Archive of Our Own

   It is completely natural to want to seek the company of one with whom you find much in common. It is why birds often congregate on trees together, often conspiring what they may. It was why he and Crowley had initially remained constellations of one another. Both were interested in the lives of humans on Earth, though the goodness of reason for either was up for debate. Humans were oddly the most divisive and social creatures simultaneously. There was little debate about shunning the odd - at least in the beginning - and it was not uncommon for social constructions to take hold for centuries.

SOHO, 1878

  That was why Aziraphale found the young man so fascinating. From his stance to his hair to his dress, the man exuded the very characteristic attitude of an “outsider.” His hair, longer than most, was well kept and styled, his clothing remarkably tailored and dandy. The black suit reminded Aziraphale of Crowley, what with its wide and crisp lapels. It was largely out of curiosity and interest that Aziraphale had not kicked the man out of the bookshop yet. The man was quiet, unobtrusive (save his fashion), and seemed personally invested in the collection of Latin manuscripts. Only when he noticed Aziraphale looking at him did the man stir slightly. His head cocked at an angle, pointedly looking at the angel.

  “Do my inclinations entertain you?”

  The tone was neither accusatory nor entirely neutral. Shoulders relaxed and hands tucked into his pant pockets, his hair seemed to sway slightly with his speech.

  “Oh,” Aziraphale murmured. “I apologize for the intrusion. You remind me of a… good friend. I must know what it is that you find so fascinating about my collection of Latin.” The bookkeeper fumbled with his hands, twisting the signet ring on his right hand in an attempt to dispel some nerves.

  The man, though originally concerned with Aziraphale’s peering, threw his shoulders back slightly and laughed. His wavy hair bounced around his ears and his cravat wrinkled. Once he had collected himself, the man turned entirely towards Aziraphale and straightened his posture.

  “Sir, I should think a man such as yourself would find the Latin language infinitely fascinating. It is the language of which empires are built and destroyed. One must wonder if weapons are a courtesy to those less gifted with prose.”

  Crowley would like this man, Aziraphale decided. This sharp wit would be properly appreciated in the presence of someone more clever than himself. Realizing the hesitancy to respond, it seemed as though the man was more than happy to continue the conversation for them both.

  “So,” he clasped his hands together. “I am looking for examples of foundational Latin texts. My dear friend is trying to expand her capabilities and I wish nothing more than to encourage her with more practice. I can tutor her all I please, but it is necessary to read from others what you yourself are learning to express.”

  Aziraphale nodded. Though his wit may have been for Crowley, the interest in Latin classics were a sure match for Aziraphale’s proclivities. Moving over slightly closer to the shelves, Aziraphale scanned them, trying to remember where exactly he had put the book last. All the while, the young man looked Aziraphale over, the slightly skewed smile still upon his face. The look on his face was similar to his earlier inquiry - neither judgemental nor trying to appear neutral in any way. When the book miraculously appeared in one of the piles on the shelf, Aziraphale was quick to grab it and hand it to the young man, who accepted it with ease. It was not a book Aziraphale would have wanted to part with (none of the books in the shop fit that descriptor), but it was one he could live without.

  “Ólim: Ludí Scaenicí ,” the man read off the cover.

  “Yes. It’s an excellent work of theatre for the discerning learner. It may not be the easiest option available, but I think it should present an entertaining challenge.”

  Tucking the book under his left arm, the young man straightened up and extended his right hand. His smile widened slightly.

  “I am grateful for your discretion and opinion. Might it be possible for me to retain the name of the shop and its owner should I need any more literature?”

  Shaking his hand, Aziraphale smiled politely. “A. Z. Fell and Co. I am the eponymous Mr. Fell. Pleased to make your acquaintance.”

  “Wilde, sir. Oscar Wilde. It has been my pleasure to experience your shop and yourself.”

  He didn’t blush but Aziraphale was certainly flattered by the insinuation. Finding a book for someone hardly equated to hospitality, though the fact the book was being sold at all said something. If asked, Aziraphale would say it felt only right to entrust a book like that to a kindred spirit. Handing over payment, Wilde nodded his head before heading toward the door, straightening his jacket.

  “I should hope I will see you again, Mr. Fell?”

  “Surely we will cross paths again.”

  One more nod of the head, the tinkle of the door bell, and the young man was gone.

SOHO, 1881

  Aziraphale had not expected a package. He kept correspondence with no one - the exception being Crowley - and any books he wanted to procure were often exchanged in person. Had Aziraphale been a more cautious or anxious person, he might have been a bit more concerned with the relatively small package sitting on the stoop. However, bending over to pick up the parcel assuaged any residual fear.

