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Paris, 1946
CROWLEY
MEET IN PARIS STOP CHEZ CAVE Á VIN FRIDAY EVENING SIX OCLOCK STOP VERY IMPORTANT STOP NEW LOOK
AZIRAPHALE
Crowley had no idea what Aziraphale wanted to see him about — his telegram came out of the blue. The last time they’d seen each other was in London a few years prior. The phrase “very important” could indicate anything (including plenty of things Crowley found very unimportant), but the fact that the angel had notified him via telegram rather than by letter, telephone, or even a visit to his flat made the demon question the urgency.
He entered the pub through a side door (better parking there) and scanned the scene. So far, no Aziraphale, but there was still plenty more to explore, including the main pub area by the front entrance. As Crowley sauntered his way in that direction, someone bumped into him.
“Terribly sorry, my dear,” the man apologized. Crowley glanced at him to shrug it off — a crowd like this warranted the occasional bumping into one another — but one glance turned into a full look at his facial features. Blue eyes, slightly upturned nose… his eyes were a bit younger-looking, yes, and his curls were dark rather than white… not to mention, the face full of makeup... Aziraphale had said something about a new look, but could this gentleman be…?
“…Angel?” Crowley pondered aloud.
Miles Maitland had been living in France for seven years since the warrant for his arrest threatened his livelihood. Following the rather rocky start, he hoped for a breath of fresh air and a chance to be himself; after all, laws regarding homosexuality were less rigid there than they were in England. He missed his life and his friends dearly, poor Aggie especially, but for what it was worth, there were no prison cells waiting for him here (at least, not for his sexuality). That, and the crêpes were to die for. And now that the war was over, freedom reigned for everyone else as well, even if there were still plenty of pieces to pick up.
He looked the mysterious stranger up and down. “Angel?” Miles beamed. “I say, I haven’t been called that in ages. More people think of me as, well… as a demon type. But for you,” he extended his hand, “tell me whichever you fancy.”
“What I…” Crowley swallowed as he took his hand, his throat dry and mind racing. Did he just say demon? Had Aziraphale… fallen? He could barely make out his scent, his presence, but perhaps that was all that remained of it. Nonetheless, it certainly fulfilled Crowley’s criteria of “very important”. “Did you… I mean… did Heaven… or Hell—"
“Dear boy, I was destined to Hell from Day One,” Miles replied, squeezing his hand. “Now would you like to make the most of it before we’re there together?”
Crowley spotted a tray of martinis and snatched one. He downed the drink straight away to clear his throat and mind (to an extent). “Right,” he managed to choke out, “I think there are some things we need to discuss, but… not here.”
“Yes, I quite agree,” Miles responded. “Why don’t we take this somewhere, say, less occupied?”
Crowley nodded. A crowded room was seldom quiet or still enough for the average human to follow along with any sort of supernatural entity’s conversation; that being said, a matter like this was far too delicate in front of an audience.
~*~*~
Aziraphale thanked the barman for his sherry and Crowley's whiskey. He examined the crowd around him from his barstool once again and checked his pocket watch. The angel could only keep the stool next to him empty with a miracle for so long (a teensy one, of course), and the pub was filling with patrons — one was bound to try to claim it.
“Is this seat taken?”
Drat.
Aziraphale looked to the gentleman to his right and paused. “Crowley? Is that you?”
“Come again?” the man responded, taking his pipe out of his mouth.
Aziraphale searched his face and landed on his eyes. The resemblance was uncanny, yes, but those brown eyes certainly weren’t Crowley’s. Though, come to think of it, what color were they before his fall? Not only that, but the demon didn’t have a mustache — not to his knowledge, at least — nor did he share the birthmark barely peeking underneath.
“You must have me confused for someone else,” the gentleman said, extending his hand. “Eddie Littlejohn — though I’m usually called Ginger.”
“Ahh,” Aziraphale shook his hand and nodded, “you’re right then. Erm, Fell’s the name. A. Z. Fell.”
