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Aziraphale did not find his life to be all that interesting.
He was a bookkeeper at a small shop in London that he owned, having opened thanks to the contributions of his parents, who had passed away. The shop was not highly frequented by anyone but tourists, and nary a book was sold; most of his time was spent tinkering away at old books in the back room, or curled up in his armchair in the flat above the shop with a well-worn novel in one hand and a cup of tea in the other.
He was alone, in his flat and in his shop, and he did not mind it.
(He did not remember much of his parents who he had to thank for his shop remaining open despite not selling any books save for once in a blue moon, nor did he have any recollection of other family, or even friends. He was content with it, however.
Besides, if he tried to think about his past too hard — about people who had cared for him, about his upbringing, about anything other than his current uninteresting yet satisfying life — his head began to ache and he had to close up shop and lie down for the day. And so he did not dwell on it.)
Aziraphale had a simple — uninteresting yet satisfying — routine. He would wake up, make himself tea, and take a stroll around the block on the nicer days, buying a few pastries from the bakery down the street and enjoying them throughout the morning.
He would open up shop, and then sit in the backroom working on his bookbinding (he fixed up a lot of old Bibles, in particular; he certainly owned a great deal of them from all through the ages, which was just as well, as he found himself at church every Sunday as part of his routine — never late, always in the front row of the pews with a vague smile on his face as he went along with the motions) until the bell of the shop’s door would ring.
At that point, he would hurry up front and shoo out whatever tourist had wandered inside looking to mishandle his books and take ‘aesthetic’ photos on their cellphones. Aziraphale saw no appeal of cellphones. Who would he call, anyway?
There was one man, however, who — Aziraphale was certain — was not a tourist.
He came frequently, usually several times a week. He had striking red hair, and wore all black, including dark glasses covering his eyes that he kept on even on the stormiest of days. He did not smile. He had a tattoo of a snake on one side of his face.
He would peruse the shelves, and ask Aziraphale how he was doing, always engaging in conversation with him. Aziraphale often found himself bemused by it; who would find pleasure in conversing with him?
But the red-haired man always did. Always spoke to him, and sometimes brought pastries, always home-baked. For the oddest reason, he would seem disappointed when Aziraphale enjoyed them, even if he would thank him, and ask if he had seen the latest menu at the bakery down the street.
He never bought anything from the shop despite his frequent visits, and he had never given Aziraphale his name.
Well — no, that was not quite true. He had given it, many times over, but . . .
It was the strangest thing.
Each time he left, each time he slipped from Aziraphale’s sight as the bell on the door jingled behind him . . . he would not only slip from his sight, but from his mind.
It was as if Aziraphale forgot all about him, until the moment he saw him again — and even then, his memories of him would be hazy, blurred, as if they were from a dream, or perhaps a nightmare.
It was odd, but Aziraphale did not question it.
He did not question anything. Questioning made his head ache, his eyes burn; it made his heart begin beating far too fast, his mouth go dry, his very bones begin to throb. It made him feel wrong, as if he were wrong, and so he did not question anything.
(Like how every memory, not just those of the man, were hazy and uncertain; like how he did not have any solid memories of himself or his past or anything, not really, besides the basic knowledge that he was a bookkeeper with a life that was uninteresting but satisfying, and that he went to church on Sunday, and that he was partial to raspberry scones.
He did not question how sometimes, when he looked in the mirror, his graying hair looked almost white; he did not question how, once, the red-haired man’s dark glasses had slipped down as he had dipped his head to survey a shelf of books, and Aziraphale could’ve sworn his pupils were that of a serpent’s.
He did not question his dreams of blinding white light; his nightmares of falling, down and down and down, as a voice that he could never quite place called his name, as he fell until he woke up in a cold sweat, tears in his eyes and a name that he did not know on his lips, that he forgot the moment he whispered it.)
Aziraphale knew four things for certain.
He was a bookkeeper.
He went to church on Sundays.
He wasn’t all that interesting.
He questioned nothing.
(He especially did not question the red-haired man who reintroduced himself several times a week, who wore dark glasses and didn’t smile and brought him pastries and talked to him as if they were old friends who shared thousands of years’ worth of memories that Aziraphale could not bring himself to recall.)
Aziraphale was alone, in his flat and in his shop, and he did not mind it.
(He did not mind it — save for the days when he was able to remember what it was like to not be.)
It was a Sunday when the red-haired man knocked on the bookshop’s door for the first time.
They were closed on Sundays, even after Aziraphale had returned from church; the door was locked, the bell having gone unrung for the entire morning and into the afternoon. But he was not one to turn away a stranger — even if the presence of this particular stranger made his head ache more often than not, as he slowly recalled his frequent visits, only for even those memories to slip through his fingers the moment he left.
He had smiled vaguely, as he had opened the door, and seen the man standing there.
“Hello, dear boy,” he said softly, “good to see you.”
(Again, something in the back of his mind whispered. But he did not question it.)
“Aziraphale,” said the man, who always knew his name, in greeting — and, Aziraphale thought, he was doing something odd.
He was smiling.
“I brought you — well, here,” he said, voice with that same hopeful lilt it always took when he had brought an offering that Aziraphale was fond of, when he could remember it. He held out a raspberry scone in a small container.
Like all of the man’s pastries, it looked similar to the one from the shop down the street (Aziraphale wondered if he was familiar with the two kind women who owned it, who always put extra free things in his bag), but with a lovely homemade charm to it. The thin frosting sheen was a little off-center, Aziraphale noticed, as if the man’s hands had been shaking as he had drizzled it over the top.
“Oh, how thoughtful of you!” There was one other thing about himself he knew; he loved sweet treats, even if sometimes, they made him feel a little guilty about himself, especially on Sundays. But he supposed that, if it was being offered, it would be rude to not accept. Aziraphale opened the door wider. “Come in, please.”
(He did not question the man, nor the pastry.)
They sat down at the couch in the back, the man (who introduced himself, his name slipping Aziraphale’s mind in an instant) asking him about his week, his day, how he was doing, if he had sold any books (uninteresting but satisfying, church was nice, he was doing well, absolutely not), and then almost reverently placing the scone on the coffee table between them. Aziraphale offered him tea, which he politely declined despite seeming almost . . . excited, about something.
(Aziraphale did not question it.)
He bit into the pastry.
It was delicious.
Aziraphale smiled, and his eyes, as he looked up to meet the man's that were brimming with hope behind his dark glasses, were clear.
“Now, Crowley,” he questioned (and oh, how could he ever have forgotten him, as the demon's entire face lit up into a brilliant, beautiful smile?), “wherever did you learn to bake?”