all.”
“Mischief and blessings,” Aziraphale corrected, blinking at him across the dusty bookshop. “You promised.”
He heaved a huge sigh. “Yes, alright. It’s not like I don’t have experience performing blessings, doing your dirty work for nearly a thousand years, now.”
Aziraphale beamed at him. “We leave next weekend, remember. We’ll be in Tadfield for Christmas again, of course, but that gives us nearly the whole week to toodle about and find some really deserving humans to bless for the holidays.” He clapped his hands happily, eyes twinkling.
“I think we’re more likely to come across humans who really deserve to be messed with, but we’ll cross the bridge when we come to it,” Crowley said, rather gregariously if you asked him.
“And then— I was thinking, for New Year’s— of course, we don’t have to, could always come back to London if you’ve other plans— you probably do, now that I think on it—”
“No, I don’t,” Crowley interrupted. He wasn’t quite sure what to make of Aziraphale’s fluttering about, or the ridiculous notion that Crowley might have something better planned that didn’t include his angel. He wanted to say so, but he didn’t. Instead, he crossed his arms, still slouching artfully against a bookshelf, and raised an eyebrow in inquiry.
“Oh.” Aziraphale’s cheeks pinked and he smoothed his hands down the front of his vest. “Well, then— I was wondering, my dear, if you might want to extend our trip another week after Christmas. We could explore the coast; I’ve heard the, uh—” his breath seemed to catch, “—the South Downs are lovely, even in winter.”
Behind his sunglasses, Crowley narrowed his eyes. “Sure, angel,” he said. “Whatever you want.”
Aziraphale seemed to wilt with relief, and no small amount of pleasure. “Oh, thank you, darling,” he said. “I was rather counting on you to be my ride, after all. I’m not sure what I would have done if you didn’t want to go. Probably call a Hoover, I imagine.”
“Uber,” Crowley corrected, lips twisting upwards at the image of Aziraphale flying over the countryside on the back of a vacuum cleaner. “Why wouldn’t I want to go? ‘S no one else I’d rather ring in the New Year with.”
Aziraphale’s eyes went wide, a lovely flush crawling up his neck beneath the bow-tie. That was too much, wasn’t it? Crowley clenched his jaw. It was a wretch, guarding his feelings so they wouldn’t boil over and scald his angel, at odds with the comfort and ease he felt in the other’s presence ninety-five percent of the time.
“Oh, yes—” Aziraphale fluttered. “—good, I’m- I’m glad to hear it. Well, I’ve so much to prepare before we leave, what with closing up the shop and bounding off for a few weeks, I hope you don’t mind if I take your leave a bit early and ask you to…” He stumbled a few steps out from behind the counter, one hand fluttering at the door.
“Oh.” Crowley straightened, trying to hide his surprise. He pressed the bridge of his glasses against his nose to assure himself they were still on his face, shielding his eyes from view. “Yeah, sorry— ‘course, I’ve stayed too long anyway— Bet you haven’t thought about how underfoot I’ll be on this trip, annoying you at every moment—” Shut up , Crowley; Wonderful, you’ve got him thinking about how irritating you are, congrats you, wouldn’t even blame him if he left you behind at this point—
“Thank you so much for understanding,” Aziraphale gasped, turning the doorknob and yanking the door open. “I really don’t mean to hurry you out,” he said as he did just that, bustling the demon onto the doorstep. “I’ll see you soon, yes? Duck-sally.” And before Crowley knew it, he was outside on the street, alone in the raw chill of mid-December without anyone to keep him company.
He stared at the door, where the angel turned the sign decisively to ‘Closed’, then drew his jacket closer for warmth. He was never good at choosing comfort over fashion, something he imagined Aziraphale might have helped him with, if only he could have managed to ask. Crowley turned to Mayfair, trudging through the first few flurries of an early snowstorm. Six thousand winters, and he’d never yet quite grown used to them.
That was the poignant sting of unrequited love, Crowley thought glumly as he trudged, shivering, towards home. The unrequited-ness of it.