“Well, Mr. Fell,” Ginger said, “nice to meet a fellow Englishman. My French gets me through the day, I suppose, but by the end, it’s all rather rubbish, it is.” He hadn’t expected to use it as long as he had — in truth, he meant to go to Ireland, then America, with the money Adam gave him for Nina, but he decided to stop by France first for a proper bottle of wine, and, well… he had a hard time leaving. “So what brings you to Paris? Business or pleasure?”
“A bit of both, really. I had some business this morning, but now I’m meeting my... friend, a dear old friend — one who looks awfully like you, coincidentally.”
“Is that so?” Ginger said. “Blimey, imagine that, someone walking around with my face. I’d love to meet him, just to see it myself, I’ve never had a twin before.”
“Perhaps you will, once he shows up,” Aziraphale replied, checking his watch again. Where could Crowley be? Oh dear, what if he hadn’t gotten his telegram?
“Tell you what,” Ginger said, reaching into his pocket, “while you’re waiting, I could keep his seat warm and show you a little trick.”
Aziraphale’s eyes lit up. “You do magic tricks?” This definitely wasn’t Crowley.
"A little here, a little there," Ginger said, taking Aziraphale's enthusiasm for a 'yes' and claiming Crowley's stool. “Just things I’ve picked up from people I meet. I’m a fast learner, I am.”
He laid out four coins into a square. Aziraphale watched giddily as Ginger, with a sleight of hand, gradually brought each coin to one corner. It took him long enough to figure out how Adam managed to do it without the aid of playing cards.
“Bravo, sir!” the angel clapped. “Bravo!”
“Liked that, did you? Think you could pull it off yourself?”
“I do believe I can, actually,” Aziraphale chuckled, pleased with this knowledge.
“Is that so? Care to make it interesting?" He pulled out his wallet.
“Oh, no, I don’t gamble.”
“C’mon, just for fun, old boy, make things interesting. How much?”
“I told you, I do not gamble." Gambling was a serious offense, mind you, and he wouldn’t hear the end of it from upstairs if they found out he engaged in it. “But I’m quite sure I could replicate it, and I certainly don’t want your money for it.”
“What makes you so sure?” Ginger asked, fiddling with his pipe.
“Well, I don’t mean to brag, but I’ll have you know, I did once perform a magic act on the West End Stage.”
Ginger took his pipe out of his mouth. “You must be pulling my leg.”
Aziraphale couldn’t help but beam. “Believe me, sir, I'm not one to pull legs. Just a few years ago, actually, I entertained soldiers one night. It was quite a show. I did the infamous Bullet Catch. More people, poor things, have died merely attempting it, you know.”
“The Bullet Catch,” Ginger breathed.
“Yes, you see… I had a — a random member from the audience fire a bullet at me, and I caught it between my teeth!” He smiled a toothy grin for added effect. “I got a standing ovation.” He didn’t mention anything about the blank stares to his failed attempts before the final act, but that wasn’t important.
“Well, I’ll be jiggered!” Ginger exclaimed. “How the devil did you do that?”
“Oh, come now, you know a good magician never tells his secrets.” Though with that sort of language, he thought, Ginger wasn’t too far off.
“I suppose not. I just had no idea I was in the presence of a professional. Nice of you to be an honest chap, save me my time and my money.”
Aziraphale smiled and brushed it off.
“Mr. Fell, wasn't it? Could you show me something? Maybe teach me something new?”
Aziraphale eyed him. “Not to gamble, I hope?”
“Course not,” Ginger lied, taking a sip of Crowley's whiskey. “Just for a new party trick, that’s all. The coins in the corners get old after a while.”
“I don’t want to accuse you of not keeping your word,” he said carefully, “but just to be safe… I’ll show you one trick, and one trick only. You called yourself a fast learner, didn’t you? Well, if you can pull this off, you can certainly do anything.” He turned to the barman and asked in the best French he could muster (Monsieur Rossignol would be proud, Aziraphale and Aziraphale alone was certain of it) if there was any chance he might have a turnip. Although it was an unusual ingredient to have at a pub, he had a sneaking suspicion one might turn up anyway.
