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INT. BOOKSHOP - DAY
Crowley stands in the entryway to the bookshop, tugging on the sleeves and hems of his jacket, testing out the length and fit of it all. The suit is immaculately tailored to fit his form, so really there’s nothing to adjust. He’s just impatient, and while he would never admit it, a little bit nervous.
“Angel,” he calls up the stairs in a warning tone, checking the watch on his wrist anxiously, “you gotta hustle it up. We’re gonna be late for this engagement shindig.” His snake-skin boots continue plodding and pacing along the gateway rug at the bottom of the stairs, his fingers grazing at the buzz-cut sides of his hair.
“Would you just hold your horses?” comes Aziraphale’s terse reply from somewhere above.
“Hold my —?” Crowley scoffs to himself. “Oh, Angel. You’re a clever one, but you know bollocks about punctu—”
The rest of the sentiment is instantly cut off by the sound of leather loafers descending the stairs. Crowley turns around to find Aziraphale in what can only be described as “his typical vibe” except if every piece of his attire were personally blessed by Jesus himself. Everything about him seems to be glowing with some sort of divine impossibility. He’s replaced his usual light blue button-up for an pleated ivory shirt. It’s swaddled by an ivory waistcoat, just a fractional shade darker than the shirt; and instead of his usual tan overcoat, he dons a sparkling champagne suit jacket, also just a fractional shade darker than the waistcoat. Brilliant gold cufflinks at his wrists and a golden, shimmering bow tie at his neck bring it all together. Aziraphale comes down the stairs, practically floating and looking for all the world like a bride walking the aisle to her groom.
“Wow,” Crowley breathes, looking him from crown to toe and back again, thinking that if a painter ever wanted to create a portrait that could sufficiently communicate to the mortals the incomprehensible holiness and beauty of angels, this would be their moment. Aziraphale holds out his hand as he reaches the bottom step. Without missing a beat, as if they’ve rehearsed this for another Jane Austen-inspired cotillion ball performance, Crowley takes his hand and kisses the knuckles.
“I’m ready,” Aziraphale laughs.
“Yes, I would say that you are,” Crowley says, doing absolutely nothing to hide the low growl that undercurrents his words. He tugs on Aziraphale’s hand, bringing them waist to waist, and leaning in for a kiss, but Aziraphale stops him with an open palm to his chest.
“Aren’t you forgetting something?” he innocently asks, although it sounds more like an accusation than a question. Crowley pauses, quirks an eyebrow.
“...No?”
“No?” Aziraphale repeats, a lofty lilt in his tone.
“No?” Crowley pats himself down, feeling every pocket where something might be missing, every spot where an accessory might go or a button might have been overlooked. He comes up short-handed. “What, me? What?”
Aziraphale pulls a small, beautifully wrapped gift box from behind his back. “Your gift for the lucky couple,” he explains, showing off his own like it’s a fancy bottle of wine. “This took me hours to pick out the perfect thing,” he adds, not a modicum of modesty to his voice as he grants himself a congratulatory little curtsy.
Crowley stares blankly from behind his well-worn sunglasses, his mouth slightly agape. “I don’t have a gift,” he says flatly. “I — er — erm, I forgot.” He checks his watch again — late, so late. “It’s too late now to get anything,” he says, starting to sound panicked.
“Hmm.”
Then a smile breaks out on his face, a devious solution to all of his problems offering itself before him. He taps his index finger on Aziraphale’s gift box. “But this — this is a beautiful gift.”
Aziraphale beams. “Thank you, dear. Shall we get going?” He begins walking toward the door when Crowley grabs him by the elbow, spins him back around.
“You know what I was thinking?” he says, his tone promising something absolutely genius. “Maybe... we could share this gift.”
Aziraphale smiles kindly, then simply says, “No.”
Crowley blanches. That was so not the reaction he was expecting. “No? Why not?”
Aziraphale huffs a small sigh, squaring his shoulders. “Because, Crowley, I don’t want to be one of those couples who start to see each other and then begin to act as though they’re joined at the hip! That’s terribly presumptuous, no —” Crowley raises a finger, clearly armed with a genius retort, but Aziraphale doesn’t let him get in a word. ”I think the two of us should give separate gifts,” he insists. “Don’t you think so?”
