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Crowley prided himself on getting through his day with as little actual effort as possible. He didn’t mind his delivery job; at least he got to spend most of the day in his beautiful old car, beloved money pit that it was, and it let him meet a range of different people. He rather liked people, amusingly awful as they were.
He pulled the Bentley into an extremely illegal park by the kerb of the old bookshop, and hauled out a heavy parcel. Funny, he thought vaguely, that an antique bookshop could survive in this part of Soho, among the bath houses and adult shops. The sign above the door read A.Z. Fell & Co. Antiquarian and Unusual Books, and the paint was peeling.
Crowley took a deep breath, and pushed the door open, the heavy parcel under his arm. The bell jangled.
The shop was musty and dim, and a faint smell of mould rose from the floorboards. It was crammed full of books, which seemed to have been jammed in anyhow, and there were no shelves in sight, as if trivialities like shelving would take up too much valuable real estate that could otherwise be used for books.
“Hello?” Crowley called. “Delivery for Mr. Fell!”
“Oh,” said a voice, and the shop owner emerged from behind a stack of books. For one dazzling moment, as he was outlined by hazy light from a really disgustingly filthy window, he was a blurred figure surrounded by otherworldly radiance. “Oh, thank you so much. I’ve been expecting those.”
The glowing vision resolved into a short, plump man, dressed in a shabby grey three-piece suit, with light hair and smile lines around his eyes and mouth. He appeared about fifty, but there was something ageless about him, and not necessarily in a flattering way. Just born dowdy and middle-aged; some people were like that.
“Yes, well, here they are,” Crowley said, and handed over the parcel, wondering why his heart was hammering in his chest.
“You’re a dear.” Crowley was slightly taken aback, but amused. It had been a long time since anyone had called him a dear; that kind of compliment tended to tail off once you turned thirty. “Thank you. I’m afraid it’s rather a hot day to be hauling heavy parcels around. Can I offer you a cool drink? Or tea or coffee?”
Crowley knew he should refuse. The pay penalties for running late were not much fun. But something about this shop felt like stepping into another world, and there was something about this man and his shop that made him feel curious. “Sure. I never turn down free caffeine. Sign first.”
“Oh! Oh, I am sorry.” Mr. Fell took Crowley’s preferred pen. His pride and joy, if he admitted it to himself. That and his completely unnecessarily complicated diver’s watch, “What a nice pen.”
“It can write underwater,” Crowley said, unable to stop himself. “So can my watch. Work, I mean. Underwater.”
“Do you often have cause to write down the time underwater?” Mr. Fell raised his eyebrows over his half-moon spectacles.
“Well, uh. Not exactly. But sometimes it rains.”
“I see.” Mr. Fell’s small smile was unexpectedly sweet, as if Crowley had said something very clever and charming indeed. He liked the feeling. Mr. Fell signed with an old-fashioned flourish, and Crowley glanced down at it. Aziraphale Fell. What an old-fashioned, biblical sounding name. It suited him. “Do take a seat, and I’ll fetch you a drink.”
Crowley looked around for somewhere not covered with books, and settled on shoving a pile of musical scores off an ancient velvet-covered easy chair.
Fell returned with two steaming cups, and Crowley realised he’d forgotten to ask for coffee. He tasted the cup. Tea. Well, it was wet and it was free.
“So, Mr. Fell,” he said, “what do you do all day? Apart from waiting for deliveries, I mean.”
“Oh, I’m a bookseller,” Fell said, taking a seat opposite him. “I have a lot of rare books, and people come to me to try to buy them. And I sell other books, too, of course. The rarer ones are mostly in the back room.”
Try to buy. What a fascinatingly odd man. “What sort of rare books?”
“Oh, all sorts. I have a very eclectic collection. There are some lovely illuminated manuscripts. And some first editions. And some very, very old Bibles.”
“Bibles? Really?”
