Work Text:
“A [person] might engage in flirtation with disinterest, even disdain. But [they] never tease without affection.” - Tessa Dare
When she first stepped into the tea shop, it was with the intention of causing a bit of mischief. One of her favourite pastimes was trying out as many samples as possible at the local frozen yoghurt store and then not buying anything. She fancied herself a bit of a bad girl, always shirking the rules or deliberately breaking them, giving off the vibe that she was too cool for anyone else and couldn’t be bothered. It hadn’t left her with a ton of friends, but it had left her with her fair share of admirers. After all, which of us hasn’t fantasized about dating a bad boy/girl/person at some point in our lives?
But her bad girl vibe would definitely be tainted if anyone had an idea of the lengths she went to in order to be just bad enough. For instance, she refused to do the sample thing when it was busy, knowing that she would unnecessarily stress out whatever poor employee was behind the counter. She also only did it at corporate-owned shops—no franchises. She wasn’t there to cause unnecessary financial strife for a small business owner doing their best. And of course, when she said that she tried the samples but didn’t buy anything, it was more that she tried the samples and made a much smaller purchase (on account of having filled up on said samples).
All in all, it made for a pretty poor level of evil and definitely fell more under the category of mischief than demonic activity. But none of her few friends were willing to tell her that, lest they get a detailed description of exactly all the ways what she was doing was wrong and evil and most definitely not nice, why would you say that?
So despite her intention to cause a little chaos and the persona oh-so-carefully cultivated from head to toe, Crowley’s foray into the tea shop fell way short of the bad girl vibe. It fell even shorter—although she would’ve argued that it was more of a saunter, thank you very much—when she came face to face with an adorable blonde woman holding a tray of small sample cups. Her beaming smile and bright blue eyes positively swept Crowley off her feet, forcing her to become her most romantic self. Which was, to say, incoherent.
“Would you like a sample? It’s green tea mixed with a hint of honey,” asked the most beautiful creature Crowley had ever seen.
“Guhhh,” was Crowley’s eloquent response. She shook her head quickly as if trying to wrangle her jumbled thoughts back together and tried again. “Ngk, I mean, you know, nghhhh…” Despite the head shaking, her train of thought had long since fled the tracks.
The other woman, in an attempt to poorly disguise a chuckle, somehow managed to put a hand to her gorgeous mouth. The tray, having no such qualms about not embarrassing a potential customer, shook violently and threatened to tip over. Crowley, sensing a chance at redemption, made her move. She reached a hand out to balance the tray, happy to come to the rescue of such a beautiful maiden.
Unfortunately, she didn’t realize that the only reason the tray hadn’t tipped over by that point was because said maiden had already managed to successfully re-adjust the tray’s centre of gravity to compensate for the tilting. And, when Crowley nobly (but utterly unhelpfully) reached a hand out to steady it, it was just enough to finally knock the whole thing over.
The maiden gave a tiny (but oh so adorable) shriek as the cups splashed their contents onto the both of them. Luckily, corporate had mandated that the contents remain at a lukewarm temperature in case of incidents like this, or the two of them would’ve had a legitimate problem on their hands.[1] As it was, they only had the problem of wet, stained garments.
“I am so sorry—” the maiden started.
“Shit, my bad—” cut in Crowley.
Their conversation devolved into a series of “Oh my goodness, I can’t believe I did that” (not Crowley) and “Gahhhh, sorry, sorry, shit, sorry” (definitely Crowley). Another of the shop’s employees—a tall lad with blue eyes and nice square spectacles—brought over a few towels and stood awkwardly to the side, mumbling something about grabbing more while the two women attempted to dry themselves off.
The tea shop maiden, utterly mortified at the whole ordeal, started again first.
“I am so dreadfully sorry! I don’t have the foggiest idea what came over me. I’m such a frightful mess at times. I would lose my head were it not so firmly attached.”
Crowley, who obviously couldn’t sit back and watch while the most beautiful creature she had ever met blamed herself for the work of what was clearly an evil person, jumped in immediately.
“Absolutely not. Completely my fault there. I should’ve minded my own business, and yet I somehow managed to throw tea in your face.”
The other woman chuckled, this time having the good sense to let it show rather than try to hide it. Then, just as soon as she started, she stopped laughing and stared back at Crowley with wide eyes.
“You’re not...you’re not going to report me, are you? Without a doubt I deserve it—after all, what kind of person has difficulty with such a simple task as passing out an afternoon sample—but I really need this job and rather enjoy it, and I just don’t know if Sanders will let this incident slide like he did the last one, and I can’t—”
“—nnnnno……’f course not.” Crowley cut her off before she talked herself into a tizzy. “Even if it were your fault—which it wasn’t—who gets someone in trouble for an accident?”
“Oh thank you so much!” The other woman audibly exhaled, the smile slowly returning to her face. “I dread to think about what would’ve happened if this experience happened with someone less kind than you are.”
“ ‘M not kind. Just don’t want you worrying your pretty little head all because of a menace like me.”
“Pretty?” The other woman’s eyes twinkled slightly, the corners of her mouth hinting at a grin.