“No. I don’t.” Crowley frowns, partly in the prospect of showing up the only one at the party without a gift, and partly at Aziraphale’s uncharacteristic reticence to share something with him. “But, I can see what’s going on here,” he continues wisely. Aziraphale raises an interested eyebrow. “You thought that I would be in danger if I was caught fraternizing with an angel. But it turns out, you’re the one who’s worried about being caught fraternizing with me .” Crowley huffs indignantly. “It’s like, Hell and Heaven forbid that the whole world should know that we’re sharing a gift together.”
Aziraphale nods knowingly as Crowley makes a sad face at his shoes. “And I guess... well, I’ll bet that no amount of ‘I Was Wrong’ dances would make this right for you.”
“Probably not,” Crowley mutters, dejectedly kicking the toe of his heel against the wood floor like a sad puppy pawing at the ground. Aziraphale meets his melodrama with equally measured stoic pity.
“The only thing that would make it right for you is if... we share my gift,” he guesses.
“Pretty much...” Crowley drawls, and now his transformation to kicked-puppy is complete with even sadder eyes. Aziraphale heaves an over-the-top sigh, as though making the grandest compromise.
“Well, I guess I don’t have a choice, do I?”
Crowley immediately turns into a golden retriever about to go on a road trip. “That’s great! Good! Okay!” He rushes in to give Aziraphale a quick kiss and starts ushering them towards the door. “Then let’s get going, babe, because we are going to be late.”
“Ah, ah, ah,” Aziraphale says, halting them dead in their tracks. “There is a problem, you see, because the card is already signed.”
Crowley looks down at the gift box, sees the folded over piece of parchment slipped under the ribbon on the top. “I can remedy that,” he says easily, “right away!” He brings the box and card over to Aziraphale’s front desk and grabs a pen from its ink well. He flips open the parchment and moves to scribble his name. Aziraphale watches him with rapt (but not ignorant) curiosity, and Crowley breaks into a grin. “Yeah,” he says, holding the card up to the light in scrutiny. “You already signed the card.” He slips the card back under the ribbon. “And it’s from you... and me.” He shakes his head, sniggering to himself, unsure if he’s impressed or ready to punch the angel in the face.
Aziraphale sneaks up behind him, walking a few fingers across his shoulders as he presses his mouth to the back of Crowley’s neck. “Perhaps I do want to be one of those couples, after all.”
“Well,” Crowley decides, turning into the embrace, “I can live with that.” They smile lovingly at each other before Crowley taps the gift box again. “By the way, what did we get ‘em?”
“Trust me,” Aziraphale says, his hands draping over Crowley’s shoulders. “They’re going to love it.”
“I more than just trust you,” Crowley hums, leaning in for a kiss. He keeps it sweet and chaste, the clock ticking down on just how fashionable their belatedness will be. But when they pull back, Aziraphale is smiling devilishly. He bites his bottom lip and then leans in for another kiss. And then another. And then with a sharp intake of breath, he pushes into Crowley, gathering up the hair at the back of his neck in a fist. Crowley moans softly, pushing back into Aziraphale. He carelessly tosses the gift box onto the desk as Aziraphale pulls the pair of them down to the floor.
INT. BOOKSHOP - DAY - LATER
“Okay, okay, now we’re late,” Crowley says, tossing his vest back on. “Now we’re late.”
Aziraphale hurriedly steps back into his trousers, hopping a bit as he zips and buttons them back up. “Well, it’s your fault,” he tuts, tightening his belt, “because you didn’t buy a gift!”
“My fault?” Crowley bites, picking the overcoat off the floor as Aziraphale swings on his waistcoat. “You could have come right out and told me that I was already covered.” Crowley helps slip Aziraphale’s arms through the sleeves of the overcoat. “You didn’t have to tease me into like a temptation... seduction thing!”
Aziraphale grins. He shrugs the coat onto his shoulders and spins around. “Something tells me you...” he kisses him quickly, helping Crowley fix his vest and silver scarf, “didn’t mind it.”
“We’ll argue about this in the car,” Crowley says, grabbing Aziraphale by the shoulders and hurrying him towards the door. “Come on. And you don’t sit by me in the Bentley, you sit in the backseat.”
“Oh!”
“Go!”
The door slams behind them. After a few beats, it violently swings back open, slamming the bell above it. Still fitting an arm into his jacket, Crowley races to the desk, grabbing the gift. Aziraphale laughs from the doorway, fastening the last few buttons of his waistcoat as Crowley hurries back, ushering them out the door.