“Yes. Some are very beautiful, you know. The oldest are handwritten, of course, by monks. I have an extraordinary one from the 15th century.” His voice rattled out eagerly, just as Crowley’s tended to when asked about his car, or his pen, or his watch. “It’s wonderful, and quite blasphemous.” He hesitated, and for a moment Crowley thought he was going to be asked into the backroom to look at the Bibles. He wondered if that was the equivalent of being asked to see someone’s etchings. Looking at the well-manicured hand daintily holding the tea cup, he decided that, although most of his job had nothing to do with porn movie conceptions of deliverymen and he didn’t really want it to, in this case he probably wouldn’t mind at all. Fell gave him that small smile again, like sunlight flickering out from behind a cloud, his round pink-and-white cheeks deepening in shade and Crowley amended that to really not minding at all.
Instead, Fell primly crossed his ankles, and said, “And how do you enjoy your job?” He sounded like a kindly royal inquiring of a commoner who had lined up to hand over a bunch of flowers. Crowley was simultaneously irritated and endeared.
“Oh, fine,” he said vaguely. “I get to meet a lot of interesting people.” He tried to look flirtatious, but he supposed he really wasn’t very good at it. Or perhaps Fell wasn’t gay at all, although that, looking at him, seemed highly unlikely.
“Do you? That must be very pleasant.” Fell now sounded like he was being polite about some completely alien experience, which was mad. Surely people must come int the shop, no matter how messy and smelly it was.
“Not always,” Crowley admitted. “I met this one guy who kept going on about his collection of antique mousetraps. And there was one woman who was convinced I was a spy sent to steal her secret plans.”
“My goodness! Whatever for?”
“Apparently she was a secret agent. She was going to use the plans to take over the world. She had it all worked out. She was going to start by stealing all the chocolate in the world. She showed me her plans and threatened to disembowel me if I took them.”
“How alarming. That sounds very complicated.”
“She was a very complicated woman.” Crowley grinned at him.
“Did you ever find out what she actually did for a living?”
“Nah. I don’t think she really did anything except plan to take over the world.”
“I suppose that’s why they call them mad scientists.” Fell smiled, and Crowley found himself smiling back in a far more genuine way than usual. It felt like a connection rather than an attempt to charm, and that in itself was unsettling.
“Guess so. She was really quite nice in the end. She gave me a box of chocolates. I thought it was safest to take them.”
“That sounds very sensible.”
“I’ve been told I’m very sensible.” Crowley leered, putting as much wicked meaning as he could into a completely innocuous word.
“You don’t seem very sensible to me at all.”
For some reason, Crowley felt heat rise in his cheeks. “Well, that’s because you don’t know me very well.” He shamelessly winked. There was a moment in which one or the other of them, might have expressed a desire for Fell to get to know Crowley much better, but it passed without incident, and Crowley reluctantly realised he had swallowed the last sip of his tea. It had been surprisingly delicious.
“Well, I mustn’t keep you longer,” Fell said, and then there was nothing to it but to leave.
He’d probably never meet the strange man and his cramped bookshop ever again. Just another anecdote to add to his collection of human encounters, a Bible-collecting gentleman who gave him tea and called him ‘dear’.
Pity.
Crowley looked at his delivery list. A.Z. Fell & Co. Antiquarian and Unusual Books. Huh. The day was a rainy one, and Crowley was feeling distinctly damp as he pushed open the door to the bookshop. No excuse for a drink to cool down today.
“Oh, hello again,” Fell said, looking up from his desk. His smile beamed out like sunshine again, and Crowley felt oddly weak at the knees. Ridiculous. Being smiled at by a fat, stuffy, middle-aged old man should not affect him like this. “What have you got for me today?”
“I’m afraid it’s just a small parcel this time,” Crowley said, handing it over.
“Thank you, my dear.” My dear. Gosh.
The plump fingers with their shining fingernails ripped open the brown paper and bubblewrap, and Fell gave a sigh of delight. “Oh, I’ve been simply longing for this to arrive. It’s a first edition of ‘The Great Gatsby’. Rather American, but a beautiful story and a beautiful edition.” There was something greedy in the way he fondled the cover that made Crowley’s stomach feel hot and tight.
“Oh, great. I hate that book,” said Crowley.
Fell looked startled. “Really? Why?”