Aw shit. Crowley rubbed a hand across the back of her neck, trying to think of a solid reason for why she was incapable of not putting her foot in her mouth.2 “Nghh, it’s a saying, you know? ‘Don’t you worry your pretty little mind’ and all that.”
“Isn’t that a Taylor Swift song?” The lad, despite having said nothing for the past several hundred words, chose the most inopportune time to make his presence known.
At this, Crowley slowly turned to him and gave her most menacing glare. Unfortunately for her, the sunglasses took away a bit of her edge. And unfortunately for the lad, she still managed to be frightening in spite of them.
“Right, I’ll just...be over here,” he mumbled as he fled the scene.
Crowley looked back at the other woman, fully ready to defend her use of the phrase and how it had absolutely nothing to do with a certain pop singer. To her surprise, the other woman simply asked, “Are they any good? Should I look them up?”
“Look who up—” Crowley started before realizing that what she didn’t think was possible seemed to be happening, “—wait, do you mean Taylor Swift?”
“Yes, them. I’ve never heard of them, but I’m always happy to learn about new bebop!”[3] She smiled radiantly, as Crowley stared on in shock. “Not to mention they sound like quite an exciting band, what with the nod to Jonathan Swift and all.”
“Bebop?” Crowley scrubbed a hand down her face before peering back at the other woman between two fingers. “Taylor Swift? They’re not a band, and I’m pretty sure her name is just that: Taylor Swift. And I don’t think she’s related to your Jonathan.”
“Oh, my apologies,” the other woman said, looking ever so slightly disappointed at the idea that Crowley’s singer had nothing to do with the renowned satirist. “I suppose one should never make assumptions about someone based on their name. That’s something I’m very familiar with.”
“Oh yeah?” Crowley cocked an eyebrow. “Why, what’s yours?”
The other woman sighed before murmuring, “Aziraphale.” Then she eyed Crowley suspiciously as if anticipating a barrage of questions. Crowley’s response was arguably worse.
“Aziraphale!” It was Crowley’s turn to suppress the urge to laugh, which she didn’t do very well. “That’s, er...it’s pretty,” she muttered between poorly disguised coughs.
“It’s not. It’s ridiculous. Who looks at a small child and thinks ‘Oh yes, I’ll name you after the bumbling angel in the Bible? The one who lied directly to God’s face after failing at his one job?’”
Crowley shrugged. “Same people who looked at baby me and went, ‘Sure, four syllables won’t be so hard! She’ll live up to it eventually.’”
“May I ask what your name is?” Aziraphale looked so hopeful, her eyes expressing a degree of concern that shouldn’t have been possible. She had just met Crowley, for Someone’s sake.
Crowley resolved from that moment that even if Aziraphale laughed her right out of the store, she would tell her. It was worth it to make her happy, even just for even a moment.
“ ’ntnella” she mumbled.[4]
“What?” Aziraphale leaned slightly closer, and Crowley considered mumbling again if it meant she would lean in more.
“Antonella. Don’t ask me what it means because I couldn’t possibly tell you. And I never go by that since it’s way too long and way too ‘elegant’”—yes, she used actual air quotes when she said this—“for my style.”
Aziraphale, who was far more capable (at times) of handling her words, managed not to comment on the fact that she found the other woman rather one of the most elegant people she had encountered in her lifetime. Long neck, gorgeous cheekbones, a gentle pout that belied her devil-may-care attitude, flowing red locks...yes, it was a good thing she managed to keep this to herself.
“Well, what do you prefer to be called?” she asked suddenly, as if she had any right to any more of this woman’s time or energy. As if she had a right to know. But before she could apologize for her brashness, the other woman returned the smile.
“Call me Crowley. It’s unorthodox but...ah, well, unorthodox tends to suit me better.”
“Crowley,” Aziraphale said, trying out the name on her tongue. “It seems the name suits you perfectly.”
Crowley, not knowing whether or not to take that as a compliment but choosing to do so anyway, glanced back at her, a blush creeping up her cheeks. Then, deciding she’d reached her embarrassment quota for the day, decided to flee the scene in the most dignified fashion possible.
“I, er, I gotta go. But it was nice to meet you, Aziraphale.” She held out the name, trying to imbue it with as much sultriness as possible but coming off rather demonic instead. And with that, she whirled around and sauntered off, giving Aziraphale plenty of time to watch her walk away.
As she sashayed away, it occurred to Crowley that she knew absolutely nothing about the mysterious angel-woman except for her first name and where she worked. Guess I’ll be back here tomorrow to find out more, she thought.
And Aziraphale? As Aziraphale watched her walk away, all she could think was, Oh bother. Not again.
As soon as Crowley left the tea shop, she began plotting ways to get back in. The fact that it was open to anyone and that she didn’t really need a reason to go in there meant nothing to her.
Aziraphale. Aziraphale. Crowley couldn’t stop herself from saying her name over and over again in her mind, practising how it would sound with her own last name tacked on the end.[5] She wished she had asked for a last name or even a middle initial, but that probably would’ve sounded like she was trying to steal Aziraphale’s social security number.[6] Alas, Crowley was stuck with just a first name for now. Luckily, “Aziraphale” was four syllables, so she had a lot to work with.
