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When he returns, it’s not even a conscious thought that takes him to London first. Even after almost a year it still seems like second nature to take the lift down that spits him back out right across from his bookshop. Though, Aziraphale muses, what’s one year compared to six thousand. He’s become so used to thinking in human terms and experiences.
He hesitates at the corner, just looks across the street. The shop seems to be just like he left it. The sign on the door is flipped to the closed side. Aziraphale sets one foot down the kerb. He stops again. Eventually, he takes a deep breath, straightens up and walks across the street, opening the door before he can change his mind. The bell jingles.
At first glance the shop appears empty and largely unchanged, but when he takes a few more steps inside and gets a better look at the shelves, he can tell there’s been some rearranging.
“I am sorry, but we are closed and the books are not for sale,” a cheerful voice pipes up from deeper inside the shop and a moment later, Muriel steps around the corner, delicately holding a cup of tea between their fingertips. “Oh, ‘ello there!” The angel’s face brightens up as they spot Aziraphale.
“Hello Muriel, I see you are still managing the shop.” Aziraphale clasps his hands together.
“Oh yes! It’s wonderful!” Muriel says, still beaming. “I have recently started to rearrange the books by the number of letters inside. It is so much easier to find them now!”
“Oh, that’s—I see. A, a great idea, Muriel, I’m sure.”
Muriel rocks up on the balls of their feet excitedly. “Would you like a cupperty? I’ve become quite fond of them.”
“Ah, thank you. But I’m fine. I was, uhm, wondering if, perhaps, Crowley has been here recently?” Aziraphale’s traitorous eyes wander over to the spot where the demon kissed him.
Muriel shakes their head, a wide smile still firmly in place on their clueless face. “No, no I haven’t seen him around.”
Aziraphale deflates. “Oh, I see.” He lowers his eyes. “I won’t bother you any longer then.” He walks back over to the door. “Keep up the good work, Muriel. Enjoy your cup of tea.”
“I will!”
Back out on the pavement, Aziraphale takes a deep breath of London air. He glances around aimlessly, hoping that Crowley would just pop up out of nowhere. Oh how he longs to hear the motor noise of that awful Bentley in that moment!
He’s just about to leave when there’s a tap on his arm.
“Mr Fell?”
Aziraphale turns and is met with Maggie. Her gentle and friendly face seems to immediately drain some of the worry and anxiety built up inside of him and he quickly takes hold of her hand.
“Oh Maggie, it is so lovely to see you!”
“Mr Fell,” Maggie repeats, eyes wide. “Where have you been? I haven’t seen you in ages!”
Before Aziraphale can say anything she’s already started to pull him along across the street.
“I was just on my way over to Nina’s. Please join us.”
Aziraphale follows her gladly. Now that he thinks about it, he could do with a nice hot cup of coffee.
Coffee or Death is fairly empty at this time of day. Maggie sits him down at a corner table in the back and goes to fetch Nina.
“He was just standing on the pavement in front of the bookshop, looking lost,” Maggie is telling Nina as they join him shortly after. Nina sets a plate of eccles cakes and a steaming mug down in front of him. Aziraphale nods his thanks and wraps his hands around the mug.
“Well, he’s still looking lost now,” Nina says, as she sits down next to Maggie on the bench. “What’s going on? Where have you been?”
“When we saw that lovely Muriel had taken over the shop we thought that surely you and Mr Crowley went off together somewhere. But when he showed up a few months later without you—”
Aziraphale’s eyes fly up to Maggie. “You’ve seen Crowley? When? Where?”
Maggie exchanges a quick look with Nina, her expression turning even softer. “Oh, Mr Fell…”
“About,” Nina frowns in thought, “I think it was about five months ago. He was just parked down the street.”
“He didn’t really talk to us, but…”
“But what?” Aziraphale urges.
“But we could tell that you two obviously didn’t run away together.” Nina sighs.
Maggie reaches across the table to take Aziraphale’s hand. “Why didn’t you talk? What happened?”
“We—we talked, it’s just…” Aziraphale swallows, he can feel the tears building up. “I—I fucked up.” He stares past both of them, eyes swimming.
