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Crowley needed a drink. More specifically, he needed a drink with the being he loved above everything, an outing where they would talk and laugh and slide closer together the more tipsy they got. They would say things profound and silly—possibly both at once—and be the purest forms of themselves.
He could have accomplished this in the bookshop, but 1) there was a brand new whisky bar in town and 2) Aziraphale had recently acquired a stack of new records and would likely feel compelled to continue playing them as long as his phonograph was in sight.
Crowley was rehearsing the fifth iteration of his “shall we go out for a drink” speech (these varied from “shall we go out” to “should we go out” to the ever-popular “let’s go out”), when the absurd 1940s telephone on the desk began to jangle.
Crowley snatched up the receiver half-way through the first ring. “AZ Fell and Co Antiquarian Books. Crowley speaking. How may I thwart you?”
A telemarketer launched into their prepared spiel, chattering so loud and so fast Crowley didn’t think he’d get a word in if he tried. He held the receiver out at arm’s length, his gaze straying to Aziraphale. The angel reclined in a wingback chair, eyes closed, humming softly to the strains of Gustav Holst rising from his phonograph.
Ah. His Angel.
Crowley put the phone back to his ear. “Brilliant!” he interrupted. “My husband loves extended warranties! Could you tell me—in exhaustive detail—what coverage options you have available for a 1933 Bentley? Great. Thanks.” He set the receiver on the desk and walked away. Good deed for the day: accomplished.
Crowley approached Aziraphale’s chair and perched on the arm. “What do you say to a spot of lunch? There’s that new whisky bar a few streets over we haven’t tried yet.”
Aziraphale’s eyes fluttered open. “Whisky isn’t lunch.”
“It could be.” The record came to an end, and Crowley slapped his thigh. “See? Perfect timing!” He hopped up and extended a hand. “Come have a whisky with me, Angel.”
This was all entirely off-script from any of his prepared lines, but it appeared to serve his purpose, because Aziraphale lifted the phonograph needle and shut off the machine.
“Yes, very well.” Aziraphale accepted the hand up. “Who was on the telephone?”
“Some warranty bloke. Chatty. No one else will be calling while we’re out.”
Aziraphale glanced at the desk and the telephone receiver sitting conspicuously out of its cradle. “Crowley, you can’t simply leave him hanging like that!”
“Course I can. He’ll hang up eventually. Probably.”
“Well, I…” Aziraphale extended a hand toward the phone, as if about to perform a miracle, then hesitated. “I suppose it would be ruder to cut him off?”
Crowley placed a hand on Aziraphale’s shoulder and steered him toward the door. “Best to let him have his say.”
“Oh, very well. You can have your whisky.” Aziraphale smiled impishly up at his spouse. “And perhaps we might pop by the pastry shop on the way home?”
“Anything you like, Angel. I’ll buy you all the sugary confections you desire and then lick the taste of them off your lips.”
“Oh.” Aziraphale fanned himself. “Now you have me blushing.”
“Good.” Crowley donned his glasses, then took hold of Aziraphale’s hand, lacing their fingers together. “First we get drunk, then we get high on sugar, then we get naked. That is exactly how I want to spend the rest of my day.”
The bell above the front door jingled as a man carrying a battered carpet bag pushed his way into the shop. He stopped short upon seeing Crowley and Aziraphale walking toward him.
“Pardon me.” He eyed their linked hands dispassionately. “Is either of you gentlemen Mr. Fell?”
“We’re closed,” Crowley said, continuing toward the door.
Aziraphale lagged behind. “I am Mr. Fell, but we were just going out, you see. Terribly sorry to—”
“Well, how lucky to have caught you while you’re still here!” The man smiled brightly, and Crowley considered miracling him somewhere extremely unpleasant. “I think you’ll be very pleased with what I have for you today.”
Crowley tugged at Aziraphale as he stared down the interloper. “Closed.”
The intruder blithely opened his carpet bag, either too ignorant or too self-important to heed the glower of an irritable demon.
“I have here,” the pompous arse announced, “an original, handwritten manuscript of The Tell-Tale Heart. Mistakes and edits and all, in Poe’s own hand.”
Aziraphale went very still.
Bugger.
They were going to be here a long time.
“I always preferred The Cask of Amontillado, personally,” Crowley drawled. “If you’re going to entomb something, why not make it a whole man instead of just the heart?”