The honest answer was that it was one of the few books he remembered from school so Crowley had been relieved to be able to recognise it, and hopefully draw out the conversation a little longer. Possibly he should have been more positive, seeing Fell apparently loved it, it was too late now. but He fumbled in his memory for reasons. He’d written an essay on the damn thing. “Oh, I don’t know. I guess I just hated the idea of Gatsby believing so strongly in his dream that he becomes real to him. Get this, right, he’s so obsessed with his idea of Daisy that he can’t see she doesn’t love him or what she’s really like. It’s tragic, and it’s supposed to be beautiful, but it’s just stupid. People, right. I’ll never understand them.”
Fell was looking at him with an odd expression on his face. “Yes, I suppose you’re right. I never thought of it that way.”
“I mean, he’s a bit of a git, but what really gets my goat is that he can’t love her for what she actually is, flaws and all. Doesn’t matter that she’s shitty. She deserves to be loved for herself anyway.”
“I suppose she does,” Fell said. “I confess I’m often at a loss to understand people myself, although books help.” He looked directly at Crowley, in a way that made him feel rather like a butterfly pinned to a page, beautiful and helpless. It was undoubtedly hot as hell. “That’s a lovely way of looking at it. Thank you.”
“Cool. Welcome,” Crowley said, warm inside, but also slightly nauseated at himself for being warmed and turned on… Lovely. He was not lovely, he was not at all the type of person who got called lovely, like… like a lady helping with church flowers. It was demeaning. He was cool and stylish and hot. But still. “I’ll let you get on with your reading.”
“Oh, yes. Thank you.”
“Bye, then.”
“Goodbye, Mr. - er -”
“Crowley,” Crowley said. “Call me Crowley.”
“Goodbye, Crowley.” That smile again. “You can call me Aziraphale.”
Crowley left, feeling very pleased with himself, and looking forward to seeing Aziraphale Z. Fell again soon.
Two weeks later, Crowley was mildly desperate. Of course, he could just go to the bookshop. Pretend to buy a book, unlikely as that was, even though he had recognised ‘The Great Gatsby’ and been able to name two whole characters. He’d even been able to express an opinion on one being shitty and the other being a git, a level of memory and insight would have probably given his Year Nine English teacher a heart attack. Apparently, a crush made him an intellectual.
That was it. Go to the bookstore, ask Aziraphale for recommendations, ask him out for coffee. Easy. There was no reason to freeze with panic at the thought. Absolutely no reason to decide it was a more logical idea to buy a box of chocolates, address it to Aziraphale with no return address, and pay the bloody rapacious postage his company charged to send it so he could deliver it himself.
He had no excuse at all for that being exactly what he did.
“Oh, hello,” Aziraphale said, smiling at him. “How lovely to see you again. Have you brought me something?”
“Yeah.” Crowley handed over the package. “And I was hoping you…” He trailed off, and then made an effort. “I was hoping you would have time to show me your rare books collection.” It still sounded like a come-on." I looked you up online and you’ve got all kinds of crazy books on demonology and witch-hunting. I’m very interested in the occult."
“The occult?” Aziraphale raised his eyebrows. “Are you indeed? I would have thought you to be more of a skeptic.” Crowley didn’t answer that, because it was true. “Well, I suppose I can make time to show you my collection, if you think you can handle it.”
“A pile of old books? I’ll be fine. What will they do, threateningly sit there at me?”
“I don’t know how much you know about the occult, but I should warn you that these books are extremely dangerous. They can cause terrible harm if they fall into the wrong hands.”
“Really?” Crowley raised a skeptical eyebrow over his sunglasses.
“Oh, yes. I have one book in particular that is very evil. I keep it locked in a safe, and I never open it without a great deal of preparation. It could destroy anyone who reads it.”
“Really.”
“Oh, yes. It’s called the Necronomicon. It’s a book of dark magic, and if you look at it with an unprepared or unholy mind, it can turn your mind inside out and feed it to dark gods from another dimension.”
“Gosh. Really?”
“Oh, yes. I have another book that was cursed by a witch while she was burning alive in the most horrid fashion. Everyone who has read it suffered a dreadful, violent fate. I keep it wrapped in lead foil, and I never touch it.”
“Wow,” Crowley said, weakly.