“To: Mr. A. Z. Fell. Much appreciation and pleasantries. - O.Wilde.”

  In the shop, Aziraphale removed the craft paper covering the outside, revealing a relatively substantial, albeit thin, bound book. “ Poems, ” the cover read. Though his conversations were fanciful and lacked brevity, Oscar’s choice of book title implied the opposite. Opening the cover, the book seemed to be of great importance. A note, tucked into the interior binding, had been folded carefully so as not to crease any pages or bend the spine.

To Mr. A. Z. Fell,

Had I been of less occupied time, I would have joyously given this to you myself. Unfortunately, I am currently invested, perhaps overly so, in other commitments pro tempore . I thank you again for the excellent book recommendation. My friend also sends her gratitude.

I hope this copy of my first collected writings will serve as recompense for both my lack of personal delivery and limited expression of thanks. Though unaware of when I might find the ability to revisit at my leisure, I await your input. I believe us to be of similarly literary and lively sensibilities.

Your acquaintance,

  O. Wilde

  Aziraphale grinned. He really should have concluded that the young man was an author of some sort. Between the conversational vocabulary and interest in the classics, it all seemed like the most obvious conclusion. His profession made itself abundantly clear even in his letters. Somehow knowing the day at the bookstore would remain miraculously uneventful, the angel unfolded his reading glasses and sat down. After all, it seemed that he would be expected to provide commentary on the material when the two next crossed paths.

SOHO, 1884

  He often debated if he should rid the door of the bell. After all, he so despised the sound, knowing it was only a signal that he would eventually be introduced to someone with the incorrect assumption that his bookstore actually sold books.

  “I’m afraid I’m quite busy at the moment. May I ask you to return later?” Aziraphale spoke from behind a shelf obscuring his view of the door. His hope was that the visitor would leave and then magically forget to return to the little corner shop.

  “Mr. Fell, is that any way to greet an acquaintance?”

  The familiarity of the voice led the angel to pop his head out from behind a disorganized collection of Shakespeare volumes.

  “Oscar? Is that you, my boy?”

  Oscar looked relatively unchanged, though six years for a human was not an insignificant amount of time. His hair was still smoothed and styled, albeit a slightly bit more cropped. His pants still tapered at his ankles and his waist jacket remained well tailored. Looking at his face, Aziraphale could see the beginnings of some creases around his eyes, a sign he had been keeping himself entertained.

  “Whom else would you expect, Mr. Fell? An angel to appear on your doorstep?” A hearty laugh accompanied the sentences. “Might you be expecting a messenger of God to materialize?”

  Despite himself, Aziraphale did laugh. Oscar was more correct than he realized, though Aziraphale spent more time wishing a certain demon would visit more frequently. It has been twenty-two years since their spat in St. James Park and any early attempts at conversations had been tinged with tension, leaving Crowley quick to avoid them all together.

  “How have you been, dear boy? I see you have been keeping busy.”

  Aziraphale had heard Poems had received another printing, a tour across the United States and Canada had entertained the poet, and had recently received word that the popular writer had relocated himself to Paris for the time being.

  “Ah yes. I have sentenced myself to a life of Sisyphean work it seems.” Another laugh. “Though, I would be lying if I said these last few years have not sufficiently excited me. My fortitude seems to still be that of a young man, though I worry that might change at any moment.”

  Aziraphale thought for a moment at the wording. Oscar couldn’t have been older than mid-thirties. His face was youthful and round, his eyebrows expressive, and his gesticulation still grand.

  “My boy, you are far too young to be entertaining such ideas. You have hardly begun to lose your energy or mental acuity.”

  Oscar’s shoulder shook with laughter. “I appreciate it, Mr. Fell. I feel as though I have worked through the majority of my life’s creations already. Life is endlessly entertaining and unrelentingly demanding.”

  The flippance with which Oscar said such things gave Aziraphale pause. It felt as though some unspeakable tragic spirit had been released into the bookshop. This thought was not allowed to linger long, however, as the young man returned to his conversation.

  “But enough about my exploits and debaucheries. How has the hourglass been treating you, friend? You look not a day older than the first time I met you!”

  Aziraphale forced a smile from under his discomfort. “Oh,” he said, “it’s been eventful. You know literary types - fickle and committed. No implication towards you, dear boy.”

  More laughter. “Certainly not. I believe we are acquainted enough for such types of jest. Aside, I have read some of what the critics and markets speak of my work. If I had no heart for such words, I would not have ventured into the world of publishing.”

  “So what brings such an esteemed author to my doorstep this day?”

  “Ah, yes. I figured I would entertain you if only for a moment on my way to Dublin. I’m engaged to be speaking there in a few days and your shop was a good stop between Paris and my destination.”