After her fiftieth time using Aziraphale’s name to conjure up a world where the two of them walked hand in hand, blissfully stroking each other’s cheeks and whispering sweet something-or-others to each other,[7] Crowley knew she had a mission on her hands. She needed to find some way to go back, see the gorgeous person she had only met a few hours earlier and subsequently decided she would marry, and apologize. Yes, she needed Aziraphale’s last name so that she could apologize properly and write a note to corporate about how fantastic the customer service had been. And she needed her full name because she couldn’t risk them mixing her up with some other Aziraphale.[8]
If it so happened that she had more fodder for her imaginary wedding vows? Well, that was her cross to bear.
Aziraphale, for her part, wasn’t faring much better. She cursed the fact that she had to be working when this absurdly cute, definitely not suave stranger wandered into the shop. In the afternoon after Crowley left, she found herself staring off into the distance, absentmindedly wiping down the counter over and over again.
At one point, Newt decided to step in, gently taking the rag from her hands and clearing his throat to get her attention. Aziraphale, jarred from her thoughts, looked up at him in surprise. Then, noticing the lack of both customers and sunlight streaming through the window, realized it was past closing time.
“I’m so sorry, Newt. I don’t know what’s come over me. I should have been helping you clean up.”
Newt offered a nervous smile, for even when nothing was happening, he still managed to be somewhat ill at ease. “It’s all right. I managed without breaking too many things this time. But, I’m sure I have some idea about what’s on your mind.”
“And what could you possibly mean by that?” Aziraphale looked positively affronted. “I was just distracted. Just a few silly thoughts flitting around in my head, nothing more. Absolutely tickety boo.”
“And none of those thoughts had anything to do with the woman that wandered in here earlier?”
Aziraphale stared blankly at him. In fact, her expression was a little too blank to be believed. “What woman? There were plenty here today.” She held up a hand and began counting them off for emphasis. “Was it the lovely old woman who came in looking for a new blend of chamomile for her son-in-law? Or the mother who wanted something to give her a bit more energy in the morning? I recommended her a nice black tea with extra caffeine, although it still has far less than coffee so she can avoid the jitters.”
She paused, staring squarely at Newt to make it clear that yes, she was going to be obtuse. “Maybe you’re referring to the bride-to-be looking for a few gifts for her bridesmaids or the college student looking for something to calm her nerves. I’m honestly surprised I remember any one of them, considering the amount of business we’ve had today.” Her eyes narrowed, daring the lad to challenge her.
Unfortunately, Aziraphale was about as frightening as a strand of candy floss. “Oh come off it, Aziraphale,” Newt chuckled, tossing the rag into the laundry hamper (or rather, near it, since his aim wasn’t great) and grabbing the broom. “I saw your mouth practically hit the floor when that redhead first walked in. Lucky for you that your reaction time is far quicker than hers.” Feeling that for once he had the upper hand, he began idly (that is, totally intentionally) tossing the broom from one hand to another in an attempt to look nonchalant.
Aziraphale rolled her eyes and turned around, huffily shuffling items around on the shelves in an attempt to ignore him. “I haven’t the slightest clue what you’re referring to, and I won’t hear any more of your nonsense,” she said to the tea canisters and definitely not to Newt. She refused to stoop to his level on such a ridiculous subject.
“Really, Aziraphale,” Newt continued, still tossing the broom back and forth from one hand to the other, “it’s nothing to be embarrassed about. Far from the first time I’ve seen you make eyes at one of the customers.” Then, in a soft voice, he added, “Plus, she seems more genuine than Gabrielle.”
And there it was. Aziraphale hated thinking of Gabrielle, although comparisons between the two were impossible. They were both tall, beautiful, and totally out of Aziraphale’s league. The first time Gabrielle wandered into the store, she’d made Aziraphale feel like a peasant, what with the other woman asking about so many fancy types of tea that she had never even heard of. In fact, Aziraphale had thought the other woman was secretly doing it to get a good laugh at her expense, which meant she was totally surprised when Gabrielle had asked for her number.
She sighed. At least Crowley hadn’t made her feel silly, despite how recklessly she had handled the tea samples. It almost seemed as if the other woman was worried about what Aziraphale thought of her.
No matter. She’d probably never see her again, and it was for the better. She needed another witty, attractive suitor like she needed a weekend in Mallorca. That is to say, though the idea was a welcome one, she definitely couldn’t afford what came after the holiday ended.
Her spiral of thoughts finally ended when she heard a loud crash from behind her. Although she wasn’t at all surprised to find both Newt and the broom on the ground, she was somewhat mystified at how the lad had gotten bristles stuck in his hair.
She shook her head. Sometimes it was better not to ask.
And with people like Crowley, she thought wistfully, sometimes it’s better not to ask them out.
When Crowley got home that night, she immediately planned to start plotting. She sauntered off to the kitchen to mix herself a martini—stirred because she had no way to shake it—and put on some thematic music. She took a good long look at herself in the mirror, tousled her shoulder-length auburn hair, practised a wink, upgraded the mental description of her hair to flame red, and shot herself two finger guns. What a damn catch. Then she spun around, made her way back to her desk, and heaved herself into the chair.
