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It was spitting rain in Piccadilly, faint droplets staining the beige coat Aziraphale has chosen specifically for his blind date. Before him stood The Ritz, in all of its splendor. He had dined there only on the rarest of occasions, but he had insisted on the location so he was in a familiar environment.
He didn’t have the best luck when it came to love, but he also hadn’t been actively looking for it the past few years. On a whim, he had agreed to Anathema introducing him to online dating over brunch. Sticky, sweet pancakes drenched in syrup must have clouded his senses, because he was regretting every decision he made that day as he sat down at his table, waiting.
He was early—always made the effort of being so, especially when it comes to formal occasions—and he had taken the inclination of scanning his surroundings. It wasn’t too busy, but the air was heavy with murmured conversations and the clatter of silverware against fine china. Aziraphale folded his napkin in his lap and shifted the fork in front of him so it was positioned perfectly straight in front of him.
Two tables from where he sat was a slim man with a shock of auburn hair, absurdly wearing sunglasses despite being indoors. He was clothed in all black: a simple, form-fitting jacket and pants, with a twisted cravat around his neck. What was more peculiar, however, was the book in his hands. The Picture of Dorian Gray. He was a little more than halfway through it and made a face as he turned the page, almost scowling. Aziraphale could relate, on account of having to put down his latest reading venture—recommended to him by his blind date, Gabriel. His blind date who was standing nearest to the hostess, tormenting her with cryptic hand gestures and a raised voice.
Aziraphale knew who he was since he was wearing the all-white ensemble he said he would, with a lilac handkerchief tucked into his jacket. He couldn’t disguise himself even if he wanted to, since he was wearing nearly the same thing except in a sandy-beige color, but he shoved the pocket square into his pocket just to spite the man.
Quickly, he made a rash decision and removed himself from his table. Shuffling over to the man reading The Picture of Dorian Gray, Aziraphale asked, “Do you mind if I sit here?
The man set his book aside and glanced up at Aziraphale. His eyes were a sharp amber—uncommon, and a little unusual, but they oddly complimented him. “Help yourself,” he answered with a wave of his hand.
“Oh, thank you, dear boy. I’m trying to hide from the man over by the hostess.”
His brow raised, curious. “The man dressed like a giant marshmallow?”
“That’s the one.”
He scoffed a laugh. “Why’re you trying to hide from the Michelin Man?”
Aziraphale smoothed down the front of his jacket as if it would calm his nerves. “He’s my blind date.”
“Right.”
“And I couldn’t call it off and—”
“You want me to pretend to be your date?”
“Well, I didn’t think of it that way, but that could work. Oh, it would help me out if you would. Just for tonight, I promise. It was all supposed to be a You’ve Got Mail scenario, but—”
“But you’re having second thoughts?”
“We don’t click, you see. Simply too different.”
“He said something that really turned you off, didn’t he?”
Aziraphale made a face. “Incorrigible, even.”
The man whistled. “What did he say?”
“He had read the rather, ah, erotic literature of E.L. James, and was interested in engaging in some of the—you know.” He gestured. “—the scenes.”
“Did he say which?”
“Did he need to?”
He shrugged. “S’pose not.”
“It seems that I mislead him into thinking that I agreed, and—”
“You’re too nice, angel. That’s the problem.”
He thought of Anathema and Newt the other week when he was invited to play Settlers of Catan, purposefully losing for them to win, even when he had a clear lead. They called him out that, too, and had thrown several game pieces at his head as a result. “So I’ve been told.” He paused. “Angel?”
“Look lovey-dovey, he’s looking this way,” the man said, reaching out to grab Aziraphale’s hands. They were cold, but not unpleasant as they rested entwined on the cloth table. “I’m Crowley by the way,” he whispered.
“Aziraphale,” he replied in turn.
Crowley leaned in to keep up the facade. “Aziraphale, you say? Now that’s a name you don’t hear every day.”
“My parents were eccentric like that.”
“And you aren’t?”
Aziraphale’s face heated slightly, but he tried to will it away with a shake of his head. He was going to think of something witty or clever to say back, but they were interrupted by a waiter asking for their drink orders. “One red and one white.”
“You didn’t think to ask what I would like?” Aziraphale asked a bit petulantly.
“That’s why I ordered a red and a white, angel. Then you can choose,” he answered easily. He leaned back in his seat, lounging around as if it were the most natural thing in the world.
“Well then. I suppose that’s rather nice of you.”
“You suppose?”
“Excuse me,” Gabriel interrupted, his book of choice clutched tightly in his hands. “Is one of you my blind date by chance? Aziraphale?”
“Nah, that’s not us, mate. This is my husband, Ezra. Isn’t that right, angel?” Crowley quirked a brow, daring him to go along with it.
Aziraphale grinned at the opportunity. “Yes, that’s me. Happily married for—seventeen years now? My, has it really been that long?”
“Eighteen,” Crowley corrected. “I love you, but your memory can be a bit funny, can’t it?”
Aziraphale laughed at the tightness quickly making itself known in his chest. He pressed his fingertips to his chest, idly massaging it. “Always has been.”
“Well then, it seems I was mistaken. Good day,” Gabriel said and strode off to terrorize the other tables.
Aziraphale couldn’t help the delightful snort at watching him get whacked by an older woman’s purse, who cursed him for trying to hook up with her grandson.
“You’re wicked,” Crowley said, in awe.
A thrill ran through Aziraphale for the second time that evening.
When their glasses of wine returned and they ordered delectable if overpriced entrées—Aziraphale choosing the white, and Crowley the red—Crowley asked, “Say, how did you even get set up with the guy?”