Maggie squeezes his hand.
“God, I was so—so stupid! He told me—he told me to—,” he blows out a breath. “He told me we could be an us. Together. And I just—” He looks at Maggie; her sad, empathetic expression; then at Nina who just scrubs a hand over her face. “I fucked up.” His voice is barely audible.
“Yep, you did.”
“Nina!” Maggie punches her in the arm.
“Ow! What? He did!” Nina turns to Aziraphale. “Listen, I don’t know what exactly went down between you two and I won’t even try to comprehend it, but whatever you thought was more important than him, you were wrong. That m—” Nina stops, frowns.
Aziraphale glances at her.
“That—whatever he is, you are,” she waves a hand at him, “he loves you. So much. And you love him.”
Aziraphale takes a stuttering breath, wipes a hand over his eyes.
“Do you really not know where he is?” Maggie asks gently.
“I—I could find out. But I don’t think he wants to see me. God, why did I ever—”
Maggie pulls both of his hands away from the mug and into hers. “Mr Fell, look at me. Sometimes, we don’t know what’s best for ourselves. Mr Crowley may think he doesn’t want to see you, he may be angry at you, shut you out, but you know he’s worth fighting for. So fight!”
Aziraphale laughs wetly. “He is.”
“Besides, it’s been what? Like a year?” Nina asks. “Plenty of time, he may not even be angry anymore.”
“That’s really not that much time at all.” Aziraphale sighs.
“My point is, you’ll never know until you try. Go, find him.”
Maggie nods emphatically.
“You’re right. Yes.” Aziraphale gets up, straightens his jacket. He takes out a handkerchief to dab at his eyes. “Thank you. I needed to hear that.”
Just before he exits the coffee shop, Maggie calls after him. Aziraphale turns back around.
“Good luck! Tell us how it went.”
“Yeah,” Nina agrees. “Don’t be a stranger, Mr Fell.”
“We’ll always be here.”
*
As oh so many times before, Aziraphale finds Crowley on a bench in a park, reading (or pretending to read) a newspaper. Contrary to his usual ways, Aziraphale doesn’t just pop into existence next to him though, or walks over to join him. Instead he watches Crowley from afar for a while. At first glance, he doesn’t look any different from how he usually does, how Aziraphale remembers and thinks of him. But the longer he looks, the more Aziraphale notices.
While Crowley’s outfit hasn’t changed at all and his sunglasses are still firmly in place, Aziraphale is certain that his hair is both less carefully coiffed and also less red than it was a year ago. Instead, it’s now inching more towards auburn or chestnut brown and it’s messier, more spikey. Aziraphale would be lying if he said he doesn’t like Crowley’s hair like that. It looks good, great even!, but Aziraphale also can’t help wondering if the loss of flashiness paired with the downturned corners of his mouth and deepening of his worry lines is his fault.
“So, how long were you planning to just stand there and stare at me for?”
Aziraphale jumps. He knew Crowley would probably be able to sense him but he didn’t think he’d acknowledge him too.
“Crowley…” Aziraphale walks closer, stops behind the bench, hands nervously clasped together.
“What do you want?” Crowley is still studying his newspaper.
“I—” He’s played this through in his mind so many times and yet, Aziraphale has no idea what to say.
“Spit it out, I don’t have all day.” Crowley’s voice is hard, dismissive. He’s still not looking up. It hurts more than Aziraphale could have imagined.
“Can we talk? Please?” He rounds the bench, stops a few feet away.
Finally, Crowley lowers the paper. He tilts his head up lazily to look at Aziraphale. His eyes are unreadable through his glasses. “What’s there to talk about? You made up your mind.” He folds the paper and puts it down on the bench. Then he gets up and starts walking away. Aziraphale follows close behind.
“I came back. I’m—I’m back, Crowley, please.” God, he’s doing a terrible job. He knows he is, but he doesn’t know what to do.
Crowley’s steps falter for just a second at Aziraphale’s words but he doesn’t say anything.
“Please, I—I know I messed up,” Aziraphale tries, “but I’m back.” His voice is trembling. “I came back. For you.”