~*~*~
Miles led Crowley down a hallway, struggling to keep his excitement in. He’d gotten to know the owner, Léon, fairly well over the majority of his time in France, and many of the pub's patrons sported a similar story as his. He’d picked up strange men there before, but none as… well… scrumptious as this one. Broody, mysterious, older, and he’d referred to him — Miles Maitland — as “Angel”! Imagine that! How simply divine!
Miles opened a supply closet — one he wasn’t unfamiliar with — and, seeing as no one had claimed it, brought the both of them in and closed the door.
“Bit snug, but it’ll do,” Crowley said, turning the light on. “Right. I've got some thoughts, but... you should probably go first.”
“Good idea,” Miles said, running his hand up Crowley’s face. “You know, normally I’d leave the light off, but I’d love to look at you first.”
Crowley’s breath hitched. “You — what?” he choked. What exactly had Aziraphale been up to in the past few years?
Miles lifted Crowley’s sunglasses from his face and gasped, eyes wide. “Good heavens… I say, what’s happened to your eyes? They look simply ghastly!”
Crowley furrowed his brow and found his voice once again. “What do you mean, what’s happened to my eyes?”
“Take a look for yourself!” Miles exclaimed, pulling out his (empty) compact. He couldn’t find decent naughty salt in France like he had in England (how dull), making any explanation for the eyes even more peculiar on his end.
Crowley peered into the small mirror but it didn’t answer his question. “What’s different? They look normal to me.”
“Normal?” Miles scoffed. “They look like a serpent’s!”
Crowley whipped his head up. “You act surprised, why do you act surprised?” he asked, mostly to Miles but also to himself. “You’ve seen my eyes thousands of times, why would you of all beings be surprised?”
“Darling, I’d never forget eyes like those in a million years!”
“Six thousand.”
“What?”
“Nearly six thousand years, we’ve known each other.”
“Six thousand — what the devil are you talking about?”
Crowley snapped his finger and Miles froze, his stance and facial features neutralized — which was a good sign that the figure before him wasn’t, indeed, a fallen Aziraphale, but he proceeded, just in case.
“Who are you?” Crowley asked.
“Miles Maitland.” Another good sign. Crowley let out a breath.
“Does the name Aziraphale mean anything to you?”
“Aziraphale?“ Miles repeated. “I’m afraid not, darling. Sounds rather posh, if you ask me.”
“If you’re not Aziraphale, then what did you take me here for?”
“Same as you, I thought — I was hoping for a quick shag with a pretty boy, such as yourself. Isn’t that why you called me ‘angel’?”
“A quick — oh.” Crowley blushed. “Yeah, that’s… that’s not gonna work out. Flattered, really, I am, nothing personal, but… I’m not exactly… and I don’t really… erm… sorry.”
Miles clicked his tongue. “Can’t blame me for trying, in a place like this.”
“Yes, well… never mind. So you’re a human, then? Not an angel or a demon?”
A smile slithered onto Miles’ face. “I’m certainly no angel,” he replied. “Ask anyone in London, they’ll tell you Lady Maitland’s boy was far too devilish to be a saint. That’s why there’s a warrant for his arrest, why he had to run away to France, why he can’t go home, why he…” His smirk fell and his body tensed, but only for a few moments. With a new breath, he pushed his smile back on and relaxed his shoulders. “But yes, I am quite human. That being said… I can be whatever you’d like me to be, so long as it’s not a bore.”
Crowley watched Miles’ eyes, recognizing a certain sadness and exhaustion hidden by rosy cheeks. He knew what it was like to be driven away because of your differences; to be betrayed and punished by those who promised to love and protect you unconditionally; to feel alone, utterly alone. “Right,” he whispered, “I’m going to snap my fingers, and once I’ve left, you’ll… wake up, having dreamt of… something pleasant, with… someone. Someone who looks nothing like me. A man, if you’d prefer, anyone you’d like — perhaps not someone here, that could get sticky if you ran into them, but… something pleasant, nonetheless.”
