Chapter Text
It’s spring when Aziraphale visits New York.
He buys pastries in the morning and pretends he doesn’t feel like people are staring. He feels out of place, far away from home and thinking that perhaps he could’ve worn something a little less dull.
It’s the unfamiliarity that makes him nervous. It’s the towering skyscrapers, he tells himself. It’s the jet lag and the unsatisfying nap he'd managed in the hotel.
Central Park is bigger than he'd imagined it would be. That goes for the whole city, he supposes – everything is so unbelievably large here. He breathes in the smell of cool grass and dodges joggers. Tapping around on his phone with unsteady fingers, he follows the directions to the fountain.
It’s in the heart of the park. He’d known it would be, of course. There are people everywhere – Aziraphale can’t decide if he’s relieved or disappointed.
He stands with his hands behind his back at the edge of the water and looks at the angel, dark against the bright white of the sky. His mouth is dry and his palms are damp – he feels like he might vibrate out of his skin.
Perhaps this was a mistake, he thinks. Perhaps he’s made a fool of himself – shown his hand, as it were. He should be at home, with his books and his favourite mug and a locked door between him and the rest of the world.
“Angel,” Crowley says, voice low, suddenly standing next to him as though he’d always been there.
Aziraphale's heart leaps in his chest. He keeps his eyes on the safety of the statue, catching snatches of Crowley's profile in his periphery.
“Islington,” He says.
“Hmm?”
“This angel theme of yours. We could’ve met in Islington, Crowley.”
Crowley huffs a little.
“Would you rather be in Islington, angel?”
“Well, no, but-"
“A tube station? Can’t even picture you on the tube. Or perhaps the Angel pub...”
“It’s one of those awful chain pubs now,” Aziraphale says, dimly aware of the ludicrousness of this conversation. He tilts his head in Crowley’s direction, finally allowing himself to look. “When you – when we – I wondered if you might want to meet there, so I looked it up. Microwaved food, as far as I can tell. And horrible wines.”
“Eurgh.”
“Quite,” Aziraphale says. Now he’s looked at Crowley he can’t stop looking – at the dear slope of his nose and his wonderful jaw and those ridiculous glasses of his. “Crowley, I-"
“Spot of lunch?” Crowley says. “I don’t really know anywhere good but I bet you do.”
“I – I've read about some places,” Aziraphale says, helplessly. “Crowley-"
“Can we just have lunch?” Crowley asks, a faintly desperate note in his voice that strikes Aziraphale somewhere deep in his ribcage. “My treat."
“I can't,” Aziraphale says. He swallows hard, tearing his eyes away from the furrow of Crowley's brow. “You killed him, didn’t you? That was you.”
Crowley’s adams apple bobs.
“Gonna have to be more specific, angel.”
“That dignitary. They made me look at the crime scene photos, they think I have some sort of – some sort of hold over you-"
“You do,” Crowley says, voice low and urgent.
Aziraphale shakes his head.
“Don’t. Don’t – Crowley, I. I can’t do this anymore.” He stares hard at the statue, unseeing eyes tracing the shape of the wings. “I don’t - I don’t know what this obsession is-“
“Aziraphale-"
“But I can’t – they think I'm some sort of accomplice, that we're – that we're involved, somehow. I've had - I've had men parked outside my shop, for God's sake. I can’t do it anymore.”
“What I do has nothing to do with you.”
“But it does. Don’t you see? They know that we – that you – they know that we're connected. They want to use me to get to you.”
A muscle jumps in Crowley’s jaw.
“Have they threatened you?”
“No.”
“Then they’re making you say this, they sent you here."
“Nobody knows I'm here,” Aziraphale says. “I wanted to tell you face to face.”
“Not exactly convincing when you can’t even look at me, angel.”
Aziraphale turns back to him. It hurts to look – it hurts to see the anguish on Crowley's face, the tight set of his mouth and his clenched jaw.
“You kill people, Crowley.”
“And you’ve always known that. It’s not exactly something I enjoy."
“Then stop,” Aziraphale says. “They said something about offering you protection if you could testify, or-"
Crowley laughs, humourlessly.
“Is that what they told you?”
“Surely it’s better than..."
“Than being free?”
“And this is freedom?” Aziraphale says. “Killing who you’re told to kill because you’re scared of-"
“I’m not scared of anyone.”
Aziraphale just looks at him, breathing like he’s starving for oxygen. They’re standing too close – they’re always standing too close. He stumbles back a little, his throat dry.
“If you could just stop,” He says, softly.
“It’s not as easy as that.”
“If you came to London, they could help – Gabriel -"
“Never gonna happen,” Crowley says.
Aziraphale's throat is tight.
“Then I suppose there’s nothing more to say.”
He didn’t think he had the strength to walk away, but somehow he manages it.
“Angel,” Crowley says. “Aziraphale!”
But he doesn’t follow, and Aziraphale doesn’t look back.
-
“Mr. Fell,” Gabriel says, a few days later.