Unfortunately, the chair slipped out from behind her, and she ended up on the floor.
Okay, maybe she wasn’t James Bond, but she could do this. She could come up with a way to speak to Aziraphale again.
Once she sat down properly in the chair, absolutely not wincing at the pain in her tailbone, she got to work. A good spy had to know everything they can about the mark, right? Or was that the code of thieves? The first rule of Fight Club?
She shook her head again, re-railing her train of thought. Right. Things she knew about Aziraphale:
- She was painstakingly gorgeous. She had wide blue eyes, full lips, perfect golden curls, a figure to die for, and a smile that burned your retinas if you looked too long.
- She worked in a tea shop. At least, she probably did. Strangers don’t just hand out tea samples in someone else’s store, right? Perhaps she should confirm this before sending that letter.
- Her name was Aziraphale, and she didn’t like it.
- She was named after some angel in the Bible. Crowley was going to take this one at face value, never having opened the thing herself.
- She didn’t know who Taylor Swift was, and she referred to popular music as “bebop.”
- She was terrified of getting fired thanks to some jerk named Sanders.
- She was so kind that she was willing to take the blame for what was so clearly not her fault.
- Her hair glowed in the moonlight. Okay, Crowley had never actually seen Aziraphale in the moonlight, so that one might’ve been a guess.
- She was radiant. She was stunning.
- She was ethereal in her beauty. Probably. Crowley was just guessing the definition based on context clues. And she was running out of synonyms for “beautiful.”
Staring down at her list, Crowley realized she didn’t have a whole lot to go with. No matter. James Bond probably didn’t have much to work with either if you took M out of the equation.
After skimming the points once or twice, she decided to go with the second bullet point. She’d head back to the tea shop and find some excuse to talk to Aziraphale.
Wait, wasn’t the whole reason she started the exercise to talk to Aziraphale?
Shit. It was going to be a long night.
When Crowley sauntered up to the entrance of the tea shop the next day, she was fully prepared. She had developed a foolproof plan, practiced her lines, and picked out a killer outfit.[9] She had the whole encounter mapped out, all the way to the point where Aziraphale swooned and fell into her arms.
Crowley took a deep breath, stepped into the store, and marched straight up to Aziraphale who happened to be manning the counter.
“Hello again!” Aziraphale exclaimed, a huge smile on her cheeks. “I didn’t think I’d see you again so soon!”
“Err, yeah. I’d like one tea, please.”
Aziraphale blinked, smile faltering ever so slightly. “One what?”
“One tea. Whatever’s your finest.” Crowley leaned into the counter, giving Aziraphale her best flirty smirk. I’ve got her now.
Aziraphale blinked again, smile twitching slightly. “You want...a tea? How much? Or did you mean a cup?”
Crowley blinked back. This wasn’t in the script. “Just...one tea. Whatever the normal amount is.”
“My dear,” started Aziraphale, pausing to take a deep breath, “we sell both tea by the cup as well as different amounts of tea in bags. You can choose from tiny, larger, and gargantuan. We even have Egotistical if you really want a caffeine boost.”
Crowley looked taken aback. “Egotistical? Are you insulting me?” She leaned away from the counter, crossing her arms over her chest. No more sultry for you.
“Absolutely not!” Aziraphale frantically waved her hands. “Those are just the sizes! I know they are a bit much, but I didn’t come up with them. They’re just fancy ways to describe small, medium, large, and extra large.”
“Why not just call it that then?” Crowley huffed, although she was rather chuffed that Aziraphale looked so sincere about not wanting to insult her. Perhaps she hadn’t misread the other woman’s interest.
Aziraphale sighed and looked at her shoes. “You’re not the first person to suggest that.” She smoothed down the front of her apron before looking up to meet Crowley’s eyes again. “So, one cup of tea or a bag?”
“Erm…” Crowley scrambled. Was it weird if she only bought a cup of tea? Would Aziraphale wonder why she hadn’t just grabbed some from the cart down the street? Did she have some sort of quota she had to make on bags of tea she sold? Would Crowley’s refusal to purchase something hurt that quota? Would Aziraphale be so insulted by Crowley’s uncharitable attitude towards her quota that she’d never speak to her again? Best to be safe.[10] “Give me one of each.”
“Splendid.” Aziraphale clapped her hands, and Crowley was pleased to see that the smile had returned to her face. She’d made the right move then. “What flavour would you like for the cup? We have black, green, white, rooibos, herbal, fruit, oolong, and our seasonal blends.”
“Come again?” More choices? She hadn’t accounted for this.
“Would you—” Aziraphale paused, choosing her next words carefully, “—would you like me to describe each of them to you?” It wasn’t unusual that customers didn’t know exactly what they were looking for, but they were typically pretty upfront about it. She sensed (rightfully so) that Crowley wouldn’t be pleased if she were called out on her lack of experience.
“Nah, it’s all right! I know my colours. Just give me a good old cup of green!” Crowley smirked again, sensing that they were finally returning to the script.
Aziraphale quirked her eyebrow, the corners of her mouth turning up ever so slightly. It looked like Crowley was going to play this the hard way. No matter. “We have a fantastic selection of green teas. Are you looking for something more earthy and full-bodied or something light and fragrant?”