  “Oh how wonderful! I’m sure you are quite excited for such an engagement. I heard your last tour performed splendidly.”

  “You flatter me, dear friend.”

  “Nonsense. Now, I have been an insufficient host. May I offer you a tea before you continue on your way?”

  “I find it hard to deny any offer for enjoyable companionship, present company included.”

  Aziraphale had begun to make his way to the back room to fetch the drink, straightening his vest and yelling back to the man, “It will just be a moment!”

  The grin could be heard in his voice. “Do not worry at my expense, friend. I’m sure we have all the time in the world.”

SOHO, 1891

  This time, the package was less alarming. It was the same craft paper wrapping with the same elegant scrawl composing an identical address. Aziraphale wasted no time hurrying into the shop, enthusiastic to see what Oscar had sent his way this time. Assumedly, it was another original of his. At least, Aziraphale hoped it was.

  The angel had heard about reviews of a new Wilde story that had been published in Lippincott’s Monthly. However, a cursory glance at some of the reviews had left a bad taste in his mouth. It seemed as though critics had cared less for the content and more for the implications, which offered little insight into the actual plot. As a result, Aziraphale resolved to wait for a new correspondence with the author or a more revised final edition.

  The note in this volume was similarly well composed, folded in a similar manner to its predecessor, though on thinner paper.

To Mr. A. Z. Fell,

As I write to you, I am preparing myself against the linguistic assault that will no doubt be inflicted my way as soon as this book is bound. I have no doubt you have heard of the criticism launched at the monthly publication, if not already read them yourself.

Regardless of if you have read them or have resisted, I trust you have maintained enough discretion so as not to immediately shun this revised version. We are alike in that matter. Few opinions will genuinely inflict restrictions on our lives as free men. It is an admirable quality if you ask me.

I hope you will enjoy this composition. It is perhaps the most complete work of art I have created as of yet. I send you my kindest wishes that you might also think so.

Your acquaintance,

  O. Wilde

  Oscar had always been a person with whom Aziraphale felt an immense amount of grief. In his long existence, humans had circulated in and out of his life, but few had left Aziraphale with such sadness. Mortality was a fickle thing, and life easily given and easily revoked. Knowing humans would die was one thing. Actively having to attend funerals was another. The angel knew Oscar’s death would not be one easily forgotten. He would go upon an imaginary wall, alongside Shakespeare and the person from whom he had purchased the bookshop. The grief he felt was only in gratitude.

SOHO, 1894

  It was a calm morning when Crowley finally came around. Aziraphale had just sat down to read, glasses perched on his nose, when the bell had rang. The leather-bound book on his desk was open and a notebook sat besides it.

  “I’m afraid we’re not open at the mo-”

  “Angel.”

  Aziraphale looked up. His breath was slightly shaky. Glasses were removed from his nose with precise movements, folded and placed onto the desk. He took in his companion, changed since the few times he had seen him sporadically throughout the last three decades. Crowley stood leaning his weight onto one leg as he always had. His dress was remarkably familiar, all tailored black suits and jackets, the only color being a red cravat and pocket square. His hair had been grown out, sideburns shaved off, and then styled slightly. It reminded Aziraphale of someone.

  “Hello, Crowley. It’s been a while.”

  “I suppose it has, hasn’t it?” his level tone said little, eyes obscured by standard black lenses.

  “How have you been managing?” Aziraphale rose and turned in the direction of the back room. It was a habit to make a pot for company, even if it was the usual company.

  “I don’t need any tea, angel.”

  “I don’t make it just for you.”

  Crowley sat in one of the chairs around the desk where the book had been forgotten for the time being. He leaned slightly into the chair, while looking around the shop. The dust in the air floated in the sunlight. Eventually, the reverie ended with the footsteps of a certain bookseller.

  “So, you’ve been well, I take it.”

  “Yes, little has changed other than this whole thing.” Crowley gestured to himself up and down. The angel was reminded how much Crowley managed to transform, while he remained ever consistent. It was a wonder the demon hadn’t gotten bored of his tartan-print companion yet. Aziraphale took a sip of tea before continuing on.

  “Anything important happening or was this meeting just on a whim?”

  An exasperated sigh. “You know, you really don’t need to make me feel worse about avoiding you for the last few decades.”

  “I wasn’t trying to… but if you do, it wouldn’t go unappreciated.”

  Crowley grimaced and rubbed at his eyes under the glasses with one hand, murmuring something that was muffled by his hand.

  “Pardon? I’m not quite sure I heard what you said there, dear.”

