Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Crowley lurked across the street from the bookshop, unwilling to go where he now felt unwelcome.

     In times of trouble his feet often led him here. The place had once been something of a home to him. He wondered what Arthur would think of the Pride stickers in the little window of the door. Even though it had been years since he was inside Crowley was flooded with a sense memory, the smell of the books heavy in the air; dust and decay. The smoke of the wood-fire and Arthur’s old-fashioned cologne. Crowley remembered the feel of the soft worn-out velvet of the sofa in the backroom, the one he spent many sleepless nights on, the rusted coils sticking into his back. If he closed his eyes, he could see the hideous brown with its faded dusty rose blossoms. Being this close, Crowley could practically taste the brand of Earl Grey Arthur preferred. Crowley himself kept some on hand, would brew a cup just to sniff the reassuring aroma.

    Arthur and George didn’t have to take him in, but they had and that made all the difference. The fact that he had a warm dry place to rest his head was more than many others in his situation could say. So many of Crowley’s friends had lived on the streets or couch surfed. Never staying in one place too long. That was how he lost track of them, he supposed.

    There was still a light on in the upstairs window, its halogen glow an inviting beacon in the fog and the dark. Crowley had lost all since of time, but knew it was late. He often wondered what the nephew was like. Arthur had been so sure he and Crowley would get on, but Crowley had made himself scarce whenever the young man was scheduled to visit. They must have shaken hands at the funeral, surely? Crowley shook his head, he didn’t remember much from that day. He should have been the one up there giving a eulogy about Arthur, what sort of man he really was. 

    When they talked about him being an upstanding member of the community, they failed to mention it was the gay and lesbian community. His family was very polite of course, but they didn’t know the real Arthur, not like he did. It was a wonderful character study, but the fact he was gay was never mentioned. It was an open secret surely. In the obituary there was no mention of being per-deceased by George, his devoted partner of forty years. They mostly talked about his work with antiques and rare books of which the shop had been filled. 

   That was in the past of course. Soho in the late 90’s and early 00’s was very different from the neat little cafés and tourist friendly face it wore these days. Crowley mourned for the lost generation, the younger crowd had virtually no one to look up to. Everyday Crowley wondered at how lucky he had been to wander into Arthur’s shop. The old queens had saved his life and many others. 

   On the worst nights Crowley thought about coming here during the day. He would open the shop door, the same as he had a hundred times before, the bell would greet him warmly. It would be like he had never left.

    He would march up to the counter, there would be some man behind the counter, Crowley could never quite picture him clearly, he would stick out his hand and introduce himself. The man might welcome him in, offer him a cuppa, and they would trade stories about his uncle. It would be like coming home. 

   Crowley glanced up, noticed the light was out now. The nephew had gone to bed. As well he should, it was gone midnight. Crowley sighed; his breath escaped in a cloud that melded into the fog around him. He shook his head; it was only a silly dream. Crowley knew it was for the best if he let go of the past. Resigned he slipped his hands in his too-tight pockets and began the long walk back to Mayfair.

Chapter Text

The date had been going well. Rather too well in Aziraphale’s opinion. He had long since stopped bracing himself for something to go wrong, pre se, he just wasn’t used to things going so right. 

The man sat opposite him was lovely to look at for starters. He had introduced himself as Crowley. (“Anthony Crowley, but you can call me Crowley.”) And he had lovely dark red hair, and the most expressive eyebrows that periodically cut through his forehead. He had a Roman nose and high sharp cheekbones. In fact, everything about Crowley seemed to be sharp. He had sharp eyes, well what Aziraphale could make out of them anyway behind the lightly tinted glasses he wore. An eye condition, Crowley had explained, sensitive to light. And most of all he was a sharp dresser. His already trim physic made to appear even slimmer encased in black.

Aziraphale thought he looked good enough to eat. However, this was only a first date. There did seem to be something between them though. Aziraphale hesitated to call it a ‘spark’ but there was something. He had to keep reminding himself he just met this man. A blind first date.  

It had all started when he had mentioned to a friend how lonely he felt sometimes and that he was too old for love. Forty, he was tersely informed, was not in fact too old for love. Coming from a woman in her late fifties who had recently started a new relationship Aziraphale had the good grace to feel properly chastised and promised to give dating another go.  

They were sitting in a lovely little Asian restaurant aptly named, The Garden of Eating. The lights weren’t too bright, and each table had its own little herb planter hanging above it. The aroma was divine.