Crowley’s mouth fell open slightly, but she quickly covered it up with a cough. Maybe they still had a ways to go. “Uh, light and fragrant. Something that won’t fill me up.”
Aziraphale’s lips turned up even further, a smile looming on the horizon. “Something more floral and clean? How do you feel about vegetal undertones?”
“They’re, uh, nice.” Crowley grabbed at her collar. Was it getting hot in here?[11] “Love me some vegetables.”
“Splendid. And what are your thoughts about astringency?” Aziraphale had given up all attempts to hide her expression. The other woman was positively charming in her absolute refusal to give up.
“It’s…fantastic. The astringenter the better.” Is that a word? Please be a word, Crowley prayed to No One in particular.
Aziraphale was on a roll now. “Great. We have a few blends that come from the peaks of the Alps Mountains, brought down in special saddlebags by tea-maliers after they spend weeks looking for the perfect blend. Naturally, those different types of saddlebags have an impact on the flavour.” She batted her lashes at Crowley in what she hoped was a coquettish way and continued. “Do you prefer the saddlebags be made of leather, linen, or lanolin?”
“Lanolin?” Crowley wasn’t sure if she was asking a question or answering Aziraphale’s.
“Any preference on the beast of burden they ride up on? I find that the flavour really changes based on the animal’s attitude. We have mules, donkeys, and horses if you want something with more of an edge.”
“What’s your preference between donkeys and mules?” She hated horses. She wouldn’t choose that option even if it made Aziraphale think she had no taste.
“Mules, obviously.” Aziraphale rolled her eyes for good measure.
“Right, mule it is then.” Better than an ass, I guess, she thought to herself.
“Solid or spotted coat?”
“Solid.” She could do this. The quicker she answered, the sooner she could be out of this blessed store.
“Lovely. And the colour?”
Crowley frantically tried to picture a mule. She must have seen one once in her life, right? Did they come in normal horse colours or was this a trick question? Weren’t they all the same colour?
“Brown.” They had to come in brown. Crowley refused to imagine a world where brown mules didn’t exist.
Aziraphale feigned surprise. “Well, that’s a...unique colour. Not exactly my favourite, but it does have its perks, I suppose.” She tutted slightly to herself, keeping a shrewd eye on Crowley.
Crowley, to her credit, managed to keep the blush to her cheeks instead of letting it spread across her whole face. “Wait, when I said brown, I meant caramel,” she scrambled, “which is a type of brown, but maybe not the brown you’re thinking of.” She gulped, hoping that by some miracle, Aziraphale didn’t think she was totally lost when it came to tea. She desperately wanted to impress this woman, though she was pretty sure she had failed to do so.
Aziraphale decided to take pity on the other woman. “Ah, yes. A much better choice. Knowing all of that, I think I have the perfect blend for you.” She turned away from Crowley just as she bit back a laugh, busying herself with the kettle.
Crowley took advantage of the moment to drop face down on the counter with a thud. What was the point of a script if both parties didn’t stick to it? Then, remembering that Aziraphale was still there, she shot up and went back to her seductive lean.
Aziraphale, politely pretending she hadn’t seen the whole thing in the reflection of the kettle, turned back to Crowley, handing her a steaming mug of peach green tea, her own personal favourite.
As magnanimous as she was, there was no denying that she wasn’t at least a little bit of a bastard. She gave Crowley her biggest customer service smile and asked, “Now, what flavour will you be wanting for the bag?”
Right, so that hadn’t gone as planned. Crowley had somehow ended up with both a delicious green tea and 250g of whatever type “Essence of Mediterranean Pear” was supposed to be. Part of her refused to believe that there really was such a thing as a tea-malier, but she also couldn’t accept that such a perfect angel as Aziraphale would lie to her. Crowley was probably just out of touch.
She resolved to give it a few days before she went back to the store, having once heard some drivel about absence making the heart grow fonder. Deep in her heart of hearts, she knew that she was using the saying as an excuse to go home, lick her wounds, and then try again once the open sores of embarrassment had healed over, but it didn’t matter. For someone who thought of herself as a smooth-talking, silver-tongued flirt, the mess she became whenever she was around Aziraphale had her rattled. At the very least, it gave her a few days to plot her next move.
After a solid 72 hours of pacing around her apartment, glaring angrily at her bag of tea, and looking up how hard it could really be to grow a tea plant, Crowley concluded that she was getting out of sorts for nothing. She knew plants. She knew leaves. She was pretty much an expert botanist. She should be a natural when it came to plants, even if they were ground up and dropped unceremoniously into a mug, and she made a mental note to bring this up to Aziraphale as soon as the opportunity presented itself.
She gave herself a pep talk, shot herself a couple more finger guns in the mirror for good measure, and bounded out the door before she could talk herself out of it. She made the walk there in record time, having given up her usual saunter in favour of a less sexy power walk, and slammed the doors to the store open.
The way she stormed in, you would’ve thought she was angry at Aziraphale for having the audacity to be beautiful. Some part of her probably was.