“I have another book that if you listen carefully, you can hear it whispering and calling your name, begging you to read it and free the soul of the demon that is trapped within. I have to keep it locked in a chest with holy water and blessed salt.”
“Holy water?”
“Oh, yes. You’d be surprised how useful it is.”
“Wow,” Crowley said again. “What will it do if it escapes?”
“Kill everyone in sight and drag them to Hell.”
“I see.” Crowley swallowed hard.
"So you see, it’s not the sort of thing I can show you casually. I would have to prepare myself first. Line the room with my rare Bibles. Not the ones with misprints, though, they are quite useless. “I’m afraid I’m rather busy today, but perhaps I can show you another time.”
“Sure,” Crowley said, thinking that he was never going to set foot in this shop again, no matter how bewilderingly attractive its owner was. Either Aziraphale was insane, or this place was going to be featured on the next episode of “Strange and Inexplicable Bookshop Tragedies.”
Aziraphale opened the box. “Oh, choccies! How delightful! Would you like one before you go? I’m afraid I have to reserve all the truffles for the demon. They taste like immortal souls, you see.” He looked at Crowley, gaze limpid and pure, and just the faintest simple of soft skin by his mouth as he tried to control his expression…
“You bastard,” Crowley said, completely besotted, and Aziraphale’s laughter fell musically on the air. “You utter bastard.”
In the end, Aziraphale let him eat all the truffles.
The next time Crowley visited the shop, it was a sunny day, and the bell jangled in a pleasant way as he pushed open the door.
“Hi! Delivery for you, Aziraphale!”
“Oh, do come through, dear boy,” Aziraphale called back. “I’m in the back room.”
Crowley somehow muscled his way through the cramped shop, past shelves of dusty books and piles of even dustier ones on the floor, and through a curtained doorway into a slightly less cramped back room. This one had a sofa, a desk, and a large mahogany table covered with books, papers and a computer that looked like it belonged in a Museum of Technology somewhere.
Aziraphale was sitting at the table, reading a book, as if there were no such things as customers. Honestly, that seemed pretty accurate. “Good morning, Crowley. How are you this beautiful day?”
“Fine, fine.” Crowley looked around the room. “This is where you keep your evil grimoires and blasphemous Bibles, then?”
“Most of them. I have a few in the front room in cases, but these are the ones I’m actually working on. I’m cataloguing them at the moment.”
“Cataloguing? What, all of them, or just the ones without soul-eating demons and curses?”
“Well, no, not all of them. Just the ones I’m selling. And the ones I’m not selling, of course. I like to keep track of them.”
“Seems like a lot of work,” Crowley said, a bit feebly, looking around at the towers of books on every surface.
“I keep myself busy. I have a few other things to do, of course. I have to keep the shop running, and there’s always someone wanting to buy a book. I have to make sure they aren’t trying to nefariously make away with one.”
“You mean, steal it?”
Aziraphale hummed noncommittally.
“What do you do?”
“Oh, I do the usual. I make them a cup of tea and I explain to them the error of their ways and the consequences of not changing them.”
“Gosh. Sounds terrific,” Crowley said, somewhat helplessly. Was Aziraphale really confessing to being part of organised crime? Literary organised crime? Or was it the magical books all over again?
“It is, rather,” Aziraphale said, and his blue eyes twinkled. Well, so what if he was in organised crime? The man looked like an angel. Or like an overstuffed sofa that it would be really nice to sit on.
“Here, this is for you,” Crowley said, and handed over the package and paperwork and his pen. This time it was sugared almonds, which were far more expensive than some nuts covered in sugar had any right to be, but Aziraphale seemed to be the kind of man who would like sugared almonds.
“Thank you so much, my dear,” Aziraphale said, taking the parcel. “I hope you don’t mind my saying so, but you look rather hot and bothered. Would you like something to drink?”
Crowley draped himself on the sofa, as elegantly and sexily as he could manage in his uniform. If only he could deliver in one of his really sharp suits. Watch Aziraphale appear immune to his charms then.
“I don’t suppose you are allowed to drink on the job? It’s just that I have this rather impudent bottle of wine I’ve been looking for an excuse to open.”