Aziraphale had turned at the sound of the bell, part of him caught up in some foolish hope that the person walking in would be wearing unnecessary sunglasses, with searing red hair and an unbearably snakelike, sauntering gait.
Instead Gabriel is there, in his usual sharply pressed suit, big bright smile pasted on, putting Aziraphale in mind of newspaper on the windows of a derelict building.
“Gabriel,” He says, heart sinking.
Gabriel walks further into the shop, manicured fingers carelessly touching this and that as he goes. Aziraphale winces – whenever Gabriel is here it makes him so very uncomfortable.
“He’s back in the country,” Gabriel says. Aziraphale’s stomach feels like a maelstrom – he hopes his poker face holds, just this once. Something must show in his face, because Gabriel quirks his eyebrows. “You didn’t know?”
“Was I meant to?”
Gabriel's still smiling, bland and bright, but Aziraphale imagines he can see a tension in it.
“How was New York, Mr. Fell?”
Aziraphale’s heart sinks. He swallows.
“A nice break,” He says. “They have wonderful food.”
Gabriel hums, nodding, hand resting in an annoyingly proprietary fashion on a lovely first edition Virginia Woolf.
“You’re out of your depth, Fell. I blame myself, of course,” He stops touching the book to wave a hand, a what can you do sort of gesture. “Bringing a civilian in on a case is always a risk. But I never dreamed...” He trails off. “Has he come back here for you?”
Aziraphale's foolish heart lurches in his chest.
“Why would he?” He says. “I haven’t seen him since – since that first time. The church case. Years ago.”
It’s a pathetic, unconvincing lie. That had been what started it all – Aziraphale, arriving at MI6 in his nicest suit, feeling utterly out of his depth. He'd been called in as an expert of theology on a particularly tricky case – a case that hadn’t even had anything to do with Crowley. It feels like another time. It could have happened to another man, standing nervously in the foyer, clothes too bright, hands too unsteady. A man had approached him – a man with a snakelike gait, a man with red hair and sunglasses and an unbearable, drawling voice...
Gabriel isn’t smiling anymore. He moves forwards, closer than Aziraphale would like him to be.
“If he comes here, we'll know,” He says. “I don’t know what sort of doomed romance you think you’re a part of, but this isn’t a soap opera. Anything but, in fact. You’ve seen what he does to people."
“I haven’t seen him since that case,” Aziraphale repeats, the red and white crime scene photos of the murdered dignitary suddenly bright in his mind's eye, stills from a horror film. “If I do happen to see him then by all means I'll contact you, but I really don't think he’s back here for me, as you put it. Now if you’ll excuse me – I have a lecture to get to.”
All traces of Gabriel's smile have disappeared. His eyes flash, dangerously.
“This isn’t a game. You know that, don’t you? He'll kill you eventually – it’s all he knows.”
“I thought it was your job to stop that sort of thing from happening,” Aziraphale says. His heart is beating so fast it almost hurts. “I'm terribly sorry, I really must go.”
-
“Professor Fell, it’s Jeremy from the university. Wondered if you wouldn’t mind coming in and doing your Jacob and the angel bit. This year’s lot are painfully uninspired, little bastards. Spend more time drinking than they do in the library. Could really do with you shaking them up. Let me know if you’re up for it and we can sort out a time. Thanks.”
-
“Mr Fell, hi. It’s Anathema. I don’t know if you remember me, I was part of the team on the case we called you in for? I was just wondering if we could talk – off the record. I – it’s hard to explain over the phone. We could get coffee? I'll – I’ll call again tomorrow. Hope you’re well.”
-
“I already spoke to Gabriel,” Aziraphale says, when Anathema calls.
“I know. Can we get coffee? Tea? You seem like you’d prefer tea.”
“I – I don’t know if I have time,” Aziraphale says, vaguely. The last thing he wants is to see any more crime scene photographs. There are letters on the doormat – he stoops to pick them up, flipping through them without really seeing them.
“It’s nothing formal, I just want to talk. Completely off the record.”
“I take it you don’t want my opinion on a Biblical text.”
“Mr. Fell,” Anathema says.
Aziraphale doesn’t hear the rest. The envelope in his hand is plain white, the label the same as any one might find in an office, his name and address typed, as though it was a bill or a letter from the bank.
Aziraphale knows, though, that it is neither of those things. He swallows hard, thinking about New York – thinking about Crowley calling his name, and how much it had hurt to ignore him.
“Yes,” He manages to say, cutting Anathema off mid-sentence. “There’s a café opposite the bookshop, I - I'll see you there.”
“That’s great,” Anathema says, clearly taken aback at such a quick turnaround. “Is 12 ok?”
“Perfect. Thank you. Sorry, goodbye,” Aziraphale says, and hangs up.
It’s from Crowley. Of course it is. Aziraphale holds the envelope for a moment – he thinks about putting the kettle on, drawing out the anticipation, but his hands are shaking a little. Perhaps hot water isn’t the best idea at this exact moment.
He sits on the sofa and fumbles to open the envelope. It contains a postcard - he'd known it would.