Spotting Aziraphale again at the counter, she straightened to her full 6’0” height, rolled her hips back into position, and started her patented saunter. Aziraphale, pretending not to have seen her, glanced over at Newt and attempted to convey her desire for him to make himself busy in the back. After much hand waving (and Aziraphale eventually having to whisper the instructions to him), Newt made himself scarce. Unfortunately, the interaction had taken so long that despite Crowley’s ridiculously slow walk, she was now leaning seductively against the counter. Aziraphale was woefully unprepared for this.
“Oh, Crowley!” she blurted. “I didn’t notice you there.”
“Yeah, you did. I saw you waving the poor lad off. Wanted the opportunity to talk to me alone, I see.” She pulled her sunglasses down slightly in order to eye Aziraphale over them, wanting to make it clear that she wasn’t the one on the back foot this time.
Aziraphale’s cheeks turned a delightful shade of pink, and she sputtered, “Nonsense! He has work to do in the back. Important inventory.”
“Oh yeah?” Crowley’s smile turned even more smug, and she leaned onto her elbows, inching slightly further into Aziraphale’s space. “Is that why he is standing there watching us from the window?” She waved her hand in the direction of the “Employees Only” door, and Aziraphale made eye contact with Newt through the glass. To his credit, he turned his gaze to the front of the store, pretending not to notice them. Unfortunately, he was a terrible actor, as evidenced by the fact that every so often, his eyes would dart back to the two of them.
Aziraphale swallowed and willed her cheeks to return to a normal colour. “My dear girl, I couldn’t tell you what he’s doing. Trade secrets and all.”
“Trade secrets?” Crowley raised an eyebrow. “Do tell.”
Aziraphale huffed. “It wouldn’t be much of a secret if I told you, would it?”
“S’pose not.” Then, suddenly remembering where she was, she added, “I’m all out, by the way. Came here to replenish my supply.”
“All out of what?”
“Tea?” Crowley motioned to the products lining the walls. “Remember the tea I bought the other day? Drank it plum up.”
Aziraphale looked aghast. “But it’s only been three days! That should have been enough for at least 125 cups.”
Crowley’s heart sank. She quickly covered up her discomfort by turning her gaze to the floor, hoping to find a crack she could exploit. One step here, a bit of digging at it with her heel there, and she could probably get the floor to swallow her up. Unfortunately, she found no such defect and was thus forced to continue the conversation with Aziraphale.
“I’m a big tea drinker,” she lied. Then, doing a bit of mental math and realizing that the amount of caffeine she supposedly drank would be enough to put an adult in the hospital, she backpedalled. “Plus I had a big party. The stuff you recommended went immediately.”
Aziraphale looked relieved, pleased to find out that this lovely woman wasn’t on the verge of crashing face-first onto the counter again. “That’s good to hear. I wish people threw tea parties more often.”
Crowley stiffened. “What makes you think it was a tea party?” What about me says tea party? she asked herself, immediately resolving to add more chains and spikes to her ensemble.
Aziraphale tilted her head. “I guess I just assumed that if you made so much tea, it had to be a tea party. I didn’t mean to insult you.”
“You didn’t insult me,” Crowley said between gritted teeth. “I just don’t know why you’d look at someone like me and assume that I was into tea parties.” She may have instilled the last words with a bit too much venom because Aziraphale looked completely taken aback.
“I…” Aziraphale faltered, not wanting to upset the other woman even further. “It’s just that...you’re in a tea shop. And you’ve come by several times this week. And you’ve just told me that you finished up 250g of tea in only three days. It just seemed natural that you’d be interested in sharing your newfound interest with your friends.”
“Newfound interest?” Crowley looked positively horrified. “Who’s to say I’ve only just taken an interest in tea? I love plants. I have my own garden, and I’m an expert at botany. Of course I love tea.”
Aziraphale thought better of asking her to clarify that statement. And Crowley, finding herself in the throes of an impassioned rant, kept right on.
“Tea is my lifeblood. I live for tea. I’ve never wanted anything else in my entire life. I’ve tried tea from Wales, from Scotland, from all the British Isles—even from the Isle of Mann—and I’m an expert at not over-steeping my tea. In fact, I’m such an aficionado that I’ve got a kettle named after me. Well, maybe not named after me, but it has my name on it! It says ‘Crowley’s Kettle’ so that nobody else gets it into their head that it’s theirs. I have a tea chest, a tea strainer, more teacups than you can imagine, even a tea wallet to carry bags around with me when I’m on the go.”
She frantically tried to think of more of the accessories she had seen before she fell down the Wikipedia rabbit hole but came up short. “I have tea bags, I have tea towels, I have one of those fancy little things you use to mix up matcha tea…”
“A whisk?”
Crowley ignored her, far too into her rousing speech to notice the interruption. “I have never been accused of being anything less than an expert when it comes to tea. I’ve had friends tell me, ‘Crowley, wouldn’t you like a nice glass of wine to go with dinner? How about a nice Châteauneuf-du-Pape?’ and I always shake my head, insisting that they bring me a nice cuppa. If they have one, that is. I’m not about to be rude.”