The others ignored him. Aziraphale had begun to vibrate with excitement, and his grip on Crowley’s hand was just shy of painful.
“That does sound… most intriguing,” the angel replied, his measured words not fully concealing his giddiness.
“I would love to give you a look,” the salesman went on. “I understand you have an extensive collection and would appreciate the value of so rare an item.”
Crowley rolled his eyes. This bastard was no book lover. He was hoping to leave here with a few hundred thousand quid to his name. The manuscript was probably a bloody forgery.
“Angel,” Crowley murmured. He glanced at Aziraphale and then at the back of the shop. Can we talk?
Aziraphale gave a tiny shake of his head. No.
Crowley bristled.
The salesman was grinning. He spoke to Aziraphale, but the fucker had the audacity to look Crowley right in the eye. “Perhaps your… friend… could give us a moment in private to examine the document?”
“ Husband ,” Crowley corrected. He considered lowering his glasses and letting the smug son-of-a-bitch get a good look at his blazing, slit-pupil eyes. Or perhaps he could unfurl his wings or even turn into a snake. As a rule, he didn’t go around terrifying humans, but he would absolutely make an exception in this case.
Aziraphale’s attention was riveted to the carpet bag. “Why don’t you come into my office, Mr…?”
“Hawke. With an E.”
“Mr. Hawke. A pleasure to meet you. Right this way, if you please. Crowley, you’re welcome to join us, if you like.”
“Wouldn’t miss it for the world.” He released Aziraphale’s hand and instead pressed his palm to the small of the angel’s back.
Hawke had enough sense not to say anything.
Aziraphale’s actual desk was too cluttered to be useful—Crowley suspected that materials of interest spontaneously manifested in the event the desk became too tidy—so he led the way to the back room, where he cleared off a table and arranged two chairs beside it.
“Have a seat, Mr. Hawke.” Aziraphale waited for Hawke to take a seat before sitting himself.
Crowley, as usual, sat on the arm of Aziraphale’s chair and draped one arm casually across the back. He wouldn’t interfere, but he wanted it clear to all that he could have his hands on his spouse in a fraction of a second.
This is my Angel. You do not touch him, you do not harm him, you do not upset him. If you do, I will take you apart.
Thus began a conversation lasting a rather nebulous span of time somewhere between one minute and one day. Crowley passed the time, as he often did, watching Aziraphale. The angel exhibited a series of different moods, each fascinating in its own way, each unique and precious and indisputably him .
First there was effervescent excitement, always one of Crowley’s favorites due to the enormous smiles and shining eyes it caused. This morphed seamlessly into studiousness, where Aziraphale hunched over the manuscript, his entire being focused on his work. He had a deep furrow in his brow when he concentrated, and he wore those silly little spectacles, and Crowley wanted to shag the heck out of him.
Crowley was happily daydreaming about bending Aziraphale over a desk and telling him to keep the reading glasses on, when the angel’s mood shifted again.
Aziraphale straightened up and set down the magnifying glass he’d been using to examine the document. He turned in his seat to face Hawke, bringing his shoulder into contact with Crowley’s hand.
Crowley’s fingers skimmed over the fabric of Aziraphale’s waistcoat. Aziraphale wasn’t tense beneath the touch, but he felt solid, steady. Powerful. Crowley cast a sidelong glance at Mr. Hawke.
Prepare to meet the Archangel Aziraphale, you pillock!
“I’m sorry to say that this manuscript appears to be a forgery.”
Crowley shivered. The “don’t fuck with me” undertone beneath the matter-of-fact words was unbelievably sexy. He couldn’t comprehend how 6000-plus years had passed on this planet without anyone else falling madly in love with Aziraphale. He was strong, determined, loyal, compassionate, smart, funny, silly, eager, and beautiful all mashed up into one perfect package.
Crowley gazed moonily at his beloved as he swiftly and exhaustively eviscerated Mr. Hawke, pointing out each and every error which had led to his conclusion. The salesman tried to protest, of course. Watching him squirm wasn’t as enjoyable as a glass of whisky, but it did somewhat make up for the delay.
When he had finished, Aziraphale rose from his seat. Crowley also stood, leaning close and whispering, “Very nice.”
Aziraphale responded with a half-smirk. Then he picked the manuscript off the table—crumpling several of the pages—and dropped it unceremoniously into Hawke’s carpet bag.