He raised his hand to snap then paused for a moment. “One more thing… don’t let anyone, anyone, make you feel ashamed of who She made you to be, just because they don’t understand, because they don’t want to understand. Their ignorance is their loss, not yours.”
Crowley traded Miles' compact for his sunglasses and returned them to his face. He snapped and walked out, hoping Aziraphale was still somewhere in the building. He was only glad he wasn’t right there to witness their final exchange and accuse him of being — gag — “nice”.
A fog lifted from Miles’ mind as he registered where he was. He peeked outside for any sort of clue of the past five or so minutes but found no one around. He couldn’t remember exactly what had just happened, or who he was inside this closet with, but he felt… content.
~*~*~
Aziraphale, who had now left his seat in search of Crowley, was about to give up when he spotted him wandering around the next room. “Crowley!” he called, gaining the demon’s attention. “Crowley, where have you been? You’re late!”
“Aziraphale,” Crowley said, making his way over, relieved to see his angel. “I’ve been looking all over for you — where have you been?”
“I was sitting at the bar, waiting for you, but when you didn’t turn up, I thought I’d look around. I was starting to worry my telegram hadn’t gone through.”
“Sorry,” Crowley mumbled. “I got your telegram, but I already sort of overbooked myself with temptations today, and the last one was in South Croydon, only turns out I was in Aberdeen of all places, not sure how that happened… and then I had a heaven of a time trying to find this place, and then you…”
Just then, a table nearby cleared up, as though by — well, never mind how — and they both took a seat. Something felt different to the angel as the demon joined him. “Is something wrong?”
Crowley hesitated a moment. “Nothing. It’s a long story. A… bore.”
“Well, nothing’s ‘a bore’ to me, you know. If you care to share, I’d be happy to listen.”
Crowley nodded. “Maybe another time.” He took note of Aziraphale’s appearance. “Didn’t you say something about a new look?”
“Don’t tell me you didn’t notice.”
“Notice what?”
The angel scoffed. “I thought it would be obvious!”
Crowley pushed out a breath as he searched for something, anything, different about him. “New… bowtie?” he guessed.
“Oh, honestly,” Aziraphale rolled his eyes and gestured to his head.
Crowley blinked. “...new haircut?”
“What? No! It’s—" Aziraphale grabbed at his hair only to realize he was missing something. “Oh dear, it must have fallen off when I began my search… I bought a beret.”
“A beret?”
“Of course! When in Paris, you know. Don’t you remember when we were here in 1793, you criticized my choice of style.”
“Because you were dressed like an Englishman during the French Revolution.”
“Oh, never mind the fine details… anyway, I only thought it would be fitting to wear something très chic.”
“That’s not why you invited me here, is it?”
“Of course not!”
“Good. Wouldn’t have been worth all this trouble just for a silly hat.”
Aziraphale frowned, circling water droplets on the table with his finger.
“I’m kidding, Angel, you know that. I’m sure it looked great, top-of-the-line. We can find you a new one, even. I just meant — I can go anywhere to see a hat, but I came all the way to Paris to see you.”
The angel smiled. “Thank you.”
“So if it’s not the beret, then what is it you brought me here for, exactly? What was so important it needed a telegram?”
“Oh, yes! I’ve, erm… I’ve got something for you.” Aziraphale reached beside him for a medium-sized, flat box and handed it gingerly to Crowley. “It’s just a little something I’ve been trying to track down for a long time now… and I thought it might serve as a suitable token of my gratitude for saving my books and my magic act a few years ago. That, and perhaps a drink, while we’re here? I ordered a whiskey for you, but I’m afraid it must have been claimed by another patron while I wasn't looking.”
Crowley examined the box and opened it. Inside was an old grey book, much like the ones scattered around Aziraphale’s bookshop. The title had faded over the decades it had been lying around and was now difficult to make out with the naked eye. “Thanks, Angel,” he said, “I’ll take the drink, but I’m not much of a reader.”
“Open it.”
Inside were dazzling photos and colorized drawings of galaxies, much like the ones Crowley had worked on before the beginning. Though, upon second glance… were these the very same nebulas?