Crowley stops short. Aziraphale almost runs into him.
“Don’t do this. Aziraphale.”
“But I—”
“Don’t. I have a cat to feed.”
And before Aziraphale can even say another word, Crowley has disappeared.
*
Instead of hunting after Crowley which would probably just end in more frustration for the both of them, Aziraphale decides to devise a plan. Granted, the plan is nowhere near foolproof and could potentially go just as badly as showing up in the park did, but he has to try.
So it’s about a week later when Aziraphale shows up in front of Crowley’s flat, because yes, apparently some time in the past year Crowley decided to get a flat again. It’s not in Mayfair this time, though, instead Crowley seems to have downgraded and is now living in the South Bank.
Aziraphale knocks and waits. He knocks again when nothing happens and then he leaves when he still doesn’t get an answer. He decided to be nice and proper about it, even when every minute he doesn’t get so see Crowley and speak to him feels like torture by now.
A few days later he repeats the same spiel and then, again, another week later. He’s just about to leave for the third time to return another day when Crowley rips open the door.
“What?!”
Aziraphale turns back around and for a few seconds he can’t speak. Crowley isn’t wearing his sunglasses and his eyes are blazing. They knock all the useless breath right out of Aziraphale’s chest. But, remembering his plan, he gathers himself quickly and straightens up.
“Crowley,” Aziraphale says politely, “I’d very much like to speak with you.”
The demon just stares at him for a long moment, then his upper lip curls up, baring his gritted teeth and his brows knit together in a frustrated frown. He tilts his head towards the ceiling with a groan but eventually steps aside to let Aziraphale in.
“Thank you.” Aziraphale could have jumped with joy, but he keeps his voice and expression carefully controlled and neutral.
Crowley’s new flat looks a lot more like someone is actually living there than the last. Aziraphale still wouldn’t call it even remotely homey but Crowley actually owns some furniture this time. The biggest pieces of which are a large couch and a frankly enormous cat tree.
“You were serious.”
Crowley raises his eyebrows in question.
“About the cat.” Aziraphale waves a hand at the cat tree.
“Oh, oh yeah.”
As if on cue, the head of a black cat pops up over the edge of the highest of the tree’s platforms. Large, yellow eyes regard Aziraphale inquisitively. Then the cat stretches, yawns, jumps down the tree and immediately starts weaving between Aziraphale’s legs, purring loudly.
“Oh, oh hello there.” Aziraphale leans down, delighted, to pet the cat’s short jet-black coat. It’s a skinny thing, almost scrawny looking. She must have been a stray.
“Of course!” Crowley, who’s lounging in quite the Crowley-like manner on the couch by now, looks at the cat in annoyance. “Of course you love him. Little traitor.”
Aziraphale giggles. He can’t help but notice the cat’s similarities to her owner. Without thinking he says, “We could get her a set of dark wings, she’ll look just like you.” Realising what he just said he quickly looks at Crowley, who, Aziraphale notices with a pang, is wearing his glasses again.
“I mean—” He stops himself, draws a breath. Aziraphale straightens out his clothes and sits down gingerly on the edge of the couch next to Crowley. The distance between them almost physically hurts him. “You got a flat?”
Crowley makes a non-committal noise and shrugs. He’s still watching the cat who’s now back on her tree.
“You know you could have just moved into the bookshop—”
“No.”
The force of that one word catches Aziraphale completely off guard. He’s looking at Crowley with wide eyes.
“If you really think I could have just moved in there after y—after,” Crowley waves a hand back and forth between the two of them. Aziraphale desperately wishes he could see his eyes.
“Why didn’t you ever move in with me there, before?”
Crowley pulls a leg up on the couch and turns more towards Aziraphale. He takes off his glasses and again Aziraphale is unprepared for the intensity of his gaze.
“You never asked.” Crowley crosses his arms, eyes fixed somewhere past Aziraphale’s left shoulder and Aziraphale can tell that he’s grinding his front teeth together, jaw working.
“I—I thought it was obvious,” he stammers. “That you could. Anytime.”