“I don’t suppose one glass would hurt,” Crowley said, his mouth twitching at the thought of wine being described as impudent. He wasn’t sure if it was more embarrassing or adorable. He wanted to stay to explore the thought more. Anyway, it was his last delivery, he was sure he could make it back to the depot in time, and he liked the idea of drinking with Aziraphale. “I’ve never been one for rules. If you’re sure you don’t mind.”
“Of course not. It’s very kind of you to keep me company. Now, be aware, this is a very flamboyant vintage.”
Crowley watched him open the wine and pour it out into two antique-looking glasses, thinking the vintage wasn’t the only flamboyant thing around. He took a sip. It was rich with red fruit and opulent, and he took a second, deeper sip.
Two hours later, he was collapsed on the sofa, listening in fascination as Aziraphale, who was very definitely sloshed, told him about the time he had to stop a woman from stealing a first edition of ‘The Bab Ballads’, and how she had tried to seduce him by offering him oral pleasures.
“I thought she was offering to sing to me, but it appeared I had quite the wrong end of the, er. Stick.”
The choice of word made Crowley convulse with laughter. “Oh, angel. You mean she actually offered to give you a blowjob in the shop?”
“Yes! She was very insistent about it. I told her it was definitely not that kind of shop, and I am quite definitely not the kind of man who would take advantage of a lady like that.”
“Of course, you’re not,” Crowley said without thinking. “No one could possibly think you were…” He trailed off. He was pretty sure Aziraphale was gay. But sometimes the line between gay and posh was hard to define. Maybe he’d got something wrong. “Er. Is that the time? Gotta go.”
“My dear fellow, you’re as tight as a drum. I couldn’t possibly let you drive in this state. You must—you must stay the night. I have a little flat upstairs.”
“Great,” said Crowley. So Aziraphale really was gay. “Sure.”
Aziraphale swayed rather unsteadily towards him, and Crowley sat up a little and tipped his face up to be kissed. Instead, Aziraphale produced a lace-edged handkerchief from somewhere, which he moistened with saliva and dabbed at Crowley’s mouth like a mother cleaning up a grubby toddler.
“You, er, dribbled wine a little. I’m afraid all my pyjamas will be too big for you, but you must make do. Fortunately, I keep the linen in my guest bedroom turned, although it’s been a long time since I had reason to make use of it.” He looked tragic at the thought, all his laugh lines collapsing into weary ones, and Crowley made a grab for his waist as he moved away, intending to lock him into an embrace.
He missed.
“Come along, my dear,” Aziraphale called down the stairs, as Crowley staggered after him, trying to avoid falling over the books. “I’ll show you where everything is.”
Crowley followed him up the stairs, feeling like a lost puppy. Aziraphale showed him the bathroom, and the kitchen, and the living room, and finally the guest bedroom. “I’m afraid it’s not very elegant, but it’s clean and comfortable. Goodnight, Crowley.”
“Goodnight,” Crowley said, and Aziraphale closed the door.
Crowley looked around the room, which was small and rather shabby, but very clean, with none of the horrendous dust of below. There was a bed, neatly made, and a wardrobe, and a chest of drawers. He opened the wardrobe. It was full of old-fashioned suits, and several tartan dressing gowns. The chest of drawers yielded pyjamas, also tartan. Dreadful, but distinctly arousing.
Crowley stripped off his clothes, leaving them in a heap on the floor, and put on the pyjamas. They smelled faintly of mothballs and lavender, and were so big on him that they hung off him like a tent. He felt like a child playing dress-up in his father’s clothes, until he started thinking about the fact that at some point Aziraphale had worn these against his bare skin, which sent his thoughts in other directions.
No. He was not going to have a wank in a customer’s bed, wearing their pyjamas. He wasn’t that drunk and desperate. He was handsome and hot and could have anyone he wanted, and it was just—just—it was stupid to be so hung up on a dumpy bookseller, that’s what it was.
He lay in the narrow bed, smelling the scent of mothballs and lavender, and wondering if he should just go home. The chances of Aziraphale appearing in the doorway with sexy intent seemed increasingly unlikely. But if he did, Aziraphale might never speak to him again. And he was drunk out of his mind and should bear that in, er. Mind.