His date, oh good Lord his date, looked up from his dinner and gave a coy half smile that Aziraphale had already mentally noted as one of his favourite things about the man, and asked a question. There had been some back and forth between them, general getting-to-know-you questions but this was something new.

“So,” Crowley said, “do you ever think we’ve been in the same place at the same time?” he asked.

Aziraphale’s brows wrinkled in a moment of confusion, “what, like both being in the same Tesco’s?” he asked.

Crowley gave a lighthearted chuckle, “yeah something like that.”

Crowley was having a wonderful time on this date. The man across from him, Aziraphale, was an absolute delight. He had soft-looking blonde curls and was deliciously plush around the middle. Crowley appreciated partners who were thicker than him, he liked having soft flesh to sink his bonier frame into. He subtly shook his head; he didn’t think he would be taking the other man to bed anytime soon. Aziraphale seemed too prim and proper for first date sex, or a one-night stand. At his age, Crowley definitely wanted more.

Something about him just seemed so familiar though. At first Crowley had wondered if maybe he had been a past one-night stand, but that didn’t seem right. The connection felt deeper than that. And honestly if he had of been a past fling Crowley would have slapped himself for being an idiot to let this man get away. 

“Like, do you ever think we might have crossed paths before? A ah-a missed connection?” Crowley elaborated.  

After a few minutes of quite reflection Aziraphale answered, “Well, I suppose it’s possible,” he conceded, “but London is a big city.”

“Yeah, but not that big,” Crowley protested.

“Big enough,” Aziraphale countered.

Then the two men burst into laughter.  

Crowley slurped up another bite of his extra spicy chicken Pad Thai, and Aziraphale watched the lanky noodles disappear between Crowley’s already red lips. He might have been a little surprised when Crowley ordered his dish to be extra spicy, Aziraphale could only handle mild spice himself, but then he had watched in horror as Crowley added yet more sriracha sauce to his plate after it was placed in front of him.  Crowley explained it was from years of smoking cigarettes, “taste buds are absolutely shot, can’t taste anything unless it’s loaded with salt or hot sauce.”  

“So, what do you do for work?” Crowley asked with genuine curiosity. He had been watching those manicured hands with interest all night. The delicate way Aziraphale held his chopsticks. 

“I work in a bookshop actually.” Aziraphale said, he didn’t like to advertise owning it lest people tried to get discounts out of him.

The man across from him got a faraway look in his eyes, “do you really?” Crowley asked. “I know I don’t look it now, but I spent much of my youth in a bookshop.” He admitted.  

Aziraphale raised his eyebrows at that, the man before him looked more like an aging rockstar than a lover of books.

“I ran away from home at 16 after coming out as gay to my mum. I couldn’t bear her disappointment. Thankfully I had heard of a refuge of sorts, antique bookshop in Soho, run by an older man and his ‘business partner.’” Crowley used the air quotes, scoffing fondly.

Aziraphale smiled to show he understood Crowley’s meaning, but something about the story tickled his brain. There was really only one antique bookshop in Soho... His brain drifted off, but cut back in when he heard the name of the shop.

“-Fell’s do you know it?” Crowley was saying.

Aziraphale’s brain was working hard to put the puzzle pieces together, had Crowley known his uncle Arthur?  

“I’ve heard of it,” Aziraphale admitted cautiously. If Crowley had known his uncle Aziraphale didn’t want to scare him away. 

Many years ago, when Aziraphale had been in his late teens, he remembered his uncle Arthur had talked fondly about a man whom he simply referred to as “Young Tony,” who lived in the backroom of the shop, but always managed to make himself scarce when Aziraphale came to visit. Arthur had insisted the two should meet, but the timing had never been right. And then Arthur had died and Aziraphale inherited the bookshop. 

His family had been furious at the reading of the will to discover a large sum of money was being left to an unnamed person. Aziraphale had always been secretly pleased at his uncle’s deviousness. It was no less than the rest of them deserved.

An idea was formulating in Aziraphale’s head, and when they had finished eating and Crowley had gallantly paid their bill, he did what hours ago had felt unthinkable and asked for a drive home. Instead of giving an address Aziraphale simply gave directions. If this man was the same one his uncle had wanted him to meet when he was younger, he couldn’t let him go now, not before confirming his suspicions. 

***

Crowley had been pleased at Aziraphale’s cooing over his car, a vintage Bently he had purchased after coming into some unexpected money in his twenties. As a last ‘Fuck you’ to his bigoted family Arthur had left Crowley millions of pounds in his will, enough to buy the vintage car of his dreams and a flat in Mayfair. He also used the money to go to school for architecture which combined his love of art and creating something from nothing.