“Good day to you, Mr. Hawke. You may see yourself out.”
Crowley patted Aziraphale’s shoulder. “I’ll throw him out for you, Angel.”
Hawke snatched up his bag and ran.
“Good riddance.” Crowley offered Aziraphale an arm. “I really need a drink after that. How about you?”
Aziraphale placed a hand daintily on Crowley’s arm. “Indeed.” He heaved a sigh. “Forgeries are so terribly disappointing. The real thing would have been a lovely addition to my collection.”
Crowley patted his hand. “I’ll buy you some extra pastries to make up for it.”
Aziraphale took a bouncing step forward. “Chocolate, I think. Ooh, and some beignets! That new French chef makes them just—” He shimmied and let out a happy squeak. He turned his delighted smile on Crowley and arched his eyebrows. “And you said something about licking my lips?”
Crowley quickened his pace toward the door. “Look, if we don’t get out of here right now, I am never going to get my whisky, and as much as I want to put my hands all over you, I also want to get extremely drunk with you.”
“Sounds terribly sinful. Lead on.”
This time, thank God, Satan, or Whomever, no one barged in on their way out. Aziraphale locked the shop, and the couple strolled down the street, arm in arm.
The sky had that look of uncertainty that has instilled in the English people a habit of carrying umbrellas at all times. It was just gray enough that it might rain at any moment, but not so gray that it definitely would . It was as if the clouds had stumbled out of bed that morning and gone to work without a proper cup of tea, and now they couldn’t decide whether they’d do a half-hearted job today or simply not bother.
Crowley found this entirely unacceptable. He made a subtle motion with one hand, and the clouds began to disperse, revealing patches of blue sky and a flood of warm sunshine. There would be no more interference with his plans today.
They had walked approximately halfway to their destination, when an eager young person holding a clipboard and a basket of colorful pins came racing toward them. Crowley attempted to dodge, but the stranger veered as well, putting themself directly into Crowley and Aziraphale’s path.
“Good afternoon!” The person—who wore a nametag saying “Shawn, he/him”—thrust the clipboard at Crowley. “My name’s Shawn, and I’m with a local LGBTQIA+ youth organization, and we’re asking people to sign our petition. Our goal is to close loopholes in the Equality Act, particularly as pertains to educational institutions.”
“Right.” Crowley nodded at the young man. “Excellent cause. Keep up the good work. Please excuse me.” He tried to walk on, but Shawn didn’t budge.
“Oh, but, don’t you want to sign?”
“Can’t. Sorry.” Crowley nudged Aziraphale.
The angel gave Shawn a winning smile. “That’s a lovely collection of pins you have there. Very colorful and festive. Good luck with your petition. Please excuse us.”
“But…” Shawn stared at their linked arms. “Don’t you want to help fellow queer people?”
Crowley winced. Of course he did, but he couldn’t exactly explain to this optimistic human that demons had not yet been granted the vote. Probably something to do with the general lack of awareness of their existence. Also, it was better, as a rule, to keep most demons from voting. Humans messed everything up quite enough on their own.
“I don’t vote,” Crowley tried, then mumbled under his breath, “I knew we should have taken the car.”
“He’s not English,” Aziraphale jumped in. “He’s from… Malta. Just here on holiday, you know.”
Crowley gave Aziraphale a pained look and mouthed, Malta?
Aziraphale turned up a palm in a helpless shrug.
“Oh! Oh, I see!” Shawn shifted the clipboard towards Aziraphale. “But you would like to sign, sir, yes?”
“Erm…”
Crowley glanced Heavenward. “Oh, go ahead,” he muttered. At least this interruption came from someone doing something decent.
Aziraphale released Crowley’s arm to take the clipboard and pen. He signed with a flourish. “There we are!”
“It’s not going to count,” Crowley whispered in his ear.
Aziraphale made a small gesture above the clipboard. “I don’t think anyone is going to be looking too closely at this particular paper.”
“Devious, Angel.” He pecked Aziraphale on the cheek. “You’re sexy when you’re rebellious.”
Aziraphale blushed prettily, and passed the clipboard back to Shawn. “There you are, young man. Good luck today. I suspect you’ll have lots of signatures before long!”
“Thank you!” Shawn held out the basket of pins. “Would either of you gentlemen care for a pride pin?”