Bethesda Fountain, New York, the lettering on the front says, under a really rather beautiful photograph of the fountain and the angel, wings proudly outstretched.
I want to be better, the message on the back reads, in scratchy, hurried handwriting. Forgive me, angel.
Aziraphale touches the letters, throat dry. He has all of Crowley’s postcards - thirty seven in total – pinned to the noticeboard in the back room of the bookshop. To the untrained observer it might just seem like a collection of angel-related landmarks and paintings, the sort of thing a man who gives occasional theology lectures might be expected to have.
Aziraphale knows better, of course. Each postcard is a memory, a stolen moment, a cup of coffee or dinner in some hole-in-the-wall place, their feet never touching under the table but Aziraphale wishing they were. Something about Crowley makes him feel like some sort of sun-starved plant, caught leaning in his direction, basking in warmth.
Forgive me, angel. He touches the words one more time, then puts the card safely behind the counter, so that it isn’t too far away when he opens the shop.
-
“Hi,” Anathema says, when Aziraphale sits down opposite her. “Thanks for this.”
“It’s quite alright,” Aziraphale says. “I, er. You’re not going to show me more photos, are you?”
“What? Oh, no,” Anathema says, frowning.
Aziraphale breathes out a sigh of relief.
“Then why-? Gabriel already asked me about – about Crowley. I don’t know anything about him. We don’t speak, we - I'm not in the habit of talking to – to people like that.”
Anathema looks at him. Against his better judgement, he likes her. She doesn’t make him feel the way Gabriel does, at least.
“The two of you went on all those dates,” She muses.
Aziraphale flushes hot.
“They weren't dates,” He protests. “We were friends, that’s all. And that was a long time ago. Before – before I knew the sort of person he was.” She doesn’t say anything, and unbidden his brain fills in the gaps – the derision he imagines she’s feeling. “I expect it’s all very funny to you."
“No,” Anathema says. “It’s sad. I mean, to meet someone – a friend - and then - and then to find out that.”
Aziraphale swallows.
“Well, quite,” He says.
“Listen,” Anathema says. “I really don’t care what the two of you are. If you’re friends or – or something more. I don’t care. I – I need to contact him. You’re the only person I know who might actually be able to.”
“I can’t,” Aziraphale says. “And even if I could, I-" He falters. “Why do you want to contact him? To – to arrest him?”
Anathema shakes her head.
“I – I have reason to believe that someone in the department – in my department – is a double agent. Part of the organisation who give Crowley orders.”
“Goodness,” Aziraphale says. “But why are you telling me this? Surely it’s classified or – or top secret -"
“I figured if I told you my secret you’d tell me yours. Like a trade. That way neither of us blab and - we're on the same wavelength.”
“And you won’t tell anyone? Nobody at your – at your office?”
Gabriel, he thinks but doesn’t say.
“Nobody,” Anathema says. “Anything we talk about stays between the two of us.”
Aziraphale gulps, nervously.
“If I did know – that is to say, if I could contact Crowley – what would I say to him? Hypothetically.”
“Hypothetically,” Anathema says. “If he could help me figure out who the guy on the inside is, I could help him.” When Aziraphale blinks, confused, she adds, “Passports. Papers, you know. The sort of thing a guy might need if he decided to settle down.”
Crowley is the last person on earth Aziraphale can imagine settling down. He drives too fast, enjoys travelling all over the world – his name in Aziraphale's mind is synonymous with excitement and unpredictability – the polar opposite of Aziraphale himself.
Crowley would hate to settle down, he thinks. Then again, he remembers a time when he and Crowley were in the street outside the shop. Aziraphale had said that all he really wanted was someone he could come home to.
“You could come home to me, angel," Crowley had said then. "If you wanted me.”
“I can’t promise anything,” Aziraphale says. “But I – I'll try.”
-
Except, of course, he'd told Crowley he didn't want to see him again. He'd walked away without saying very much at all - without the two of them getting lunch, Crowley hunched over his espresso like some sort of gargoyle, like there ought to be stone wings sprouting from his expensive jacket shoulders.
Crowley drinks too much black coffee, Aziraphale thinks. Aziraphale himself can appreciate black coffee, just like he can appreciate most things. He can tolerate the bitterness on the tongue and likes the rich smell of it in a morning.
Whenever Aziraphale has coffee, more or less, he drinks it with milk and sugar. It feels like an omen, somehow – a testament to how at odds they are as people. It seems ludicrous to expect Crowley – dangerous, wonderful, ridiculous Crowley – to settle for someone who only last night nodded off during the six o'clock news and spilt cocoa down his trouser leg.
In the drifting weeks that follow, Aziraphale tries to occupy himself. He reluctantly sells books and responds to emails from students and reads. He eats his lunch in the leafy square near the shop, listening to birdsong.
The daffodils in the square bloom, then wither, and he hears nothing from Crowley. The last postcard of Bethesda Fountain becomes dog-eared from too much handling. It catches his eye every time he regretfully sells an old Penguin paperback. Forgive me, angel, it says.
Aziraphale does. That's the problem.