“My good friend tried setting me up after listening to me complain one too many times about being single during the holidays, and it led to me downloading an app geared toward people who primarily enjoy reading as a pastime,” Aziraphale said. “How are you liking The Picture of Dorian Gray? Wilde is one of my personal favorite authors.”
“Oh, this old thing?” Crowley eyed the book, which had been well-loved in the corners of the cover and was littered with dog-eared pages. A true offense to Wilde, Aziraphale thought dimly. “I can’t see shit, so it’s taken me four times as long as the average person to read a book. Eyesight has never been any good, and surgery couldn’t do a damn thing.”
“Oh, I’m sorry to hear about that.”
“Other than that, the book’s pretty good. My friend—well, Bee would have my throat if I called them a friend—my co-worker, let’s say, recommended it to me and I haven’t been able to put it down since. Aside from the many, many breaks I have to take from all the headaches. Endlessly squinting and all that.” Crowley downed half of his glass of wine in one sip. “Awful stuff, truly.”
“I know, that’s why I snagged the white,” Aziraphale said a tad bit smug.
Crowley’s laugh seemed to have startled out of him when it was just the two of them. “You are wicked, I knew it.”
“Only when it comes to fine dining, my dear.” He held up his glass. “Shall we?”
Crowley followed suit anyway, lifting his glass. “What are we toasting to?”
“To successfully avoiding what would have been a painfully dull evening.”
“I don’t know, it could still end up being a rubbish evening. I could actually be the most dreadfully boring person you’ll ever meet.”
“I don’t know about that. You’ve made quite the impression on me already,” Aziraphale countered, tapping their glasses together.
“But you don’t even know my job or my hobbies. I could work in an office cubicle day in and day out and enjoy wine and cheese tasting in my free time. I could even have a blog about it, where I write weekly to my adoring fan base of middle-aged, eclectic parents.”
Aziraphale laughed. “Do you fancy a fine cheese?”
“Couldn’t tell you a damn thing about cheese. It smells. There, there’s the facts.” Crowley spun his glass in his hands, watching the dark liquid slosh against the sides. “I’m actually a botanist. Studied over at the University of Edinburgh.”
Aziraphale nearly choked on his wine. “Suddenly I feel a bit inadequate.”
“Nonsense, I was a horrible student. Got in trouble for yelling at the plants.”
“You—yelled at plants?”
He shrugged. “Helps them grow better, in my experience. And mine were the best of the bunch, they were. Verdant without a single blemish. I own a little shop not too far from here.”
“I’d love to visit sometime,” Aziraphale added. “As a matter of fact, I own a bookshop. It has a coffee shop attached to it, but the books are the true highlight of the place. First edition copies in prime condition—the works.”
“Well then, angel, it seems we have to do this again sometime. You visit me, and I visit you. I can’t afford to dine at the Ritz every week, but we can drink shitty Irish coffee while admiring my plants and reading your books. We could make an evening of it,” Crowley suggested.
“I’d love that.” Aziraphale smiled. “Very forward of you, but I don’t mind.”
“I’ve never been the type of person to hold things back. Not the things that matter, anyway,” Crowley said, resting his chin in his hand. “Tell me more about yourself, Aziraphale. What more is there to you other than books and finding yourself caught in the midst of a terrible blind date?”
Aziraphale leaned against the table as if he were trying to be as close to Crowley as possible when he said, “Where do I begin?”
AN INDETERMINABLE AMOUNT OF TIME LATER
Aziraphale waited at his preferred table when dining at the Ritz, and spun the ring on his finger. He had placed an order for their usual drinks by the time Crowley showed up, slipping a jacket off of his shoulders and brushing the snow from out of his hair.
“Hi, have you seen my husband by chance?” Crowley asked.
So, that was the game they were playing. “Oh? What does he look like? Maybe I have.”
Crowley sank into the seat across from him with ease. “Incredibly handsome, has gorgeous white hair and the bluest eyes you’ll ever see. He’s not much shorter than me and likes to wear tartan no matter the weather—”
“Hmm, yes, he does sound familiar. Do go on,” Aziraphale said with a laugh.
“He has a habit of going on terrible blind dates—”
“That was the one time!”
“—and he loves books. Was probably carrying around one. Oh, look at that! He has that same book, first edition print and everything,” Crowley said with a faux surprised gasp, gesturing at the book laying on the table.
Aziraphale held out a hand, and Crowley dipped his face to rest against it as he was pulled into a kiss. “Hello, darling.”
“Hi, angel. Sorry I’m late, you know how the traffic can be at this time of day. I won’t bore you with the details.”
“Snow’s a good look on you,” Aziraphale said, brushing away stray snowflakes nestled in his auburn hair.
Crowley kissed him again.
When they pulled apart, Aziraphale asked, “You know, after all these years, I never knew why you called me angel.”
“I haven’t told you?” Crowley’s brows furrowed.
Aziraphale shook his head.
“That evening we met, the sun came through the window just right. Rare thing, that is. Perfect beams, all bright and golden-like. When it hit you, it was—angelic. Heavenly, even.”
Aziraphale laughed. “You’re mad.”
“Maybe so,” he agreed easily, fingers brushing over the ridges of Aziraphale’s knuckles and lingering on his wedding band.
“You talk as if you were reciting poetry.”
“Can’t help it if that’s what came to mind. That was eons ago now, but I don’t think I can ever forget it. That, and the look on Gabe’s face when we shooed him away.”
“Gabriel,” Aziraphale corrected.
“See? Can’t even remember his name. Too distracted.”
“And you said I was the one with the bad memory,” he teased.
“Oh, you’re going to pay for that one,” Crowley promised, hopelessly fond.
“I hope so,” Aziraphale replied. “I hope so, my dear.”