  An adjustment in his chair was clearly not for the demon’s comfort, but simply out of awkwardness. A slight sigh and then, “I said I’m glad to see you’re still all in one piece.”

  It wasn’t an “I missed you.” It wasn’t an “I’m sorry I haven’t been around.” It wasn’t an “I know I made you upset and I’ve been avoiding this whole thing.” It wasn’t anything similar or approximating any of those things. But it was the closest Aziraphale would get out of Crowley.

  “Yes, well. An awful lot of paperwork it would be if I wasn’t. I missed you as well.”

  “I didn’t say that.”

  Crowley heard a hum from behind his closed eyes. He heard the angel put down his cup of tea onto the desk. The demon prepared himself, ready for Aziraphale to go into a long aside about how dangerous his request in St. James Park had been, how lonely the angel had been, how much he really should have stopped by more than four times in the past thirty years.

  “Have you heard about the play that Oscar’s been writing?”

  Crowley sat up. “I’m sorry, what?”

  “I asked if you had heard anything about the play Oscar’s been putting together.”

  Noises of disbelief came from the demon. “Firstly, no ‘I was right’ speech? No ‘You need to keep in touch more’?”

  A moment of pause so Aziraphale could shake his head.

  “Secondly, who is Oscar? Am I supposed to know who you’re referring to?” It might have sounded a bit like jealousy but damned if you tried to get Crowley to admit that.

  Aziraphale looked more scandalized at that than anything Crowley had said up to that point. He got up from his chair and scurried over to the shelf next to his desk, humming for a moment until he found what he was looking for and passed it over to his companion.

  “ The Picture of Dorian Gray ? What does this book have to do with anything, angel?”

  “Maybe consider reading the name of the author, dear.”

  “O. Wilde? I’m assuming this is the Oscar you’re so up in arms about.”

  “I’m truly surprised you haven’t heard anything about the book.”

  “Angel,” Crowley sighed. “You know I don’t read much. Why would I know anything about a book from an author I have never heard of and have only just now seen?”

  “Because it reminds me of your lot. I’m surprised no one’s taken inspiration from it yet, to be quite honest.”

  A raised eyebrow from underneath the glasses frames. “‘My lot’? Do you mean Hell?”

  Aziraphale nodded. “It’s a story about temptation and hedonism. It really does read like something plagiarized from a fiendish plan.”

  The eyebrow hadn’t moved from Crowley’s forehead. “I don’t think they really need any more ideas, angel. Let alone one suggested to them by an angel based on a book .”

  “I understand what you’re saying. I was more getting at the idea that you might like it. Don’t argue with me. Take it. Read a chapter or two and get back to me. It’ll give you a good excuse to not run off again.”

  “Might I point out that you were the one who walked away from me in St. James Park?”

  Aziraphale harrumphed. “You know what I mean, Crowley.”

  Unfortunately, Crowley did know what the angel meant. Although Aziraphale had been the one who had walked off, it was Crowley who had made himself sparse. The bookstore was nearly always occupied with its owner and Crowley’s flat was not. It wasn’t like Aziraphale to take off and do God knows what for decades. But it was very characteristic of a certain demon.

  “Point taken, I suppose.”

  “Actually, I quite think you might enjoy Oscar’s writing. He’s quite clever and dangerously smart. I have no idea how he does it.”

  “Well, I can tell you it’s got nothing to do with me,” Crowley mused, flipping through the beginning of the book. “Any talent he’s got is no demonic intervention.”

  “I’d like to think tha-”

  The bell to the shop rang yet again. Maybe Aziraphale would keep it after all. Even if it often heralded overexcited shoppers or the occasional nuisance, it had also signaled the return of friends to his little corner of Soho. The demon and the angel turned and looked towards the door, all conversation forgotten. It wouldn’t be wise to discuss such supernatural affairs in broad daylight after all - not that a lack of wisdom necessarily stopped them sometimes.

  The guest was familiar with Aziraphale. Tailored clothing, sewn neatly from tweed and held together by polished buttons. A flower pinned to the jacket’s lapel matched the cravat and pocket square. Appearance was the first impression, and this man knew such.

  "Oscar! Hello, dear boy!”

  The man nodded in recognition. “Mr. Fell, it is always a pleasure to see you.” He took note of Crowley, seemed to take in the demon’s posture, clothing, facial expression with a raised eyebrow. “I do hope I am not interrupting anything of immense importance.”

  “Oh, nonsense! I am in fact quite glad you stopped by when you did. I was just telling Crowley here about your work.”

  Aziraphale could swear he heard Crowley mutter, “Ha, speak of the devil.” under his breath with a huff of laughter. If Oscar heard, he simply ignored it, and extended his hand to the man.