“Not actually a man, technically,” Crowley replied. “You got any of those pronoun ones? I’d like a he/they. Although she will do too. Not terribly picky.”
“No pronoun pins, but I have a non-binary pride flag.” Shawn fished a pin from the basket and handed it to Crowley.
As Crowley pinned it to his lapel, Aziraphale leaned over the basket and poked through the assortment of colorful buttons. “They’re so pretty! May I take more than one? Crowley, which ones should I pick? I can’t decide.”
Shawn looked vaguely bemused. “Uh, most people pick one or two that suit their identity best.”
“Oh, I see.” Aziraphale frowned in thought, fidgeting nervously with something in his pocket. “Crowley?”
“Anything you like, Angel. I think most of them apply.”
“Yes, but when it’s your whole identity … I really feel I ought to get it right.”
Crowley chuckled. How he loved this awkward, exasperating, adorable being. “Don’t think you can get it wrong, love. But if you need a place to start, you are extremely gay.”
Aziraphale pursed his lips. “Mmm. Men are dreadfully attractive, aren’t they? But is it entirely accurate? I can be a lesbian, too, you know. Do you remember? It was the 1960s, I believe.”
“When you were swanning about in that flowing, flower-power dress, with an armload of books and a crown of daisies in your hair? Yeah, I remember.”
Aziraphale’s whole face lit up. “You made me that crown of daisies. And you were very pretty.”
Crowley folded his arms. “I was a butch girl on a motorbike. I was dangerous, not pretty, and I absolutely did not weave flower wreaths.”
The angel’s smile became impish, though no less brilliant. “Oh, but you did.” He turned conspiratorially to Shawn and added, “She absolutely did.”
The poor boy opened and closed his mouth like a fish, something humans have a tendency to do when faced with a conversation that can’t possibly make sense to their limited worldview.
“You got a pin in there that’s ‘I’m not sexually attracted to anybody except one really weird friend of mine’?” Crowley asked.
Shawn emerged from his trance. “Uh, sounds like gray ace or demisexual?”
Crowley snapped his fingers. “That’s the one.”
“That falls under the asexual spectrum.” Shawn fished out a flag of black, gray, white, and purple stripes. “Here you are.”
Crowley added the pin to his lapel and nudged his spouse. “Come on, Angel. Pick one so we can go.”
Aziraphale looked up at him with pleading eyes. “But I think I want all of them!”
Shawn seemed to have reached the conclusion that he was conversing with two of the strangest beings on the planet, and he was now glancing around looking for an escape. He scooped up a handful of pins. “Here.” He dumped the pins into Aziraphale’s open palm. “Good afternoon!”
“What a nice young man,” Aziraphale said, as Shawn scampered away. He tucked most of the pins away in a pocket, but attached one rainbow flag to his lapel. “Now, where were we?”
“Whisky.” Crowley eyed the street ahead of them for any possible further impediments to his lunch. “I’ll race you there.”
Not needing to breathe proved particularly useful in this instance, as Crowley and Aziraphale entered the whisky bar without the panting and sweating a human would have endured under the circumstances. Even so, Crowley heaved a huge sigh of relief when the door closed behind them. Nothing more would delay his lunch date with his love. The rest of the day would be reserved for the two of them and a whole lot of booze. He took Aziraphale’s hand and towed him to the bar.
“Give me one of everything.”
*****
Several hours later, Crowley staggered homeward, delightfully intoxicated, but not so far gone that he couldn’t carry several bottles of whisky and a dozen boxes of assorted pastries.
“You know, dear, I can carry some of the packages,” Aziraphale said. Again.
“I like being a chivalrous husband.”
“Yes, but isn’t that sort of thing upholding the patriarchy?”
“Okay. Consider me your chivalrous wife, then.”
Aziraphale hummed in thought. He was drunk enough that it took him some time to formulate a response. “I’m not certain that’s the solution.”
Crowley growled. “I like doing things for you, Angel. So shut up and let me do things.”
“Very well. As long as it makes you happy.”
“The only thing that will make me happier is drinking the rest of this whisky while I watch you devour all the pastries.”
“Will it make you happy…” Aziraphale asked, “or happy ?” He raised a suggestive eyebrow.
“Definitely both.”
“Excellent.”
And with a brisk downward gesture, Crowley’s devilish angel miracled them both back to the bookshop.