Crowley followed Aziraphale’s directions not actually paying attention to the route he was taking. If Crowley had thought about it a little harder, he would have realised he could have driven to this destination blindfolded.  

Aziraphale fidgeted in his seat nearly the entire time and Crowley wondered what was bothering him. He had seemed fine when asking for a drive home, Crowley didn’t expect to be asked inside as well. Offers like that came with certain connotations. Not that Crowley would say no, he had thought the date went rather well and would quite like to see Aziraphale again. If the other man only wanted a one-time shag well Crowley could live with that, but grudgingly.  

Much to his amazement the next left had him turning onto Greek Street. He knew this section of the city like the back of his hand, and just up ahead was the bookshop where he had spent his youth. Crowley did a double take at his passenger now. The wispy curls, that nose, in profile it was hard to miss the similarities; this was Arthur’s nephew. He had gone on a date with Arthur Fell’s nephew, a man he had gone to extraordinary lengths to not meet when he was younger.

            Crowley pulled up to the kurb, parking in silence. He hadn’t said a word since they rounded the corner and Aziraphale’s fidgeting increased tenfold. Perhaps this was the wrong thing to have done after all.

“Would you like to come in, my dear?” Aziraphale asked.

Wordlessly Crowley nodded, his breath hitched slightly.

***

Walking into the book shop was like coming home to Crowley. After twenty fucking years he was home. Tears came unbidden to his eyes, but he sniffed hard and was thankful as ever for his sunglasses.  Crowley glanced around cautiously waiting to be struck by too modern changes, but the interior of the shop remained as timeless as the outside. Not only did it look the same as it had in the 90’s, but Crowley imagined it had looked mostly the same for the last 200 years. 

“I’m not much of a fan of change,” Aziraphale admitted, watching Crowley’s searching gaze. “Would you like to see the backroom? Everything should be as you left it.”

The backroom was exactly as he remembered it. The sofa where he had slept almost every night for near four years. If Aziraphale had truly thrown nothing out Crowley could probably open the drawers in the coffee table and find expired condoms and lube.  

On top of the table was a thick envelope that had once been white but was now sun faded. The thick black letters on the front were recognizable as Arthur’s script, he had enjoyed playing with calligraphy. It just ready ‘Tony.’

Crowley’s heart caught in his throat. He was equal parts curious and terrified at what words Arthur had written him. 

“I think you should read it,” Aziraphale encouraged, “shall I make a pot of tea?”

Without waiting for an answer Aziraphale went off to make the tea. Crowley thought he’d like something a bit stronger, like the Scotch George had always kept on hand for special occasions. This was a lot to process, bordering on sensory overload.

As Crowley gently pulled out the folded wad of papers a few photographs fell out of the envelope. Aziraphale bent to pick them up. They must have been some of the last photos taken by and of his uncle. Aziraphale glanced over the photos as Crowley read the letter, they were of a group of people all decked out in fancy dress. A banner in the background of one photo proclaimed it to be NYE 2000.

The only person he recognized besides his uncle was a much younger Crowley. His hair had been much longer back then, his red tresses falling in swirling waves over his shoulders. He was dressed to kill in a very tight-fitting latex Union Jack printed tank top that showed off his midriff and glittery golden booty-shorts. Other’s in the photo included a very short person with choppy black hair, they wore what could be best described as a “little Gucci dress,” and quite possibly the butchest looking Baby Spice Aziraphale had ever scene.  

“Oh my God!” Crowley cried looking over Aziraphale’s shoulder, “that was right before Dagon started HRT. I don’t think I’ve seen her since then.”

Nostalgia crept into Crowley’s voice as he pointed to the other members of the photo, “that was Bee,” he said pointing to the Posh Spice of the group, “I see them once in awhile at Tesco’s but we don’t really talk anymore. And Oh my God, Eric!!”  

The group had their very own Scary Spice a young black man, his naturally curly hair styled up into spiral cones that sat atop his head. He was wearing the classic tiger-striped printed top and trousers, along with highly exaggerated eye makeup.

 Everyone in the photo looked amazing but he couldn’t stop staring at Crowley. Aziraphale shuffled to the next photo and had to flip it around. This picture was portrait style and only had two people in it, Cowley and,

At the same time Crowley and Aziraphale let out gasps of surprise.