“It’s an early collection of astrophotography with the works of Henry Draper, among others. I’ve been in contact with a book dealer here in Paris for weeks now. I wanted to check the condition, so I figured telegram would be suitable communication. Wouldn’t do either of us any good if I invited you ahead of time only to find the book itself was in shambles. Thankfully not, I was pleased to find, and when I told him it was a special gift for you, he recommended we meet here." He searched Crowley's face. "What do you think?”
Crowley soaked in each photograph as he turned the pages before him. “I don’t know what to say. You… were looking for this? For me?”
“In truth, I began searching for my own collection… but you were so proud of them that day,” Aziraphale smiled. “The quality certainly doesn’t compare to the real thing, but I thought you might enjoy seeing them again up close.”
Crowley felt a warmth rise in his chest and the prick of a tear threatening its way to the surface. He cleared his throat. He didn't want to admit it, but even in between the longest periods of seeing each other, Aziraphale was the one being who made him feel anything but alone, utterly alone. “It’s gorgeous, Aziraphale… thank you. Though… I wouldn’t want to make you part with something so collectible.”
“Don’t you worry about that, I can always keep my eye out for another.”
“Or,” Crowley proposed, “you could keep this one at your shop… so long as I can come around to look at it as often as I’d like?”
Aziraphale lit up but tried to play it cool. He really did intend to give it to Crowley to keep, but he always enjoyed his company at the shop. And if he insisted… “I suppose we could make that work.” He held out his hand. “It’s a deal.”
As they shook hands, Crowley’s attention turned to an item sitting next to the angel. “Is that an inkwell?”
“Oh, Crowley, I’m so sorry you missed it, but — would you believe it! While I was waiting, I had the most marvelous time with a man who had a striking resemblance to you!”
Crowley cocked his head. “Me?”
“I wonder if he’s still at the bar — he really wanted to meet you.”
“You said he looked… just like me?”
“Yes! Isn’t that extraordinary!”
“Well, yes, because… while I was searching for you, I ran into someone myself… and, well… I thought he was you.”
“Me?”
“Part of the reason I took so long to find you, I was, sort of… following him around.”
“That’s… rather peculiar, isn’t it? At the very same time I was interacting with your twin, you were interacting with mine.”
The angel and the demon were too puzzled to speak. What were the odds that such pairs could meet under the circumstances?
~*~*~
Miles made his way toward the barman when he spotted a beret on the floor, much like one he’d worn in London. He smiled fondly, picked it up, and brushed it off, not noticing the gentleman he was about to walk into.
“Terribly sorry, my dear,” he apologized with a sudden sense of déjà vu. “I seem to be bumping into everyone, I think.”
“Not a problem, what with this crowd and all,” replied Ginger, who stopped to take a look at Miles. “Tell me, sir, have we met somewhere before?”
Miles looked back, studying this new gentleman’s features. Why did he seem so… familiar? “I’m not sure, but… I do have the foggiest notion we may have, in one life or another.”
Excitement bubbled as it dawned on him: the airship party back in England. His name was escaping him, but Miles knew he was Nina’s old flame, and he remembered having a rather friendly conversation with him. And weren’t he and Nina engaged by the time he was on his way to France? Poor Adam, he thought… but, oh, how lucky of them to bump into each other! He’d been dying to know how everyone was!
“By the looks of it, you’ve got it, but don’t tell me,” Ginger said, fiddling with his pipe. “It’s on the tip of my tongue, I swear by it. I’ll figure it out by night’s end, sure I will. If I may, that is.” Another seat opened up, no miracles needed. “Care to join me for a drink? My treat to… an old friend, I hope?”
“Yes, by all means!”
“How do you feel about magic tricks?” Ginger asked as they settled in.
Miles smiled. “I say, I do love a good show.”
Ginger placed four coins on the table and waved his hand around as he'd done earlier that evening. Miles gasped, oohing and ahhing as though he’d never seen Adam’s rendition at countless parties.
Unbeknownst to them, an angel and a demon watched from afar, curious and curiouser by the minute.