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Crowley had been around for a long time. Longer than time, in fact. And he’d been around the world, met all sorts of interesting people, and ran into things that even he couldn’t begin to understand. At the very top of that list was one of the places where he spent the most time: Aziraphale’s bookshop.
Fundamentally, it didn’t make sense. Aziraphale never actually sold any books. He was too attached to them, and so many of them were rare enough that he knew letting them go would be the same as saying goodbye forever. So customers came, and they went, without dispensing a single dime. Yet, the business had been fully funded and operational for over two hundred years.
For a while, Crowley had thought it was just Heavenly intervention. He never paid rent on his flat, but Hell ensured that he never lost it. A homeless earthly ambassador wouldn’t be much of an ambassador, after all, and Hell wanted to make sure Crowley could do his job. He’d just assumed it was the same for Aziraphale.
Then came the Apocalypse. Notpocalypse. Armageddon’t. Whatever. Point was, after his betrayal of Hell, Crowley had been forced to move all of his Earthly possessions into the Bentley and leave the flat behind, because Hell wasn’t going to spend its precious resources on a job that apparently wasn’t getting done anyway. But Aziraphale had kept the bookshop. Through flashes of envy and the occasional bout of crippling sadness, Crowley was mostly just confused. How and why was the angel staying afloat after all this time?
It could have just been his paycheck from Heaven— even angels and demons got one. Crowley had used his on the Bently all those decades ago. But the rules for Heaven were different than for Hell. They were so uptight about anything that could be interpreted as greed, gluttony, relying on Earthly possessions, and all the other fun things that made Aziraphale happy.
It was also possible that Aziraphale was miracling his business to success himself, but that didn’t seem to be in character. As often as he could, Aziraphale liked to support himself and live his life without any magical influences. In hindsight, Crowley really should have guessed that the bookshop was all him. Still didn’t answer the question of how, though.
Crowley had been wandering Whickber Street with an air of suspicion for the past few days. The problem was that he got the tingling, sneaking suspicion that Aziraphale was about to ask. Ask him to move in, that is. After his little spiel in the bookshop and the Angel’s refusal of Metatron’s offer, things had shifted. They hadn’t shifted that much, in the grand scheme of things— when you’ve been friends for actual millennia, taking that next step doesn’t end up being as monumental as it feels— but it felt scarily significant. More frequent dinners at the Ritz (almost nightly, in fact. The other nights were occupied by dinners in the bookshop.) The night before, the sun had set and Aziraphale hadn’t asked Crowley to leave, so they’d spent the night on the couch, and had woken in each other’s arms. Crowley had parked the Bentley in the back alley behind the bookshop and sometimes, he found Aziraphale eyeing it sadly, with that little glint of mischief in his eyes like he was planning something.
He didn’t fully understand why this was a problem. After all, wasn’t this exactly what spending forever with you meant? Wasn’t this exactly what he wanted? But it felt different, to actually have it. For one, he still wasn’t fully convinced that Aziraphale was as head-over-heels about all of this as he was, and he wasn’t sure he could bear the disappointment if he had to experience that kind of rejection. Again. Granted, Aziraphale’s 129 straight “I’m sorry” dances should have cleared him of that melancholy, but even if they did, it was almost reborn last night after one of their more personal conversations. In the interest of clearing the air, Crowley had told Aziraphale about that first moment in the garden, the infamous one where he’d decided that he would risk everything for the angel if need be. In return, Aziraphale had told Crowley that he’d had a very similar revelation. In 1941. And Crowley knew by now that Aziraphale was a bit slower to come to terms with the way he felt, but that didn’t make him any less concerned. He was working with 6000 years on Aziraphale’s 82. Was this fair? Probably not. But Crowley was still a bit shaken by his brief foray into Metatron Panic Mode and he was coming to terms with the fact that many of his feelings weren’t fair. Or logical. Or rational at all.