  “Wilde. Oscar Wilde. Pleased to have met your acquaintance, Mr. Crowley. Am I to believe this is the friend with which I was compared upon our first meeting, Mr. Fell?”

  Crowley shook his hand. “All well and good.” He looked towards Aziraphale, as if to signal he would be asking about the comparison later. Turning back, he mused, “Who’s your friend?”

  Aziraphale took notice of the man slightly postured behind the writer. The man had to be at least ten years younger than Oscar. Much like his companion, this man was cleanly styled and dressed, with a soft expression on his face bordering between amusement and apprehension. His clothing laid softer, less structured than Oscar’s, but still within traditional dandy fashion. At being mentioned, he pursed his lips and nodded.

  “Oh, this is Bosie. He’s a close friend of mine.”

  Oscar stepped aside and gestured, earning another nod from his company. When saying the word “close,” he looked directly at Aziraphale and winked. Aziraphale hesitated for a moment, trying to discern just exactly what Oscar was suggesting. Meanwhile, Bosie stepped forward, extending his hand in a mimicry of the early introduction.

  “Lord Alfred Douglas. My family and friends call me ‘Bosie.’” At the words “family and friends,” a pointed look was directed at Oscar, who only laughed.

  Crowley’s eyebrow never left his forehead, looking at the two young men again. Though appearing apprehensive, he did nod, as if having come to some realization. Aziraphale would have to ask him afterwards.

  “So,” the angel said, “what is the occasion for this entertainment? I haven’t been given any new material to review.”

  Oscar grinned towards the bookseller. “We don’t only meet for book criticism, Mr. Fell. Bosie is simply showing me around his favourite neighborhoods.”

  “I’m taking him to go meet some of my male friends,” Bosie said, matter of factly. “Simply a form of socialization for our ilk. Lots of entertainment.”

  Crowley laughed at that. “I wouldn’t have thought otherwise. Anyways, I should be taking my leave, angel. I’ll be back soon though. Well, sooner.” He stood up from his chair, Dorian Gray tucked under his arm. “It was nice meeting you both. Carry on.”

  “Wait, Crowley-”

  The bell rang and the demon had disappeared again. It seemed to be a pattern with them - Aziraphale would wait patiently and Crowley would eventually stride back in and out of his company. Repeat ad infinitum.

  Oscar looked towards his host. “‘Angel?’ I would say that I’m surprised but you do both seem extremely good friends .” The implication appeared again.

  “It’s just a… nickname from years past. It’s nothing, I assure you.”

  Bosie and Oscar both nodded, smirks on their faces. It seemed as though everyone, save Aziraphale, had come to a silent agreement about something. Whatever it was involved a closeness of “friends.” Whether the burning of his ears were out of embarrassment or concern was not of importance right now.

  “Well,” Bosie placed his hand on Oscar’s hip. “We ought to leave you to your work. I’m sure Oscar, or some of his writing, will make the trip back here soon enough. Have a good day, Mr. Fell.”

  Oscar nodded. “Yes. We are a bit late for an engagement, and I’d rather not occupy any more of your precious time. Farewell.”

  Aziraphale could only nod as the two turned and made their way back out of the doorway. “I’ll be seeing you gentlemen again! Do be safe.”

  At that, Oscar seemed to stop and turned back toward the shop for a moment. The streets were quiet, save the clicking of well polished shoes on the ground.

  “Do keep me updated as to how things go with your friend! I would hate to see an acquaintance of mine maintain hesitation.”

  Aziraphale was not quite sure what he meant, and it certainly showed on his face.

  Bosie turned toward his companion and said quietly, “I don’t think he’s fully realized it yet. It might take a bit of waiting still.”

  Oscar nodded and continued on. “Anyways, many well wishes to you. Perhaps we’ll commune again soon!”

  The two young men turned and continued their walk down the street toward central London. Returning inside his shop, Aziraphale sat back down at his desk, alone again. He wasn’t quite sure what it was that had been implied during the conversation. Perhaps it was another 'young person’s thing.' Crowley usually understood the euphemisms and was typically an unwilling translator. He’d have to ask the demon when he stopped by again - hopefully before the end of the decade.

SOHO, FEBRUARY 1895

  Crowley’s next appearance was far sooner than Aziraphale had predicted. February in Soho was not typically a time of warmth, darkness falling easily before six in the evening. The street was quiet like usual and Aziraphale had retired to another book, hot chocolate sitting beside him. The trademark bell and then a quick gust of cold air signaled his arrival. This time, Aziraphale was less surprised.

  “Angel.”

  “Crowley. How have you been managing?”

  “Ehhh it is as pleasant as winter in London can be. I wanted to return this to you before I forget and it manages to disappear.”