He woke up to find Aziraphale standing over him, holding a cup . At least, he thought it was Aziraphale. It was all quite blurry. And there might be other people wandering around in tartan, who knew. One of them was probably responsible for the spikes being driven into his head.
“Good morning, Crowley dear,” he said. “Here. This might help.”
“Thanks,” Crowley said, pushing himself up on one elbow and taking the cup.
It was a strange solution of… oh no. This looked like the kind of hangover cure an elderly gent’s valet would hand to him in the 1920s. He was almost sure there was a raw egg in it, and something brown. It looked vile. Aziraphale looked hopefully at Crowley, and with reckless abandon he threw back his head and swallowed it down.
When he stopped choking, he was surprised to find that his vision had cleared enough to take in all of Aziraphale’s solicitous care, and his head hurt a lot less.
“Wow. That’s miraculous.”
“Indeed.” Aziraphale twinkled at him.
Crowley cautiously sat up. The world whirled for only a moment, then settled. “I’m sorry about last night. I didn’t mean to get hammered and have to sleep over.”
“Nonsense. I was quite tipsy myself, and I… I enjoyed the company.” Aziraphale turned away. I’ll see you downstairs when you’re ready."
When Crowley went downstairs, dressed in his crumpled uniform and looking less than stylish, Aziraphale was already in the shop, sorting through a pile of books. “Ah, there you are. I’ve made breakfast. Would you like some?”
Crowley ate a fried egg sandwich, because Aziraphale was apparently an angel who knew just what Crowley needed to fix a hangover, and actual coffee, which Aziraphale clearly considered a breakfast drink, while they argued goodheartedly over nothing. He wished he could call sick off work and trade silly stories with Aziraphale all day. He didn’t dare, with undelivered parcels still in the Bentley, but he wished…
He wished he could wake up every morning to Aziraphale’s smile and breakfast and the feeling that he belonged at the table. He wished he lived there, instead of at his own spartan little flat, although God knows he would have to take a duster to the bookshop and clear the clutter off the kitchenette counters.
Then Aziraphale walked him to the door, and what he wished most of all was to be kissed goodbye, like a husband leaving for work. They stood there for a bit, as if waiting for it happen.
“I hope you’ll come again soon.” Aziraphale seemed to mean it.
“I will,” Crowley said, and meant it.
Crowley sauntered through the door of the bookshop. “Hi, Aziraphale…”
“Hello, Crowley.” Aziraphale’s smile was warm and welcoming. “How lovely to see you. What have you brought me today?”
“I dunno. I just deliver them,” Crowley said, feeling heat creep over his cheeks. Actually, he had bought and posted to Aziraphale the most suitable present he could afford with a Bentley to upkeep. He had finally decided on a box of sweets from a new artisan confectioner, which he hoped would be to Aziraphale’s taste.
“Oh, well, I’m sure I’ll enjoy whatever it is. Come through to the back room.”
The back room was now Crowley’s favourite place in the world. It was full of Aziraphale’s presence, from the old-fashioned sofa to the antique desk to the piles of books. Maybe that would work. He could try seducing Aziraphale by reading a book of his choice, even if it was a bloody Bible.
“So what have you been doing this week?” Crowley dropped onto the sofa uninvited. “Thwarting demons?”
“Oh, not much. I had to deal with a man who wanted to buy a book, but I managed to persuade him that it wasn’t for sale. I don’t know why people keep trying to buy books they won’t care for. They always seem to think they can change my mind.”
“Perhaps they imagine a book shop exists to sell books.” Aziraphale raised a disapproving eyebrow, and Crowley scrambled to regain lost ground. “I can’t imagine anyone trying to change your mind about a book.”
“Well, it does happen, I’m afraid. I have to be firm but kind with people. They usually see reason, and then I make them a cup of tea for being good.”
Crowley thought that was one of the sexiest things he had ever heard, but he wasn’t going to dig around inside his head and libido to figure out why. “Is that why you made me a cup of tea?”