“Well, maybe it wasn’t.” Crowley’s tone is clipped and he’s still not looking at him.
None of this is going how Aziraphale had imagined, but at least Crowley hasn’t kicked him out. Yet.
“Can I take you somewhere? Somewhere more quiet? To talk.”
Finally Crowley looks at him again. His expression is sceptical. “Where?”
Aziraphale dares to give him the tiniest bit of a smile. “You’ll like it. I promise.” He gets up and holds out his hand for Crowley to take.
Crowley considers this for a moment, then he slowly uncrosses his arms and lets himself be pulled off the couch. “It better be good, Angel.”
*
“What do you say?” Aziraphale asks anxiously, his wings twitching.
“You took me to Proxima Centauri b?” Crowley’s voice is caught somewhere between disbelief and astonishment. “You know that’s cheating, right?”
Aziraphale chuckles nervously. “The view is nice from here and I thought it would be good to have somewhere to sit.” He awkwardly pats the rocky cliff’s edge he’s sitting on.
“Ohh, oh Angel, you’re really pulling out all the stops!” Crowley slowly spins in place, eyes wide in awe, dark wings flapping lazily. He’s the most beautiful thing Aziraphale has ever seen. “You know I won’t hear anything you’re trying to tell me, I’ll be too distracted.”
“I,” Aziraphale has to swallow, experiencing quite a similar problem. “I will just have to be even more captivating then.”
“You can try.” And then Crowley winks at him, following it up with a smile that’s so brilliant it just about knocks Aziraphale out cold. Maybe this plan is working a bit too well.
“Can you,” Aziraphale clears his throat, “can you sit down? Just for a bit?”
Crowley doesn’t say anything but he slowly drifts lower until he’s sitting next to Aziraphale, never taking his eyes off the triple star system before them. Their wings brush briefly and dear God, Aziraphale has missed that feeling, too.
“So, I know that I messed up,” Aziraphale launches into his little prepared speech. “Back then, when I, when I left you.”
Crowley hums, Rigil Kentaurus and Toliman reflecting in his eyes. Satisfied that he seems to be listening, Aziraphale pushes on.
“I thought going back to Heaven was the right thing to do, and that it was more important. More important than you. Being with you.” He reaches for Crowley’s hand. “But I was wrong, Crowley. So wrong. I realise that now. I should have never left.”
Crowley’s eyes fall to where Aziraphale is holding his hand and he slowly threads their fingers together. Aziraphale feels like he might pass out, but he keeps talking.
“Nothing, not even Heaven, is more important than you. Than us. Together. On Earth. Or wherever you want to go.”
“You mean it.” It isn’t a question and finally, finally, Crowley is looking at him. Really looking at him.
Aziraphale nods frantically. “I only need you. I love you, Crowley.” His voice breaks over the name.
Crowley doesn’t say anything for an excruciatingly long moment, but gradually his expression begins to soften until he’s looking at him with so much unconcealed love in his eyes, that Aziraphale swears the stars around them dimmed due to the sheer intensity of his gaze. Then, Crowley lifts the hand not holding Aziraphale’s to his cheek and leans in so their foreheads are almost touching.
“I forgive you.”
“Thank you,” Aziraphale whispers, eyes glassy with tears.
“Don’t you start crying on me, Angel. It’s a bit chilly down here, your tears might freeze.”
Aziraphale laughs and a single tear spills over and runs down his cheek. Crowley lifts their still clasped hands to wipe it away.
“Can I tell you a secret?” Aziraphale asks quietly.
Crowley squeezes his hand. “You can tell me whatever you want, Angel.”
“That—when you. Kissed me. Back then, I mean. That was my first ever kiss.” Aziraphale feels his cheeks redden.
Crowley leans back a bit to better look at him, but then his eyes flicker away for just the briefest of seconds.
“Wait,” Aziraphale says slowly, a gentle smile spreading over his face, “Crowley, are you trying to tell me that it was your first as well?”
“I mean…” But Crowley trails off, grimaces. “It was supposed to be special, all right.”
“Oh, you old romantic,” Aziraphale says fondly, pulling Crowley closer again.