  The Picture of Dorian Gray was extended toward the angel by a gloved hand. Nothing had stained or torn the pages, thankfully. Crowley had always been good about that sort of thing - the books were returned in the same quality they had been borrowed.

  “How did you find it?”

  Crowley shook his head noncommittally. “You know I don’t get as much from these things as you do.”

  It wasn’t a negative response comparatively, so Aziraphale accepted it as a sign that the book hadn’t been disliked.

  “That Wilde boy’s play is set to premier next week. Remember when I brought that up last time?”

  A single affirmative noise in response as Crowley removed his lenses to clean them.

  “I would really like if- well, more like if you aren’t oppo-”

  “Angel, if you want me to go with you to see the play, that’s all you need to say. Hearing you try to talk your way around it is… unnecessary.”

  A moment of hesitation came from Aziraphale and then, “So is that a yes?”

  “Yes, angel, “ Crowley sighed exasperated. “You know we both have nothing better to do at this point in time. It gets a little boring.”

  Aziraphale relaxed in his chair, pleased his invitation had been well received - if not perhaps reversed in that Crowley invited himself. Before returning to his book, he perked up. “Can I get you anything?”

  “I know where everything is.” Crowley got up and started sauntering towards the back room. A noncommittal wave told his company he would take care of it himself, so just return to the reading. The sound of a cork popped from a bottle of wine.

  Aziraphale sat for a moment before speaking again. If he was going to have this conversation, he wanted it to be sooner rather than later - God (Satan?) knows when that would even be.

  “You would tell me if we weren’t friends, wouldn’t you, Crowley?”

  Said demon walked back into the room with a glass of wine and a raised eyebrow. “Is that what you’re calling this?”

  “Well, I mean… I just wanted to know because Oscar and Alfred and you seemed to think that our friendship was a joke of some sort. I really don’t think you would lie to me about something like this.”

  His counterpart sighed tiredly and took a drink of the wine. “Aziraphale, I am not nearly drunk enough to answer that right now. It’s… more 'young people stuff.' Nothing you need to be concerned with.”

  “Are you sure? It just seemed th-”

  “Angel. Whatever you want to call this,” he waved the hand not holding the wine glass around. “It’s not a joke. I don’t know what you’re calling it but our ‘fraternizing’ is not an issue.”

  Aziraphale seemed to accept that answer, humming into a drink of hot chocolate. The discussion seemingly over, Crowley sunk into his chair and relaxed more, taking off his sunglasses. Thank God? Satan? Thank Someone, the issue was left to rest.

SOHO, MAY 1895

  It was nearly impossible to walk anywhere without hearing whispers about the trials. Phrases like “indecency,” “ruin,” and “corrupted” were not uncommon words Aziraphale heard walking through the streets back to his shop. Turning the key and opening the door, he would have been surprised to see Crowley waiting, had the angel not been so distracted.

  “How did you- oh, nevermind.”

  “Nice to see you too, angel.” Crowley stood and adjusted his cravat for a moment and then cleared his throat. “I’m sure you’ve heard about… Mr. Wilde.”

  Aziraphale snapped his attention back to the conversation and away from arranging books nervously. “Ah, yes. The whole thing with the Marquess of Queensberry and the,” he paused to take a breath and make a noncommittal hand gesture, “whole whatever ‘libel’ they’re charging him with. It’s really quite… to say unfortunate would be an understatement.”

  Crowley nodded solemnly. “They’re moving him from Pentonville to Wandsworth, I hear.”

  The angel wrung his hands and looked towards his friend. Crowley continued, “It’s a real shame. He was a clever young man.”

  “Yes,” the bookkeeper said. “Yes, he really is. Cleverness is not welcome though, it seems.”

  They stood together in silence, Aziraphale stared off beyond his stacks of books and Crowley occasionally adjusted his stance to support his weight. A cold silence fell over the bookshop. The candles flickering around them felt suddenly mournful. The chattering outside the store dulled into a background hum.

  “It scares them, you know,” Crowley remarked.

  The angel perked up, recollecting his focus. “I’m sorry, what?”

  Crowley adjusted his sunglasses and looked at his friend. Though obscured by the darkened lenses, it wasn’t hard to discern the somber look in his eyes.

  “The cleverness, angel. You called him ‘dangerously smart.’ There is nothing more terrifying to a human than cleverness. It’s perhaps their most dangerous weapon.”

PARIS, OCTOBER 1900

  “So he’s in there, huh?”

  The hotel wasn’t well kept by any means. The building, though standing structurally sound, was clearly not of the best or cleanest quality. It looked as if a coat of paint might have attempted to cover up some aging at some point.