“That old pervert- no offense- but I can’t believe it!” Crowley gasped.

“What?” Aziraphale asked, still startled.

“It was a dare, your uncle dared me to go dance with that bloke just before midnight. The guy looked lost and a little lonely, and hell he was cute.” Crowley said.

Aziraphale blushed deeply but the dim lighting in the shop covered it.

“I was recently single, and your uncle had caught me staring at ‘em more than once. Finally, he gave me the courage I needed to go over there and ask for a dance.” Crowley shook his head as he let the memory wash over him.  

“Anyway, it was less of a dance and more of a drunken shuffle, but the clock struck twelve and hell we all thought the world was ending, so I kissed him. Midnight, new years eve of the new millennium everyone around us was cheering, and snogging the nearest person to them, and your uncle snapped a fucking photo of me kissing the most perfect stranger.”

Crowley’s voice had gone wistful, fully emerged in the memory, and a faraway look clouded his eye. It wasn’t until Aziraphale made a soft sound, like a sob that Crowley was pulled completely into the present. Crowley turned to look and saw tears welling up in Aziraphale’s eyes.

“Oh, hey, no, don’t cry,” Crowley said, looking around for a tissue box.

Aziraphale blinked, letting the tears roll down his cheeks.  

“I don’t actually think your uncle was a perv, he was a great man, one of my best friends. My mentor, like I told you.”

Crowley awkwardly patted his date on the back. Hell, this was not how he had imagined this night turning out. He still couldn’t comprehend that after twenty years life had brought him back here. The only place that had ever really felt like home to him. 

Aziraphale broke down completely, turning his body fully into Crowley’s. He let the tears come freely now, and pressed his tear stained and snotty nosed face into Crowley’s beautiful black silk shirt. Crowley retuned the hug and rubbed his hands up and down this virtual stranger’s back. Eventually the shaking and sobs subsided and Aziraphale pulled himself together long enough to whisper a hoarse, “thank you.”

“Uh, you’re welcome,” Crowley said, pulling his hands back as Aziraphale stepped from his embrace. Crowley scratched awkwardly at his neck. 

“Errr, for what?” he asked.

“That was the nicest thing anyone has ever said about me,” in the dim light of the shop Aziraphale’s recently cried out eyes sparkled.

Crowley had to force himself to remember to breathe.  

“What?” He asked.

“That’s me, in the photo,” Aziraphale stepped closer again and they each held a side of the picture.

“I know it’s hard to tell, but that is me you are kissing. And doing a damn fine job of it if my memory holds.” Aziraphale cleared his throat as he waited for his revelation to sink in.  

When Crowley continued to say nothing, Aziraphale proceeded to tell his version of events. 

“You see, my uncle knew I’d be in London that night and told me where I could find him and his friends if I’d like to join them. It was never said out loud in the family, that he was gay, but I suspected, and I was beginning to question my own sexuality. When my own plans for the evening fell through, I thought I’d take up his offer.”

Still Crowley said nothing, so Aziraphale ploughed on.

“I was looking for my uncle when the most devilish Ginger Spice I’d ever seen walked up and asked me, me of all people for a dance. And as you said, it was y2k, nobody knew really what would happen when the clock struck twelve.  It seems, my dear, we were both set up by my uncle that night. He wanted us to meet, to be friends, and if he was right in his suspicions about me, maybe more than. It only took us twenty years.”

“The funeral,” Crowley said at last, a non sequitur if Aziraphale ever heard one.  

“I beg your pardon?”

“I, I shook your hand, at the funeral. It was only what, a month later he was gone. I was in mourning, cut off all my hair, dressed up in a nice suit.” Crowley looked lost inside his own head, like he was rethinking every life choice he had ever made since then.  

He would only have been one face in a crowd of many. And completely unrecognizable from the night captured forever in these photos.  

“What was in the letter then, dear? If you feel like sharing that is.” Aziraphale asked.  

“The letter? Oh,” Crowley frowned as he looked down at the crumpled papers in his had. He had forgotten he was holding it.

Arthur’s letter had said many things, most of which boiled down to live life to the fullest and not take second chances for granted. He doubted if it would have meant much to him twenty years ago, but now in his forties, and this beautiful second chance looking him in the face. With the familiar scents of the book shop surrounding him Crowley felt emboldened.

“Aziraphale, may I kiss you?” he asked.   

“Please,” Aziraphale sighed, “I want to know how good my memory is.”

With that they leaned toward each other and had the second best kiss of their lives.