She was losing a bit of steam, but she persevered, determined to make her point, despite the fact that she wasn’t sure she knew what it was. “I live tea. I breathe tea. I mean, not literally, but I would if I were a fish and it wouldn’t kill me. I drink it any time of day. There’s no time that isn’t the perfect time for tea. Tea in the morning, tea in the afternoon, tea in the evening, tea at snacktime, tea at, uh, teatime…”
Crowley trailed off, realizing that she wasn’t sure where that statement was going. She didn’t really think Aziraphale would be impressed by her ability to name meals.
Aziraphale, upon sensing that Crowley had run out of steam, decided to intervene. “My apologies. I should not have insinuated that you were anything less than a master when it came to our trade. I should have known that such talk of tea parties would upset you, what with how serious your love for the beverage is. Clearly, someone as intimate with the subject as you are wouldn’t bother with such a thing, what with it demeaning the sanctity of the trade and all.”
Unsure what to make of Aziraphale’s tone, Crowley capitulated slightly. “I might bother. I just...haven’t yet. But that’s not to say that I can’t or won’t,” adding quietly to herself, “if you’re into that sort of thing.”
A huge grin broke out on Aziraphale’s face. “Really? That would be lovely!” She was delighted at the thought of this ridiculous, charming woman inviting her to something so quaint as a tea party, especially after so vehemently denying that she’d ever associate with such a thing.
Crowley’s whole face turned bright red. In fact, she was relatively sure that she could feel the blush down to her toes. This angel, this beautiful gorgeous tea angel, heard her talking to herself. And, to make matters worse, she had heard Crowley inviting her to a tea party like she was the Mad Hatter or something.
Totally mortified and totally having forgotten that she was supposedly in the store to buy tea, she immediately turned on her heel and left.
The smile never left Aziraphale’s face, even as she motioned to Newt that it was safe to come out. She just hoped that the next time Crowley came by, she would be able to convince her to stay a bit longer.
When Crowley didn’t arrive the next day, Aziraphale didn’t take any notice.
That’s a lie. She noticed, but she figured it was only natural that the woman took a break.
When Crowley didn’t arrive the day after, Aziraphale noticed, but she didn’t make a big deal out of it. At least, not according to her. Newt, however, would attest to how she stared wistfully out the shop door the entire day and only perked up whenever she saw someone in black come in.
When Crowley didn’t arrive for an entire week, Aziraphale gave up pretending that she didn’t notice. She moped around the store, albeit in her own fashion. This meant that she pasted on a bigger smile than usual and glared daggers at Newt when he hinted that she might not be okay.
When Crowley didn’t arrive for two weeks, Aziraphale had forgotten to pretend that she didn’t notice. She puttered about, fidgeted nervously, arranged and rearranged the displays, and turned to Newt for comfort. Which, unfortunately, he wasn't great at providing, as he barely knew how to comfort himself. For this, he summoned his girlfriend.
“Anathema, I don’t understand,” lamented Aziraphale. “I thought we had a genuine connection. She even said she’d invite me to a tea party.”
Anathema twirled the metal straw around in her drink.[12] “Maybe she just hasn’t needed any more tea?”
Aziraphale signed, leaning further back into her chair. They were seated at a cafe right across from the tea shop. Aziraphale had insisted on the location with the ridiculous notion that Crowley might come by, and she wanted to be there to say hello. Anathema had gone along with it because she liked their muffins.
“She didn’t need tea any of the times she came in, I don’t think,” mumbled Aziraphale. “The second time, the poor girl didn’t even know what she was looking for. I had to, erm, steer her in the correct direction, so to speak.”
“She’ll come back,” Anathema announced, feeling absolutely no need to explain herself. She had a feeling, and whenever she had a feeling, she knew better than to try and logic her way through it. “The only question is, what are you going to do when she does?”
“Probably spill tea on her again,” piped up the lad. He refused to be forgotten in this story.
Crowley, for her part, only stayed away from the tea shop because she was running out of legitimate reasons to show up. She would buy more tea, but since she suspected Aziraphale was already onto her and worried about a possible caffeine overdose, she refrained. In fact, she showed terrific restraint in not going to the tea store, and she definitely didn’t scowl as she drove past it every day in her Bentley.
It’s three weeks before Crowley finally capitulates. She strolled up to the store and steeled herself with the best devil-may-care attitude she could manage.[13] After casually opening the door (she made sure she had just enough pressure to open it but not enough to slam it against the wall as she had before) and offhandedly peeking around, she breezily wandered up to the counter, ready to start needling the angel.
“She’s not here today,” chimed in Newt, who was off to the side attempting to dab up the tray of tea samples he had spilt.
“What?” Crowley was taken aback. It never occurred to her that Aziraphale wouldn’t be waiting for her as soon as she made the decision to come in.
“She’s not here,” Newt repeated. “I might be willing to tell you when she’ll be working next if you promise not to make her wait so long.”
Crowley sneered. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I’m here to grab some tea, not chat with some cute employee.” She began grabbing canisters off the shelves at random to make her point. Then, when she realized what she said, the tips of her ears turned bright red.
“Well, if you’re really just here for the tea, that’ll be £90,” he said, gesturing at the tins in Crowley’s arms.
She wanted to protest the ridiculous cost, but she was too embarrassed about her earlier comment to do anything than hurry up and pay.