“I’m not romantic.”
“Not at all,” Aziraphale whispers. “But how about we try again? Make it right.”
“Now, I like the sound of that.”
They untangle their fingers and Crowley immediately reaches up to frame Aziraphale’s face with both hands. Aziraphale grabs Crowley’s shoulder and pulls him in.
Much unlike their first, this kiss is gentle, almost careful at first, but then Crowley parts his lips and Aziraphale gasps. The hand he previously had at Crowley’s waist wanders up and his fingers sink into the soft feathers at the base of Crowley’s wing, urging him impossibly closer. Crowley makes a little sound in the back of his throat and one of his hands ends up in Aziraphale’s hair.
It’s their perfect second first kiss.
After, with his head nestled in the crook of Aziraphale’s neck and his arm wrapped around the angel’s middle, Crowley says, “I can’t believe you took me to Alpha Centauri.”
Aziraphale lets his head rest against Crowley’s. “I’d say it’s the perfect spot for a first date.”
“Oh so this is a date now?” Crowley asks and Aziraphale can hear the raised eyebrow and the grin in his voice.
“You’re impossible.”
“Don’t you mean ineffable?”
Aziraphale sighs. “That, too.”
“I love you, too. Angel.”
*
It’s a week later. Crowley’s couch has somehow materialised in the back of the bookshop, as has the cat tree, cat included. Aziraphale is sitting on the couch, reading a book, while Crowley is dozing with his head in Aziraphale’s lap. The cat is curled up on his chest, purring softly.
The doorbell chimes and Aziraphale is about to inform the unlucky customer that the shop is closed, when he hears Maggie’s voice.
“Mr Fell?”
“Over here,” Aziraphale calls. Crowley opens one eye to glance up at Aziraphale with a smile before he closes it again.
“There you are,” Maggie says when she rounds the corner. “Oh, look at you!” She presses a hand to her heart. “Aren’t you sweet.”
“I’m not sweet,” Crowley grumbles without opening his eyes.
“Who says I was talking about you?” Maggie asks with a wink at Aziraphale. “Anyway, I was just going to drop off this box of ten inch records. Someone brought it to the shop and I thought you might want to have a look first. Most are American, from the 40s and 50s. Maybe you’ll find something.”
“Thank you, Maggie, that’s very nice of you.”
Maggie waves Aziraphale off. “Oh, and before I forget! You don’t have another cat, do you? Because there’s one outside the door. Seems to want to get in. Kind of grey-ish beige and white? Real fluffy?”
Aziraphale looks at Crowley to find him already looking back, eyebrows raised.
“We don’t, actually,” Aziraphale says slowly. “But we’ll take a look. Might be another stray.”
Maggie shrugs. “Didn’t really look like a stray, but who knows. I’ll keep an eye out for missing cat posters.” She puts the box of vinyls down on the floor. “Alright, I’m off. Date with Nina. You two have a good night.”
“You too,” Aziraphale calls after her. “Say hi to Nina from us, and if the cat is still there let it in if it wants.”
“Will do. Bye!”
The doorbell jingles again and the door falls shut shortly after.
Aziraphale eyes the box of records from where he’s sitting, unwilling to get up just yet, but when he catches a glimpse of the dark blue label sticker on the topmost vinyl through its clear sleeve, his hand flies to Crowley’s shoulder, shaking him.
“What?” Crowley opens one eye again. The cat stretches and jumps to the floor, disappearing around the corner.
“Crowley, look!” Aziraphale points to the box of records.
Crowley groans, twists around and hooks the tip of his boot around the corner of the box, nudging it closer. He pulls out the vinyl on top, studying it briefly.
“No!”
“Yes!” Aziraphale drops his book and claps his hands together in delight.
“That’s impossible.” Crowley is still staring at the shellac in disbelief, while Aziraphale is already getting the record player ready.
“Put it on!”
Crowley lets the record slide out of the sleeve and puts it on the player. He lowers the needle. A few moments later the first notes of Glenn Miller’s A Nightingale Sang In Berkeley Square ring through the bookshop.