But deep down, he knew that that was only half of the issue. Because at the end of the day, he did trust Aziraphale. Always had. Himself? Now, that was another issue. On a technical level, Crowley was certainly capable of walking up to Aziraphale and saying “Hi, Angel. I’ve gotten really tired of living in my car and being alone makes me sad. Also, I love you. Thoughts?” He was in possession of a perfectly functional mouth and brain and set of vocal chords, and he spent plenty of time with Aziraphale, so on a technical level, there was nothing in his way, but he just… couldn’t. Maybe he was just never going to learn. Hold on to this for another 6000 years and finally force it out when the shop was on the verge of getting sucked into a black hole, or something. That would make sense, considering his track record.
And so, Crowley wandered up and down Whickber Street on a Saturday afternoon that Aziraphale would probably refer to as perfectly lovely. The angel, for his part, was undoubtedly in the bookshop, and would undoubtedly welcome Crowley in and offer him tea if he showed up. He would show up, eventually. But at this point, he either wanted to lay his cards on the table completely, or not linger at the table at all. He would find Aziraphale in a little while, and maybe even force himself to talk for once, but for now, he had to do something other than wallow in the bookshop and wait for life to come to him.
He ended up at the record shop. He probably wasn’t going to buy anything, considering that records were completely useless in his car, but he decided he could use some musical inspiration, and Maggie was slowly inching her way onto the list of people who he could hold a conversation with without wanting to take another centuries-long nap. The little bell on the door announced his presence as Maggie looked up from the magazine she’d been reading.
“Oh, hello Mr. Crowley!” she said cheerily, “How have you been?”
“I’m alright, thanks,” he said, making his way straight to the records and sorting through them, “You?”
“Much of the same, really. Not that that’s a bad thing. It’s just surprising, considering everything that happened.”
Crowley grumbled in agreement, but didn’t offer anything else. The good people of Whickber Street had basically decided to ignore the more supernatural elements of everything that went down that night. Easier not to think about it, Crowley supposed. And he was fine with that. It was easier not to answer the prying questions of random passersby. Besides, most of the other business owners had left the shop before the demons had broken in, so really, for them, the whole ordeal could be passed off as a particularly hideous band of burglars. Only Maggie and Nina had any concrete idea that it was more, and they’d both been gracious enough not to bring it up. Well, Maggie was gracious to a point.
“Have you been spending a lot of time at the bookshop?” she asked, completely failing to sound unsuspicious.
Crowley grunted. “Yeah. Not many other places to spend time, are there?” That wasn’t true, of course. The coffee shop and the record store combined his two main interests more than Aziraphale’s books ever could. All Whickber Street needed was a car dealership and he was set (not that he would ever betray the Bentley by buying a new car. He liked to look at them, though.)
But of course, the key word there was not books, it was Aziraphale, and they’d been so inseparable since everything that Crowley had practically moved in. Practically. Technically. Not actually. Thus, the problem.
Maggie set her magazine aside completely now, and Crowley got the slithery feeling that he was in for another Talking To. “You know,” she said, “I’ve been Mr. Fell’s tenant for years now. Almost a decade. Would you like to know how long it’s been since I’ve paid rent?”
“How long?” Crowley asked.
She grinned. “Eight months. Before that, it was five. Time after time, I can’t make the payment, and time after time, he brushes it off like it’s not a problem at all.”
So even his side gig as a landlord wasn’t profitable? Again, Crowley wasn’t exactly surprised. He knew for a fact that the average landlord ended up in one of the last two circles of Hell, and Aziraphale was very much not in the business of leeching off the innocent for any purposes. Still, the question of the Angel’s finances grew more complicated.
“My point is,” Maggie continued, “that he’s unendingly kind, and ridiculously understanding, almost to a fault, if such a thing exists.”
Crowley cleared his throat and handed her the CD that he’d grabbed mindlessly through the nerves. Best of Queen. Of course he found it automatically. “I know,” he said, “Trust me, I know.”
She shot him a knowing smile that he didn’t return. He didn’t like how she could see through him, how Nina could too, how he wasn’t as mysterious as he’d thought, how for years, he’d only ever had the things he kept to himself, and now apparently, he didn’t even have those either. Then again, between Aziraphale, Nina and Maggie… well, he supposed there were worse people to be transparent with.
“Good,” she said, “I’m glad that you know.”