Newt smiled at the knowledge that those six canisters would add a nice bump to his commission. And, as he watched her leave, he had a funny feeling that his commission would be even better tomorrow.
Crowley showed up the next day, figuring that she couldn’t have come off as too clingy if Aziraphale wasn’t even there the first time. This time she was a bit less nonchalant,[14] heaving the door open with more force than she’d like and storming to the back of the store.
Newt, who had gotten intel from Anathema that Crowley would be back today, had set some of Aziraphale’s favourite teas next to the counter on the off chance that Crowley went on a buying spree again.
“She’s not here today either,” he said before Crowley could ask, and handed her a few tins of tea. “But you didn’t come around for her, right?”
Crowley took the tins, gave him a look that would pierce the heart of any normal soul, and handed over her credit card.
Crowley stopped by the subsequent two days and end up with four more tins and £60 of debt for her trouble. There was still no sign of Aziraphale.
When Crowley stopped by at the end of the week, she’d decided she’d had enough of the charade. She’d brought with her a box of chocolates and a potted mum. She would’ve brought cut flowers, but she didn’t want them to go bad if Aziraphale wasn't there.
She stormed into the store, nearly tearing the door off its hinges. Then, upon seeing Aziraphale at the counter, she was filled with both a sense of relief and pure anger. She stalked across the floor as angrily as she can while juggling a potted plant and chocolates and slammed them down unceremoniously on the counter. Aziraphale just stared at her in shock.
“For you,” she said, and gestured at them, just in case Aziraphale hadn’t known what she was referring to.
“What’s all this?” Aziraphale asked, dumbfounded. Although she had been not-so-secretly hoping that Crowley would drop by, she didn’t expect her to come bearing gifts.
“They’re for you,” Crowley said, glaring at Aziraphale, “because I’m sick of all this nonsense. I have come by almost every day in your absence looking for you, and I’ve spent over 150 quid on tea just to get him”—she thrust a finger in Newt’s direction—“off my back. I know nothing about tea. In fact, I am not even sure I like the stuff. I don’t really drink it, and now I’ve got about fifteen tins lining my cabinets just because I wanted an excuse to come see you.”
She paused for a breath, and Aziraphale said nothing, too stunned to make even an attempt at cutting in. “I don’t know what it was that drew me in here the first day, but I’m glad I wandered into this infernal”—seeing Aziraphale’s wounded expression, Crowley quickly recalibrated—“blessed store. Because you were standing there all adorable and happy and smiley like some sort of little tea angel, and I wanted to bask in your presence. But then I spilt tea on you and you didn’t mind—in fact, you apologized to me—and I just thought that this adorable woman was far too good for me.
“But I kept coming back, you see, because you made me hopeful. You turned me into a right sap, and now I’m pretending to be a tea aficionado, spending my free time learning about matcha and genmaicha and whatever else is out there, just so I can come back and totally unconvincingly, by your expression, pretend that I know what I’m doing. But I don’t. I don’t even know what I’m doing now. I just know that you’ve got me standing in a bloody tea shop with chocolates and a plant in the hopes that I can tempt you to go out with me.”
“So, cards on the table,” she said, leaning in towards Aziraphale and blushing furiously, “I think you’re cute.”
Aziraphale smiled. “I think you’re cute, too.”
“I think you’re absolutely ridiculous when it comes to tea.”
“I think you’re absolutely ridiculous when it comes to pretending you know something about tea.” Aziraphale was openly grinning now.
Crowley, having nearly run out of reasons to care at the moment, soldiered on. “Would you…” she paused, gathering up the last dregs of her courage before spitting out, “would you maybe want to go on a date sometime?”
Aziraphale stared at her, and Crowley feared that she’d overdone it. She was about to take it back and play her moment of courage off as a joke when Aziraphale broke into peals of laughter.
“Oh my dear,” she said, wiping what Crowley hopes is a happy tear from her eye, “I’d love nothing more.” Then she reached her hand across the counter and found Crowley’s, interlacing their fingers.
Crowley let out a huge sigh of relief and returned Aziraphale’s smile. “So, angel, where should we be off to?”
“My dear,” said Aziraphale, “what about a cup of coffee?”
Turns out that even on their coffee date, Crowley couldn’t leave tea behind. Though she’d absolutely deny it to anyone that asked, she was the sap that brought Aziraphale a case of Earl Grey macarons.
She would also vehemently deny the fact that she brought along two steaming cups of Mediterranean Bosc Pear on their tenth date. If prodded, she would only admit to trying to use up the myriad of tea in her cupboard.
And though she was secretly proud of her plan, she would blush and furiously rebuke anyone that believed Aziraphale’s tale of how Crowley had proposed on their one-year anniversary in the most appropriate and charming fashion: by serving Aziraphale a lavender tea latte in a mug with the words “Marry Me?” written at the very bottom.
Unfortunately, as much as Crowley wished they would, nobody bothered to ask about the appearance of the Caramel Mule tea blend that made its way into their wedding favour boxes. It definitely wasn’t Crowley’s doing.
But because everyone who knew Aziraphale knew she could be a bit of a bastard, no one needed to.