Chapter Text
Tucked in a corner of Soho, Celestial Books is the sort of shop that makes a book lover’s heart skip a beat whenever they cross the threshold into its hushed, dusty inner sanctum. Mismatched shelves are crammed full of rare tomes that smell like old leather and parchment. Books sit stacked precariously on end tables, as though forgotten by someone in the middle of reading their way through the pile from top to bottom. A lumpy tartan couch and two worn velvet armchairs provide more comfort than any piece of ergonomically designed furniture. And the gentle lilt of Chopin or Mendelssohn drifts from a gramophone in the corner, providing the perfect background noise for reading while sipping a cup of hot tea.
The final, crucial element that makes Celestial Books a book lover’s haven is the proprietor himself, Aziraphale Fell, a kind man whose eyes crinkle at the corners when he smiles. Since opening Celestial Books over a decade ago, Aziraphale has become a fixture in the neighborhood, always ready to usher passersby inside during a rainstorm or to provide a recommendation for a book that will change your life.
Aziraphale’s life is solitary and a bit limited in scope (since he lives in the flat just above the bookshop and spends most of his days wandering the same few city blocks), but Aziraphale is content with his lot as he approaches middle age. He has everything he needs—a job he loves, friends who drop by on a weekly basis for tea and gossip, and neighbors who look out for him and his business.
And if he sometimes longs for the companionship of a romantic partner, someone who could drape themselves over the couch on a cold winter's night and share a bottle of wine with him?
Well. That's just the wishful thinking of a hopeless romantic.
On a crisp autumn day, Aziraphale wakes with the sun and immediately crosses the room to switch on his desktop computer. The thing is practically an antique. He bought it a decade prior, at the urging of his then-boyfriend, who always complained that Aziraphale was hopelessly old-fashioned and needed to modernize.
That particular relationship has long since fizzled out, but Aziraphale still has the computer, which he uses to balance the shop’s books and keep track of inventory. Over the past month, he has also used it to exchange messages online with a complete stranger—one who goes by the rather ominous username CalatheasAndCyanide. They met on a forum for readers (both of them taking part in a very spirited opinions about the best Ian Fleming book) and eventually CalatheasAndCyanide had asked if he could have Aziraphale’s email address so that they could write to each other.
It isn’t the sort of thing that Aziraphale—who is risk-averse and protective of his privacy—would typically go for. But CalatheasAndCyanide (or C, as he’s come to think of him) had been so clever and sincere. He had written in that first message: Nothing creepy or weird, I promise. I’m just really enjoying our conversation and want to keep talking. Just friends. Pen pals, yeah?
So Aziraphale—who goes by the username AfternoonTea—had agreed to become pen pals. They set ground rules: no real names. No identifying details about their personal lives. No meeting up in real life (even though they both live in London). This is a friendship with none of the encumbrances of real life, a true meeting of the minds. It’s all rather whimsical, in a way.
As his computer screen finally blinks to life, Aziraphale leans forward and clicks on the mailbox icon. Just as he’d hoped, there’s an unread message from C, sent at the ungodly hour of two in the morning.
To: AfternoonTea
From: CalatheasAndCyanide
Subject: RE: sharks vs. bears
Good morning, my tea drinking friend.
I already know that you’re shaking your head, ready to scold me for staying up past midnight. Don’t bother. I know I keep a vampire’s hours. Can’t help it. I seem to do my best thinking (and emailing) when the rest of the world is asleep.
I bet it’s six o’clock in the bloody morning right now as you’re reading this. Have you ever considered that you’re the one with an unreasonable schedule?
Anywhooooo.
Back to our previous discussion. You’re dead wrong about preferring to be a bear over a shark. YES bears are cuter. YES their diets seem more varied and tasty (I can’t believe you brought up marmalade and honey… you realize that Paddington and Pooh Bear aren’t real bears, right?). But sharks are obviously the cooler choice. They get to explore the whole wide ocean, to see all those coral reefs and secret undersea caves. What looks more badass on a tattoo? A great white shark or a bear?
