Chapter Text
August 17th, 2019
A.Z. Fell and Co. was roughly 200 years old, passed down to Aziraphale Z. Fell (the fourth, if we’re being specific.) from his grandfather, A.Z. Fell II. He had loved it since he was young, the gateways to different worlds and information all at the tips of his fingertips. Aziraphale recalled (as he stood at the window, taking in the morning) the first time he realized his grandfather sold the books in the shop. He was six years old and couldn’t find his favorite book (the favorite at the time, at least) among the piles. He rushed frantically to his grandfather, who was busy shelving new books.
“Grandpa! My book, where is it?” Six-year-old Aziraphale asked, looking up at his grandfather with panicked eyes.
His grandfather gazed down at him kindly and knelt to his level, “Well, someone bought it, Aziraphale.”
“What do you mean someone bought it?”
“I sold it, angel,” A.Z Fell II said gently, “It’s someone else’s book now.”
Young Aziraphale didn’t quite like this information: he cried for hours in the guest room that day. The now 50-year-old Aziraphale chuckled to himself at the memory. He didn’t sell many, if any, books these days (by choice.) His shop was full of old books (everything from vintage to “How is this still in one piece?”) and was less of a bookshop and more of a museum. The precious books were locked away from the prying eyes of rare book connoisseurs. The rest of the books were negotiable, but Aziraphale always hoped (and tried) never to part with them.
He soon noticed the fresh black paint of the new coffee shop that would soon be opening. ‘The Daily Grind:’ the freshly painted sign read. As he sipped his morning tea, he pondered who owned it, if they made good tea, and when it would open. Little did he know the whirlwind journey that this little coffee shop was to bring.
─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───
September 25th, 2019 - Opening Day
Aziraphale turned his bookshop sign to closed before heading to the coffee shop bright and early. He was excited to be one of the first customers, always enjoying supporting a small business. The bell chimed as he pushed open the coffee shop door, sighing happily at the aromas. He much preferred tea, but he did enjoy the fragrance of coffee. He waited patiently in line until it was his turn, finally laying eyes on the most beautiful person he had ever seen. His heart began to pound in his chest, his palms began to sweat, and his words failed him.
The person behind the counter stood roughly 6’1” with long, thick, wavy, red hair in a bun, a few pieces falling to frame their face. They seemed to be in their late forties by the looks of it. They had high, prominent cheekbones, a narrow hooked nose, and deep creases on their forehead. Each wrinkle and crease seemed expertly carved, their eyebrows seemed permanently knit together, and their eyes were as brown as the espresso they brewed. The barista wore black skinny jeans, a Velvet Underground tee, and black combat boots. Tattoos littered their arms in sleeves, and rings adorned their long, thin fingers. They looked exhausted and gazed at Aziraphale impatiently: it had been quite busy this morning.
The barista sucked in a sharp breath, trying not to be rude on their first day open. “Um…” They clear their throat, “What can I get you?”
Aziraphale shakes his head, their voice snapping him out of his trance. He finds his words are still failing him.
“Oh! Apologies. Um, I’ll just get- Oh goodness,” Azi chuckled nervously, ”so many, erm- choices, aren’t there?”
Aziraphale cleared his throat and composed himself, growing embarrassed at how flustered he was. He inhaled before politely submitting his order, “I would rather like an Oolong tea, please.” Much like his clothes, his speech was formal and outdated.
The corners of the barista’s lips tugged up in a smile for a fraction of a second, gone as quickly as it came. They seemed amused by the customer’s flustered state. “Quite alright. Oolong tea: coming up. Can I get a name?”
“Aziraphale.”
“Aziraphale,” The barista echos, ”That’s unique. I’ll have your tea at the end of the counter for you.” Aziraphale nodded and walked off to stand by the end of the counter. He watched the barista (whose name he had not thought to ask before) turn and begin to brew his tea.
“Oolong tea for Aziraphale!” They called out as they turned around, eyes scanning the busy shop for the captivating customer. Although the color palette of his outfits was rather understated, he stuck out amongst the crowd.
Aziraphale stepped forward to take his cup, “Ah! Thank you. It was lovely to meet you…” The blonde trails off, hoping the auburn-haired barista would provide their name. The redhead stared, taking in each feature of the stranger named Aziraphale.
“Crowley.” They say plainly.
“Crowley,” Azi repeats, savoring the taste of their name. “Good day to you then, Crowley. Blessings be upon you.” He nodded politely and walked back to his bookshop, the tail of his overcoat flapping as he walked in the Soho breeze. Crowley watched him leave, feeling an inexplicable tether tug at his heart as Aziraphale left. Aziraphale felt the same tether: he glanced back at the coffee shop and went inside.
Aziraphale pressed his back to the door and sighed: he had made such a fool of himself. His heart was racing, and his cheeks were warm and red. The tea would help, he thought. He raised the cup to his lips with a slightly trembling hand, the hot liquid flooding his tastebuds and bursting with flavor.
It was the best tea he’d ever had.
─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───
December 13th, 2019
Aziraphale had made it part of his daily routine over the last few months to get his morning tea from The Daily Grind. Today was one of The Daily Grind’s slower days. Only two other people were in the shop, and both were clacking away at their laptops, lost in their work. The bell chimed at 7:45 on the dot, as it always did when Aziraphale came in.