  “That’s what I was told,” Crowley said, leaning back on his heels. “Said he was walking around for a bit up and down the streets but I guess he hasn’t been out in a few days.”

  Aziraphale sighed. Looking up and down the building, he tried to imagine his friend walking around the premises or sitting in one of the hotel rooms. He couldn’t do it. None of it seemed appropriate. Oscar should have been sitting in a cafe or well postured hotel, drinking alcohol and speaking with friends, not confined to a dingy building.

  “Do you want to go up and see him?” Crowley asked, turning slightly towards his companion. “We don’t have to but I figured I’d ask. Came all the way here and such.”

  “I… suppose we should, shouldn’t we? I’d hate to leave him alone.”

  “There are few things we ‘should’ and ‘shouldn’t do,’ angel. You can decide.”

  Then they were knocking on the door, the wood hollow and dry. Crowley leaned on the wall besides Aziraphale, adjusting his glasses while his friend fidgeted anxiously. A moment of quiet passed and then a shallow and light voice from inside the room.

  “Quoi? C’est qui?”

  The angel took a deep breath and turned the door handle, walking through the doorway. He took off his hat and held it to his chest. Crowley followed slowly behind, trying to seem as unobtrusive as possible.

  In bed, there he was. Compared to the warm, healthy young man in well tailored clothes known to the two beings, this man was thin, frail, and weak. He was still recognizable, but it was clear that the last few years had done their best to strip him of any life.  Had his appearance betrayed him, his voice would have been the most recognizable thing about him. Upon their entry, there was a slight effort to sit up, but little more than that.

  “Mr. Fell and Mr. Crowley! To what do I owe the pleasure? I’m not exactly in the best form to be hosting guests at the moment, unfortunately.” A small and weak chuckle accompanied the words.

  Aziraphale took a step towards the bed, taking in the shape of the room and the few flowers abandoned alongside a few dried flowers and an empty wine bottle. Noticing his visitor taking in the room and its contents, Oscar smiled a bit.

  “It’s not much for aesthetics, but it does perform its function, I suppose.”

  “Well the wallpaper is… lovely,” the angel said. Despite his consistently outdated style preferences, it wasn’t to his taste and he could imagine Crowley felt a similar dislike for the pattern.

  “Ah, yes,” Oscar looked around for a moment. “My wallpaper and I are fighting a duel to the death. One of us has got to go.”

  Aziraphale wrinkled his nose at that but he could hear Crowley chuckle a little.

  “I forgot how much of a clever man you are,” the demon remarked.

  Seemingly glad someone found it amusing, the man quipped back, “I would be offended but I fear there are more pressing matters at hand, yes? I have few ideas as to how or why you could have found me, least of all involving your seemingly unchanging appearances.”

  Crowley chuckled again. “I like your attitude. Better to ask the big questions first, huh?”

  Aziraphale shook his head and readied himself. It was rare he made an effort to disclose their beings to a person, and it never did seem to get easier.

  “Well,” he began, “if you can believe it, we have- I mean, we were- Or rather, we-” How did one go about explaining their divinity?

  “You’re taking too long, angel,” Crowley interjected. “He won’t get an answer at this rate.”

  Oscar laughed and looked at the two of them, standing next to the side of his bed. The light streaming in from the window behind Aziraphale’s head made a halo around him, his white hair aglow in the sun. His companion’s hair seemed as if made of fire.

  “So, Oscar,” Crowley started again, recapturing the man’s attention. “Long story short, angel.” He pointed at Aziraphale. “And demon.” Another point towards himself. “Any questions?”

  At that, the man let out a hardy laugh, followed by a few moments of dry weak coughing. Composing himself, he looked back and forth between the aforementioned angel and demon.

  “I suppose that’s quite obvious in hindsight, I admit. No wonder you too seem to complement each other so well.”

  Aziraphale cleared his throat awkwardly at that, widening the smile on their friend’s face.

  “Yes, well, we are hereditary enemies meant to oppose one another.”

  Oscar looked directly towards Aziraphale, “I think it makes sense. What’s the saying? Is it that opposite ideas attract one another? It must be something similar to it in theme.”

  Looking over, the angel found the demon staring out the window, focused on something besides the conversation. When his gaze returned to the young man, Oscar simply winked. Aziraphale flushed for a moment, about to say something when Oscar decided to interrupt.

  “So, is it your responsibility to receive my spiritual form? Is it a duel or has the result already been determined?” he questioned with remarkable casualty.

  Crowley decided to tune back into the conversation then. “Uh no. Not my department. Certainly not his. We’re more here as a… would ‘courtesy’ be the right word?”