Hours later, Aziraphale was still pacing the back room of his bookshop, a roaring fire flickering in the fireplace beside him. He wished Crowley were there, sprawled upon his couch with a glass of deep, velvety red in his hand as he teased Aziraphale out of his nerves. Then again, that scenario was, more or less, what he wished for all of the time, these days. And for much longer besides, if he cared to be so honest with himself.
Which, truth be told, he didn’t, most days. Aziraphale was an angel in love with a demon; his situation didn’t endear itself to honesty at the best of times.
But he’d done it. He’d broached the subject of extending their trip into the new year to explore the coast. He hadn’t expected Crowley to agree so easily. His stomach fluttered.
Of course, the South Downs wasn’t half what Aziraphale needed to ask. He tried to imagine it, standing in front of Crowley and looking him in the eye when he— the angel grew short of breath, his chest tightening— when he asked him—
Aziraphale shuddered, heart quailing.
A knock at the front door shook him from his thoughts. He frowned, glancing from the back room into the foyer. Had those ruffians returned for more meringue, he wondered, and paced to the front of his shop, twitching aside the window shade.
He gasped, stumbling backwards. He looked desperately around his bookshop, draped in gray shadows. Surely he could hide somewhere— perhaps he’d climb to the top of a bookshelf and perch there, hoping against hope he wouldn’t look up—
“Aziraphale!” The archangel Gabriel rapped his fist against the door again, three sharp knocks that reverberated through Aziraphale’s fingers and toes. He jumped, feeling as though he’d been a tad electrocuted. “Come on, let’s not go through this again,” Gabriel pleaded, voice muffled through the door. “I know you’re there. I’m just checking in. I want to help! We’re on the same side, here—”
Aziraphale snorted at the statement, indignation returning to him like warmth seeping back into frozen limbs. He took a deep breath, straightened his waist coat, and pulled open the door.
“Gabriel,” he greeted the other angel with a solemn nod. Remember what you stand to gain, Aziraphale told himself. A chance for something you hadn’t dared dream of. Even- Even if Crowley decides he doesn’t want it, his heart trembled at the thought, just to have had the chance will be worth it in the end.
He stepped aside, sweeping an arm at the bookshop behind him. “You’d better come in, then,” he said.
Crowley was an unreasonably optimistic demon, which was why he and the Bentley were speeding through the quiet streets of Soho at midnight on that mid-December’s eve. He was on his way back to Aziraphale’s bookshop for a nightcap. He planned to sweep dramatically into the back room, then fall upon the couch and snap a glass of wine into existence as though he’d been invited. It wasn’t like Aziraphale would be asleep, he told himself. And really, the bookshop at midnight was nearly as much Crowley’s home as it was Aziraphale’s; the angel had woven Crowley into the wards he set about the property from his very first day as proprietor.
He pulled into his usual parking spot across the street and down the road. The night was brisk, the air still but wet as Crowley unfurled himself from the driver’s seat and stalked along the sidewalk. He shivered in his fashionably-thin jacket, longing for the warmth of Aziraphale’s study, the fire crackling safely behind its grate.
He turned, the bookshop’s entrance directly across from him. The windows were dark, but for a small, flickering light at the heart of the shop—
Crowley halted, fear and dismay crashing through his idle thoughts like an icy wave. There was a second presence inside the bookshop, in addition to his angel’s warm and familiar aura. What was more, Crowley recognized the other presence, though he’d only had the misfortune a few times before. He’d earnestly hoped the last time Gabriel had seen ‘Aziraphale,’ that his angel would never be forced to endure his company again.
Crowley darted across the street, then slunk around the side of the bookshop. He glanced about for potential onlookers, before sidling into the shadows and shifting to his snake form.
He slithered up the brick wall to a high window and peered inside, hugging his body against the stonework. The window looked into the bookshop’s back room, as Crowley well knew, where a cup of tea cooled upon a side table next to a half-empty bottle of wine, and the fireplace crackled merrily behind a sturdy grate.