“Morning, Aziraphale,” Crowley called, not having turned to face him. He knew Aziraphale’s morning routine here in the coffee shop quite well at this point. Azi came in every day at 7:45 a.m. on the dot, ordered an Oolong tea, and made conversation with Crowley before heading back to his bookshop for what usually tended to be the rest of the day. Occasionally, he’d come back for some cakes or a hot chocolate in the later hours. Aziraphale seemed like a homebody, enjoying his tea and books and being sickeningly sweet to everyone. It made Crowley’s blood boil, watching this angel of a person order his cakes, chocolates, and teas, watching him savor each flavor. Occasionally, Aziraphale would stay in the shop to read, and Crowley noted he treated his books much the same: savoring each page, each word. Their gaze always lingered a little too long. How could it not when the sun would shine through the window, somehow always illuminating Aziraphale perfectly, as if the heavens praised his existence? Crowley wished the anger they felt meant Aziraphale annoyed them. It was quite the opposite: he intrigued them. But Crowley still had a partner. Not much of a partner if they were being honest, but a partner nonetheless. It didn't always feel like they had one. Not when they were kicked out to sleep in their car, called names, or shouted at.
Aziraphale approached the counter with that rosy-cheeked smile plastered on his face. Per usual, the rising sun shone through the window and illuminated him from behind in a halo. Crowley exhaled quietly, taking in the angel in all his glory. Aziraphale Z. Fell stood at 5’10” with a soft build. His shoulders were neither broad nor narrow, and his midsection was voluptuous. His hair was almost platinum blonde (he had begun to go white, but you could hardly tell) and fell in short curls, cheeks were rosy and round, with a bright smile nearly always plastered to his face. His nose was button-like and slightly upturned, and his eyes were as blue as the tumultuous seas. He wore almost comically outdated fashion, even for a middle-aged man, but it never looked funny on him. It suited him quite perfectly, always having been an old soul. He wore a tartan collar over a blue button-down, a tan waistcoat (with a pocketwatch), toned tan slacks, and tan and brown boots. Over it all, he wore a long, light tan overcoat.
Crowley shook their head, shaking the angelic image from their mind as best they could. They cleared their throat, “Oolong tea?”
“Good morning, Crowley. Precisely, thank you.” Aziraphale beamed. How was he this chipper at this time?
“You got it. Here or to go today?”
“Here, if you don’t mind.” He said politely and held up an old book.
“ ‘Course I don’t mind. I’ll bring it to you.” Crowley nodded and gave him an awkward, tight-lipped smile.
Aziraphale nodded, left the exact amount of money on the counter (and snuck in a little more to the tip jar when Crowley wasn’t looking. They always got weird about Aziraphale tipping them), and found his usual table by the window. Crowley expertly brewed Azi’s tea and grabbed him a few Eccles cakes on the house. They marched the cup and plate to the table, careful not to spill a drop of the tea.
Crowley looked at the book in Aziraphale’s hands. The cover was far too old and faded to read. Then they glanced at the bookshop, wondering how it fell into his hands. The barista hated interrupting his reading, but it was slow in the shop, and they were ever so curious about this person before them. Aziraphale looked up from his book as Crowley set down the items, peering over his reading glasses at the barista.
“Ah, wonderful- Oh! And some Eccles cakes, how kind of you.”
Crowley grimaced slightly at being called kind. “So… Your bookshop is old. Did you collect all those books yourself?”
Aziraphale chuckled and set his book aside. “Hardly. I’ve collected quite a few. But the collection was started by my great-grandfather and expanded upon by my grandfather. The shop is roughly 200 years old, a family business.”
“Ah, roped into the family business, were you?”
“Hardly,” Aziraphale didn’t seem offended, “ I’ve always loved the shop: I practically grew up there. I was happy to take it over when my grandfather passed.” Aziraphale smiled fondly at the memory of his grandfather.
His grandfather was in his nineties when he passed away, entrusting Aziraphale with the bookshop. Azirpahale had been running it for nearly two decades at this point. The corners of his lips pulled up into a bittersweet smile at the memories.
Thirty-one-year-old Azirpahale sat at his dying grandfather’s bedside, holding his frail hand. The skin was thin and loose beneath his fingertips, bringing tears to his eyes to see and feel his grandfather so weak. He had seemed so indestructible and eternal when Aziraphale was a kid. You always think they’re going to last forever when you’re young. His grandfather stirred slightly, turning to look at Aziraphale with labored breaths. The oxygen wasn’t helping much now, not when bodily functions were shutting down. A.Z. Fell II struggled to open his eyes to look at his grandchild.
“Angel…” The elder Aziraphale said weakly.
“Shh… I’m right here, grandad.” Aziraphale attempted to reassure his grandfather, sniffling as he did. He didn’t want his grandfather to get worked up; he wanted him at peace. Aziraphale had run the shop full-time over the last few months as his grandfather’s health declined rapidly. And he was soon to take it over completely, in his name and everything.
“I’ll take care of the shop. You know I will, grandad. You can rest now, it’s okay. Everything is taken care of.” Aziraphale assured. He watched as his grandfather nodded weakly and relaxed back into his bed. A.Z. Fell II held on to Aziraphale’s hand as tight as his fragile hand would allow. His breathing slowed bit by bit and stopped. The grip on his grandchild’s hand loosened. Aziraphale began to weep.
The present-day Aziraphale didn’t cry as he remembered; he had made peace with the passing. The bookshop was taken care of, as he promised it would be. He smiled softly and looked up at the barista who had just watched him stare off for thirty seconds.
Aziraphale blushed as he realized he had just stopped talking, “Apologies. My grandfather meant a great deal to me. I like to allow myself space to think of him when he comes to mind.”
Crowley shook their head, “Not a problem. I’d like to hear about him some time- if you’d like.” They smiled softly and walked off to help a customer who had come in.
“I’d like that,” Aziraphale replied. He smiled and delved back into his book, waiting for his tea to cool.