  Oscar seemed to take that as a sufficient answer. He readjusted himself in the bed, again looking at them both before he said, “So not today then, I take it? A bit more left in the hourglass for me, is there?”

  “We can only assume so, my dear boy,” Aziraphale commented.

  “Well, I won’t be the one to keep you. I’m sure your responsibilities are plentiful and more significant than entertaining a dying man.”

  “You know,” Crowley said, “You’re a rather important dying man. Humans aren’t unimportant just because there are so many of you.” Under his breath and with a small flick of the wrist, a calm washed over the room. Any discomfort or pain seemed to be relieved from Oscar’s body, if only for a moment.

  Oscar could see his reflection in the lenses of Crowley’s sunglasses. How odd to be staring down both a demon and an angel. After the moment of self reflection (in multiple ways), the man smirked.

  “My ego needs little more encouragement, as I’m sure many would tell you. Nevertheless, I do thank you for stopping by and seeing to my well-being. An angel, a demon, and a writer in a Paris hotel room… Never could I have imagined such an event. Had I still the joy of writing, I would have recorded the moment well.”

  “Be well,“ Aziraphale said, turning towards the door. Nodding in agreement, Crowley followed and went to close the door quietly behind them. A snap of black leather gloved fingers and the room’s occupant found himself dozing off to sleep with little hesitation.

  Before his mouth could even open, Aziraphale found himself being shushed by his counterpart with a whisper.

  “Don’t say anything. I don't want to hear it.”

DUBLIN, OCTOBER 1997

  If you were to look at all the occupants of Merrion Square, it is not incorrect to assume a significant portion of them may be visiting for the sculptures. After all, the three do create an attractive decoration and are quite the spectacle. It is no wonder that a small crowd had formed for the unveiling. However, if you were to closely examine the occupants of Merrion Square, you would only find two people who had met the man in person on more than one occasion. They would not tell you so, of course, but they had.

  “It’s a nice statue isn’t it?” Crowley asked, looking it up and down from behind his sunglasses. “They did a pretty nice job.”

  Aziraphale looked up at the face of his friend. “It is quite well done.”

  The two stood for a moment, walking away from the crowd congregating closer to the main sculpture. If anyone noticed them leaving, nothing was said. Gravel and grass crunched under their shoes. The wind seemed to catch the very ends of their hair.

  “It’s not the real thing though, is it?”

  “Pardon?” Aziraphale turned. “I’m not quite sure what you mean.”

  “The statue,” Crowley tipped his head towards it. “It’s a nice statue but it’s not exactly able to compete with the real thing.”

  “Oh, yes.” Aziraphale said, pausing for a moment. “Do you think he would have liked it?”

  A hum and then Crowley shrugged, hands in his pockets. “I’m not quite sure. Might find it a little much, yeah? Although that’s probably in line with what he would have liked. Dandy fashion et al. It's not exactly simple.”

  “Well, it is certainly more modest than it could have been.”

  The two of them walked in step with one another, one strutting along and the other walking with arms behind his back. The ducks quacked above, hovering along their walk back to the Bentley. The car, as dutiful as even, waited in its spot until Crowley walked up and unlocked it.

  They had been driving for a good few minutes and Aziraphale was looking out the passenger window. Queen quietly played in the background, keeping the silence from becoming uncomfortable. Crowley kept his eyes trained on the road and one hand on the steering wheel. His posture was relaxed but his lips were pursed.

  “You know, I really quite liked his work.”

  Aziraphale was shocked out of his daydream at the words. Turning back to look at his companion, he asked, “I’m sorry, what was that?”

  “Wilde,” Crowley said, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. “I thought his writing was quite smart.”

  “When did you-? I thought you said you didn’t read Dorian Gray .”

  “I said no such thing. You simply assumed that’s what I meant.”

  He did have Aziraphale with that one. Out of all the times a book had been given to the demon, he had only taken suggestions maybe once or twice. Life was much more interesting than fiction, he had said, it didn’t have to be realistic like books thought it should be.

  “What an unfortunate ending,” Aziraphale said quietly. “An incredibly well received play and then this whole-”

  “‘It was better not to think of the past.’” Crowley quoted, pressing his foot down harder on the gas pedal, turning to give Aziraphale a knowing look. The look was returned, albeit more wary, as his counterpart sighed.

  “‘Nothing could alter that.’”

  So they drove back to the corner store in Soho, adorned with “Mr. A. Z. Fell and Co” on the exterior. The angel opened the door and walked off to go make another pot of tea. The demon flipped the sign to “CLOSED” and shut the door behind him. 

“I dreamt that I had died, and was supping with the dead!”

“I am sure that you must have been the life and soul of the party.”