Shark wins every time.
Case closed.
Yours,
C
Aziraphale bites back a smile and rises from his computer chair. He’ll go into the kitchenette and make himself a cup of tea while he contemplates his response to C. By the time that fiend wakes up, he’ll have another message from Aziraphale waiting in his inbox.
To: CalatheasAndCyanide
From: AfternoonTea
Subject: RE: RE: sharks vs. bears
My dear boy,
How dare you! Paddington Bear and Pooh Bear are most certainly real, at least in the realm of imagination. They were two of my dearest friends when I was a child and I will not have you maligning them (or their penchant for marmalade sandwiches and pots of honey).
I did read your email this morning as the sun rose, bathing my room in a wash of rose gold light. It’s funny—I shed the shackles of my religious upbringing decades ago, and yet sunrises and sunsets still make me think of divine light and mercy.
I will resist the urge to chide you for horrendous sleeping habits, although I do ask that you take care of yourself. It wouldn’t do to have you collapse from exhaustion. There would be no one to send me odd messages about the merits of sharks vs. bears.
Speaking of which, I remain firmly on Team Bear. I have seen some terribly impressive drawings of bears [see attached]. I think you can agree that they would make for very “cool and badass” tattoos (I am using your lingo and everything).
I must go now. Some of us have to start work before noon.
Warmly,
A
By all accounts, Anthony J. Crowley—“just call me Crowley”—should be in a terrible mood. He’s running on nothing but four hours of sleep and a double espresso. He woke up to two hundred work emails in his inbox—not to mention thirteen urgent voicemails from his assistant, Eric. Apparently, the megastore opening slated for three months from now has run into some pesky permitting issues, and the ebook division is behind schedule, and someone pissed off Lucifer (as usual) and he went on a rampage that ended with half of the editorial team quitting on the spot…
Two months ago, this would have been enough to make Crowley cover his face with a pillow and scream.
But that was before he started exchanging messages with the mysterious A.
So instead of deciding that he hates every aspect of his life and vowing for the millionth time to quit his job and move to a cottage in the middle of nowhere, Crowley goes to work. He whistles tunelessly as he goes up the lift and makes his way into his private office. He scrubs a hand over his face, trying in vain to wipe away the lingering trace of a grin.
'Cool and badass'. Crowley can't believe that A actually typed those words out.
He has no idea what the man behind AfternoonTea looks like or sounds like, but he just knows that he isn't the sort to ever say those words aloud. A comes across as very prim and proper, with a dash of sly bastardry that Crowley can’t resist. The man made a reference to laundering his handkerchiefs once… in the year 2022. He’s a goddamn relic.
But he’s a relic who is funny and charming and kind, and he exists in a universe that is completely separate from Crowley’s day-to-day life, which mostly consists of working long hours, dealing with his boss’s mercurial bullshit, getting drunk on expensive wine, and sometimes pulling a stranger at a bar when he’s feeling especially stressed out or hollow inside.
A has no idea that Crowley is the Anthony J. Crowley, Chief Strategy Officer at Acheron Corporation, the mega bookstore and e-publishing conglomerate that is rapidly putting traditional bookshops and publishing houses out of business. Within some circles, Crowley’s name and face have become synonymous with the devil himself.
He has a terrible suspicion that A probably runs in those circles.
At that moment, Eric barges into Crowley’s office with a panicked expression on his face.
“You’re here. Oh, you’re here,” the assistant says. “Thank god. Lucifer’s looking for you. He wants to know if we’ve nailed down a date for the flagship grand opening.”
“For fuck’s sake, didn’t you tell him that we’re working with a rough timeline?" Crowley growls in frustration. "We can't set a firm date yet. There’s the thing with the permits and the furniture supply chain issue… who knows when those will be resolved!”