“Oh no, dear. You just looked rather overheated, and I was sorry for you.” Aziraphale delicately tore open the package. “Oh, how marvellous. And no return address again.”
“Perhaps you have a secret suitor,” Crowley said, attempting to sound flirtatious. Unfortunately, nerves had overtaken his throat, and instead of coming out as smooth and seductive as he intended, it came out as a somewhat garbled purr.
Aziraphale seemed to understand what he meant. “I suppose it’s possible, although it does seem unlikely. Perhaps I should put something in the window. ‘Secret admirer, please reveal yourself.’”
“You’d put something like that in your window?”
“Why not? After all, there is a small matter of logistics. I can’t very well kiss someone I don’t know.” Aziraphale smiled at his little joke.
“Oh.” Crowley swallowed. “I suppose not.”
“And I’m not sure I would want to kiss a stranger.”
“Course not.”
“I try to be kind and nice, but I do take a while to warm up to people. Perhaps that’s why I have a lot of friendly acquaintances, but no real friends,” Aziraphale said wistfully.
“You’ve got me,” Crowley blurted out, and nearly swallowed his tongue, which was a shame because he considered it one of his best, and most useful features.
“Oh." Aziraphale looked taken aback, and then that smile blossomed again, slower and more uncertainly than ever before. “I suppose I do.”
It was now or never. Crowley arranged himself seductively against the desk, one slim hip jutting out, and laid his sunglasses down so he could look at Aziraphale through his eyelashes. “I don’t wear just any man’s pyjamas, you know. I’m not that easy. We’re friends, aren’t we?”
“I hope we are.” Aziraphale’s cheeks were a really attractive shade of pink, and Crowley felt his heart give a leap.
“So do you have any objection to kissing a friend?”
“I…” Aziraphale took a step closer. His eyes were wide, and his lips parted slightly. “I suppose not.”
“That’s good,” Crowley said, and leaned forward to press his mouth against Aziraphale’s.
Aziraphale made a startled noise and pulled back before any contact was made.
“I’m sorry,” Crowley said, pulling back. “I thought—”
“No, no, it’s quite all right,” Aziraphale said, but he didn’t look like he meant it. He was looking at Crowley with an expression of deep longing and regret, which was confusing as hell, because he could have Crowley any minute, he was right there and had just made a move. Aziraphale’s fingers twisted in the hem of his waistcoat. “I’m sorry, Crowley. I think you’d better go.”
“Right,” Crowley said. “Fine. I’ll see you around, then. Next delivery.”
“Yes,” Aziraphale said, and Crowley left, feeling like he had been kicked in the chest.
He went home and poured himself a large glass of whisky. It was all right. He was cool and sophisticated and hot, and he could have anyone he wanted. So what if he wanted Aziraphale, who didn’t want him? It wasn’t the end of the world. Plenty of men out there. Younger and thinner and less deeply strange and without inexplicable passions for tartan and dust. He would spend one night drinking whisky and watching terrible sitcoms until he passed out on the sofa, and then forget all about Aziraphale Z. Fell and his bloody cups of tea.
The next day, he went to work and did his job. He delivered packages and chatted with customers and tried not to think about Aziraphale, who was probably still sitting in his bookshop, eating chocolates, discouraging customers and reading about demons.
A week later, he went back to the bookshop with an actual delivery of a parcel not from himself. Catalogue cards, from the declaration, as if computers hadn’t been invented. Typical of a bookshop, and owner, stuck in time. Crowley could have got someone else to cover the delivery, he supposed, but no matter how hard he tried to feel bitter annd rejected, he wanted to see Aziraphale again, desperately. He’d spent sleepless night thinking of that damn twinkle, and the way the man had looked after his with his hangover, and the fucking unfair smile, and most of all the way Aziraphale had looked longingly at him, as if Crowley had been the one to reject the kiss. He really wanted to know what that meant.
“Package delivery.”
Aziraphale turned around from the bookshelf and smiled somewhat nervously at him and God, Crowley was gone all over again, head over heels. He glowered anyway. “For you.”