That night, like the night before, and the night before that, Crowley sat at Aziraphale’s round little table, his glasses discarded next to the ancient expensive silverware. He took a sip of the equally expensive red wine that they’d indulged in and watched intently as Aziraphale took little bites of steak. After much thought and excessive finger-drumming, he finally asked the question that had been plaguing him all day.
“Angel, I’ve been wondering. How did you afford to buy this place?”
Aziraphale looked up from his meal and gave Crowley that look. That look that bordered on mischief, amusement, an edge of guilt, and a million other things that no one had invented names for yet. “You get a monthly stipend from Hell, yes? Or rather, you did.”
“Yeah.”
“Well, Heaven is the same way.” He dabbed his lips with his napkin as if that was that.
“I thought they were ridiculously particular about what you spent it on, though.”
“Oh, they were. For a while, I only spent enough to afford lodging as I moved from place to place. Well, that and clothing. And food. I don’t think Heaven would have been pleased to know about some of my habits. Which is why I… didn’t tell them.”
Crowley grinned. “And yet, you were so hesitant to help me with the whole Antichrist thing.”
“The whole Antichrist thing? ” Aziraphale demanded, “Surely you’re not comparing the occasional dinner at the Ritz to averting Armageddon. And surely we’re not about to have this conversation again.”
“Alright, alright,” Crowley conceded, shaking his head, “I thought this would be different. I mean, you don’t even sell any books. Don’t angels have rules about hoarding?”
Aziraphale rolled his eyes. “I may have… fibbed.”
“Fibbed?”
“Well, of course I didn’t go to the higher-ups and pitch them the idea of a bookshop that never sold any books. I just told them that having more small shops on the street would provide me with a much needed home base and make Whickber Street an oasis of happiness and good deeds. Lo and behold, I got approved and I bought the whole street.”
“So you’ve been lying to Heaven for two centuries.”
Aziraphale raised an eyebrow. “Did I? Lie?”
Crowley looked out the window at the street. It was getting dark. Despite the fact that it was the middle of summer, most of the storefronts were decorated with Christmas lights, which Crowley found charming, even though he would never admit it. People milled back and forth, finally finished with their busy days, talking to each other, stopping to read the paper on benches. And it struck Crowley: this was it. Well, some of it. The reason he’d wanted to avert the apocalypse in the first place. And a decent part of the reason why Aziraphale had stayed.
He remembered all of the time he’d spent in the bookshop, with Aziraphale. “No, you didn’t,” he said.
Aziraphale smiled, then pursed his lips and spread his napkin out across his lap. Crowley’s slithery feeling returned. “All of this does remind me,” said the angel, “I have been meaning to ask you something.”
Crowley meant to form a word, maybe even a sentence. He really did. It wasn’t his fault that it escaped as a choked grumble.
“We’ve… known each other for quite a long time. And I’ve been thinking, it does feel a bit strange to have you living outside in your car when the bookshop is open and available. Would you maybe be interested in–”
“Yes.” Another outburst that Crowley’s brain didn’t sign off on. Judging by the look on his angel’s face, though, it hadn’t done too much damage.
“Oh, really?” A downright heavenly smile spread across Aziraphale’s features. His eyes did that sparkly thing that Crowley loved. “You’d like to move in?”
“Of course I would, Angel. What on Earth made you think that I wouldn’t?”
“Well, it is all remarkably quick.”
Crowley almost spat up his wine. “Please tell me you realize that it’s been 6000 years.”
“Yes, of course! But… you know what I mean.”
Crowley did, in fact, know what he meant. Even after all this time, no matter how small the step was, any step forward still felt like something. A rather big something. Still, he couldn’t resist the urge to tease the angel, just a bit. “I can move my stuff in now, if that’s alright by you. It’s mostly just the plants.”
Aziraphale chuckled. “Let me finish eating, dear.”
Crowley flushed at his own eagerness, but just as he was about to start stuttering out excuses and backtracking, Aziraphale leaned forward and gently pressed their lips together. Crowley’s heartbeat fluttered in his chest as he laced his fingers with Aziraphale’s, basking in the warmth of having his angel this close.
They smiled through the kiss, and when they broke apart, their smiles stayed firmly planted, unwavering, where they belonged. Aziraphale poured another glass, and Crowley felt a warm feeling settling in his chest that was definitely more than drunkenness.