"I tried to tell him, I did," Eric says meekly, and Crowley is horrified to see his assistant's eyes fill with tears. "I'm sorry but he wouldn't listen—"
"S'alright," Crowley cuts him off. Eric already had to deal with Lucifer, Acheron's asshole of a CEO. It's not fair of Crowley to act out too. "I'll take care of it."
He sighs, rubbing at his temples, before snagging a pair of designer sunglasses off his desk. Crowley knows that people think he wears sunglasses indoors to look suave, and he's read more than one online comment about how they make him look like a douchebag try hard. He doesn't care. The glasses give him an extra air of mystique... and more importantly, the ward off the migraines that he sometimes gets.
"So let me just get this straight," Crowley says, keeping his tone even. "You told him about the issues, but he wants us to pick a date anyway so that he can blast it out to the press, yeah?"
Eric nods. "He said something about having a long enough runway to make a big splash and maximize media coverage."
If Lucifer had his way, Acheron’s flagship Soho store would have opened six months ago. Lucifer doesn’t understand the nuances of running a successful business, of all the checkboxes that have to be crossed off to ensure that their store isn’t in the red a year after it opens. All Lucifer cares about is the glamour of being a bad boy billionaire CEO—the flashy launches and parties, the requests for television interviews and magazine features.
“Fine, fine,” Crowley says. He looks longingly at his computer. He had hoped to shoot off another email to A before starting his work day, but it seems like that’s out of the question. He’ll have to wait until after his meeting with Lucifer. “I’ll go talk to him now.”
He saunters out of the room and straight into the CEO’s office. He doesn’t show a single hint of fear or anxiety.
After all, Crowley has his reputation to preserve.
To: AfternoonTea
From: CalatheasAndCyanide
Subject: wednesdays are the worst day of the week
Let’s table the sharks vs. bears conversation for now (although that was some damn cool bear art, I'll give you that). I have a new topic: how Wednesdays are clearly the worst day of the week and deserve more hate than Mondays.
On Mondays, you’re still fresh. You’ve rested up, met up with your mates, watched something good on the telly, and you’ve halfway convinced yourself that your job isn’t all that bad. That you can go in and have a good week.
Your Wednesday self has no such delusions. Wednesday self knows that work is H-E-L-L and capitalism is ruining your life and that the people you work for are complete sociopathic wankers who would happily run you through a wood chipper if it meant higher profits.
Fuck. Wednesdays.
But enough about me. How was your Wednesday? Bet you’re glad you agreed to correspond with me after receiving this cheery little missive.
Your ghoulish pen pal,
C
To: CalatheasAndCyanide
From: AfternoonTea
Subject: RE: wednesdays are the worst day of the week
C,
I hope you know that no matter how much doom and gloom you convey in your letters, I am always delighted to hear from you. Reading your words is never a burden and I am only sorry to hear that you had such a dreadful day.
You didn’t go into the details, but I can read between the lines. I shall curse your heartless superiors with bad luck for the rest of the week. Parking tickets, long queues at the supermarket, holes in their socks, stale scones, stepping in dog excrement… they deserve every inconvenience!
Is it terribly insensitive to admit that my day was quite pleasant? It was a quiet day, not so much business at all. I read a bit of the new Hanya Yanagihara book and had one of the raspberry lemon muffins that I baked over the weekend. I went for a walk after dinner and saw the full moon.
I emailed you, of course. Not once, but twice (so it could only be a good day).
Sleep well, my dear, and hopefully tomorrow will be gentler to you.
Always,
A
To: AfternoonTea
From: CalatheasAndCyanide
Subject: RE: RE: wednesdays are the worst day of the week
You're a bloody angel, you know that?
And no, it wasn't insensitive of you to say that you had a nice day. You deserve all the nice days.
Thanks for listening to my self-pitying moaning and making me feel better. I owe you one.
Yours,
C
If Anthony J. Crowley falls asleep that night with his phone in his hand, having read and reread A’s message (and lingering on the ‘sleep well, my dear’ each time) nobody has to know about it.