Crowley knocked his head against the window, directing his powers to flick open the latch, and he oozed himself carefully into the room and down the wall. His tail snapped the window shut again behind him, then Crowley pooled himself into a darkened corner, listening for voices.
“Come on, Aziraphale,” Gabriel was complaining from the other room, closer than Crowley had expected. “You and I both know you want this— you and that demon of yours—”
Crowley slithered along the wall, baring his fangs. He didn’t know why the archangel was there, or what he wanted with Aziraphale, but he was prepared to fight if Gabriel tried to use force. As long as he was able, he would do his best to protect his angel.
“I won’t- I can’t argue with you on that point; not for myself, anyway,” Aziraphale admitted from the other room. Crowley could hear him wringing his hands together. He crept closer to the doorway into the main bookshop. “But as for Crowley—” The demon paused, surprised to hear his name spoken. “—well, I haven’t exactly brought it up to him yet…”
“Are you serious?” Gabriel demanded. “What are you waiting for? The wretched creature won’t say no, not to you—”
Crowley bristled, though he couldn’t find it in himself to disagree with the wanker. What could Aziraphale possibly want to ask him, that he would be willing to speak about with the fucking archangel Gabriel, of all people, who’d tried to extinguish him with holy fire, before he’d speak to Crowley—
He flicked his tongue at the air, irritable and tense. It didn’t seem like Gabriel was going to try and assassinate his best friend again, but he was finding the trespass rather difficult to forget.
What could Azirapahle have to say to Gabriel, he wondered again, that he couldn’t say to Crowley?
He slumped backwards a bit, away from the door, still close enough to eavesdrop.
“That’s kind of you, but I’m not sure I agree,” Aziraphale murmured. “We’ve never spoken of such an— ah, an Arrangement before.”
“Never?” Gabriel repeated, as though he didn’t quite believe him. “Well— unicorns, Aziraphale, after six thousand years… that sounds like a bit of a you problem.”
“What do you mean?” Aziraphale asked, after an appropriately-timed pause to indicate just how offended he was.
“I mean… ah, Hell, Aziraphale, don’t take this the wrong way, but you’re a bit wonky when it comes to that demon.” Crowley shrank back into the shadows, heart beating against his long, slender ribcage. “You always have been, though it took a bit for the rest of us to catch on.” Crowley heard the shift of a decisive footstep, and then another. He held his breath, imagining Gabriel reaching out for Aziraphale’s shoulders, looking down upon him with a condescending smile. “You’re in love with him, aren’t you?”
Crowley held his breath. His stomach tingled, despite himself. He wanted to die- er, discorporate. Or something.
“Yes,” he heard Aziraphale whisper.
Crowley didn’t breathe, staring blindly towards the door.
“Then what’s the problem?” Gabriel’s voice rose gregariously. “Tell me you’ve at least told him about South Downs for New Year’s?”
Aziraphale coughed. “Of course,” he tried to laugh, but Crowley heard the bitter edge. “I mean, I brought it up—”
“Well, don’t take too long! Even you, Aziraphale, must recognize the danger of waiting forever. And the offer won’t stand forever; only ‘till midnight on New Year’s.”
“Yes, I know,” Aziraphale hissed. “I accept, alright? I’ll do it. We’ll be there.”
Crowley flicked his tongue nervously, certain he’d overheard something he hadn’t been meant to. He started to unwind himself, feeling unaccountably as though he needed to hide, worming himself backwards among the stacks of books along the back wall. He tried not to hear the next words exchanged, certain all at once that only the very worst could be expected if he accidentally overheard them before they were meant to be given—
“So you’ll ask him?” Gabriel demanded. “You promise, you will ask your demon Crowley to marry you, at midnight on New Year’s in the South Downs?”
Crowley froze. The world grayed out around him.
“Yes,” Aziraphale whispered. He cleared his throat. “I promise.”