“Thank you, my dear.” Aziraphale took the package and signed for it, and Crowley turned to leave. “Wait. I wanted to apologise for last time. I… I’m afraid I was rather rude to you. I shouldn’t have sent you away so abruptly. I didn’t know what to do. I didn’t want to—I hope I’m not wrong to consider us friends—I value your friendship and I don’t want to lose—”
“Forget it.” Crowley didn’t really want to hear the ‘just friends’ speech, but even less did he want to watch Aziraphale wring his hands in distress, and least of all did he want to never see Aziraphale again. “I shouldn’t have tried to kiss you. After all, I’m just the delivery man.”
“You’re my friend. My only friend, really. You don’t understand,” Aziraphale said wretchedly. “You see, I’ve never—not even once. I know I’m fussy, and tedious, and not attractive…”
“Of course you’re bloody—you’ve never? Never had sex?” Aziraphale shook his head, misery welling up in his eyes. “Never been kissed?”
“Never.”
“Not even a little peck on the lips?”
“Not even that.”
“But you’re so cuddly. And soft,” Crowley reached out and squeezed one of Aziraphale’s love handles for emphasis. “And you smell nice.”
“Thank you,” Aziraphale said politely, although he looked rather puzzled.
“I mean, how can you be so old and never have been kissed?”
“I’m only fifty! Do you really need to make this even more humiliating?”
“Wow,” Crowley breathed. “Hot.”
“That is hardly an appropriate response, and—”
Crowley cut off his words by taking Aziraphale’s face in his hands and bringing it so close that their breath feathered on each other’s lips. “I think you need to take it from here, angel.”
Aziraphale stared at him for a long moment, his eyes wide and blue and full of fear and hope, and then he closed the gap between them and pressed his lips against Crowley’s. It was a very chaste kiss, but it still sent electricity through Crowley’s body. He leaned into the kiss, trying to encourage Aziraphale without scaring him away, and Aziraphale responded with a tiny touch of his tongue against the seam of Crowley’s lips.
Crowley sighed and opened his lips invitingly, but Aziraphale pulled away without deepening the kiss. “Was that all right?”
“Best kiss I’ve ever had,” Crowley said sincerely, and leaned in to kiss him again. This time he took the lead. When he tried to part Aziraphale’s lips with his own, there was a moment in which Aziraphale went rigid, and Crowley prepared to pull back. Then Aziraphale made an incredibly gorgeous noise, the closest a middle-aged man could get to squealing with delight. Crowley swiped his tongue against his just once, slow and luxuriously and withdrew.
“Oh,” Aziraphale said, pulling back. “Oh, that was lovely.”
“We should do it again to make up for lost time,” Crowley said, and kissed him again. This time Aziraphale kissed him back hungrily, his mouth opening under Crowley’s and his hands coming up to cup Crowley’s face.
They kissed for a long time, until Crowley’s lips were tingling, his body was pliant with the warmth of those plump arms around him, and he was achingly hard in his trousers. He wanted nothing more than to drag Aziraphale to the sofa and tear off his shirt, but he wasn’t sure if Aziraphale was ready for that. He’d just had his first kisses, after all. Crowley could afford to be a bloody gentleman, because if he had his way, they had forever together.
“I’m sorry, sweetheart,” Aziraphale said eventually, pulling away. “I’m afraid I’m not very good at this.”
“Nonsense,” Crowley said, and kissed him again to demonstrate it, shuddering when Aziraphale nipped very gently at his bottom lip. “See? You’re fantastic. A natural. Bloody brilliant,” Crowley said fondly, ruffling Aziraphale’s pale hair. He was pretty sure Aziraphale knew perfectly well what the kisses had been doing to Crowley, and wanted to be praised. Insufferable bastard.
“Is that a promise?”
“Yeah. Next delivery.” He stole another kiss, pressing his lips to the very centre of Aziraphale’s love-swollen lower lip.
“But when will that be?”
“Tomorrow.” Gosh, Aziraphale looked adorable, all kiss-flushed and plaintive. Spoiled man, once he was kissed he was going to demand kisses all the time. Crowley wondered how soon was too soon to tell a shy virgin bookseller you were head-over-heels in love with him. Should probably wait until at least the third date.
“I’ll deliver you red roses.”