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November 1941, Before that Certain Night
"Whiskey. Neat."
The order left Crowley’s lips like an afterthought, drowned beneath the tide of his own thoughts. The bartender nodded, retrieving a cut-glass tumbler and pouring generously, before the crystal clinked gently against the bar.
The demon’s suit, dark as the corners of the room, was impeccably tailored—sharp enough to cut. The deep red of his tie was the only bold thing about him tonight though. He left his hat in place, its brim cutting a shadow over his eyes. He didn’t want to be seen. He only wanted to look.
A haze of cigarette smoke hung in the air, swirling under the soft glow of the lamps which cast long shadows that danced along the walls as if in time to the music. The scent of aged wood, whiskey, and perfume hung thickly in the air. Quiet conversation and laughter filled the lounge, punctuated by the clink of glass against glass, and the occasional smattering of applause.
The only real reminder of the war were the heavy blackout curtains drawn tight against the windows. Business owners clung to the air raid restrictions, desperate to keep their doors open in a time when nightlife was dwindling, when pleasure was a risk and survival a gamble.
Onstage, a singer crooned, her voice low and sultry, the notes curling like smoke. Couples swayed on the dance floor, bodies close, lost in their own world, forgetting the war for a while.
But Crowley had eyes for only one.
He lifted his whiskey but barely tasted it. The real intoxication sat across the room. Unaware that the demon was watching him like a man watches the last light on the horizon before night takes everything.
Decades. It had been decades since they had last spoken. Since their voices had risen, bitter and sharp, over the request for holy water. Decades since he had spat out the greatest lie of his existence. I don’t need you. Since Aziraphale had walked away from him. Leaving Crowley alone with the gut-wrenching feeling that he had just ruined something precious.
And yet, here the angel was. Serene, lovely. A finger delicately and slowly tracing the rim of a nearly empty wine glass, the softest smile curling his lips. Twinkling eyes lighting over the musicians and the dancing couples. Warmth in his smile that melted Crowley like wax before a flame.
Aziraphale looked happy. And why wouldn’t he be? He hadn’t been the one left standing alone in the park. He hadn’t spent years turning the same cursed conversation over in his mind, regretting—again—that he'd asked a question when he should have swallowed it down.
Crowley’s fingers curled around his glass, then tightened. He had known the angel wouldn’t take it well. But Crowley had only wanted insurance, not a noose to hang himself with.
If Aziraphale had ever asked him for hellfire, would Crowley have let him have it? Would he have placed something in Aziraphale’s hands that could unmake him?
No. Never.
Crowley would have razed Hell to the ground before allowing the angel to hold something that could destroy him. He would never put such a thing in his hands…
His hands. His lovely hands, plump, soft and uncalloused, currently cradling a glass of wine as red as the demon’s hair. Fingers that turned pages with reverence, lifted teacups to his delicate lips, gave away the only weapon Heaven ever placed in them without hesitation. Hands that had brushed against his, gloved and distant, as he passed over that damned request for holy water.
For years, Crowley had feared that fleeting touch would be the last.
And yet, oh—he wanted them on him. Twining with his own, grasping at his collar, drawing him closer. Pressing, claiming. Pushing him down, holding him, keeping him—
He downed his whiskey in one burning swallow, and signaled for another.
“Same again.”
“Make it two, please.”
A woman slid onto the stool beside him, draping an easy smile across lips painted the same shade as spilled wine. Her brown hair was curled and pinned into waves under a black hat. Thick strokes of eyeliner framed her eyes, making them seem impossibly large. Crowley barely spared her a glance, instead lifting his fresh glass and taking a slow sip. He hadn’t come here for conversation—at least, not with whoever this woman was.
“You from around here?” she asked casually.
“M’just passing through,” Crowley muttered, looking past her shoulder at the angel whose face lit with a sunbeam of a smile as he accepted another glass of wine from a waiter. Crowley’s stomach twisted.
“Shame,” said the woman beside him. “I thought you seemed like a man who knows his way around Soho.”
“Can’t tell if that’s a compliment or an insult.”
She laughed lightly, shifting in her seat, crossing one leg over the other as if she were getting comfortable—damn, she was settling in. That was unfortunate.
“Just curious, I suppose,” she hummed. “I like to get the lay of the land when I visit a new place. Find out where the best things are hidden.”
“I’ll save you the trouble,” Crowley said, still watching Aziraphale out of his periphery. The angel had just taken a sip of wine, his throat bobbing as he swallowed. Crowley’s eyes traced the movement, the sting of whiskey on his tongue. “They’re not at this bar.”
She chuckled, unfazed, and tilted her head slightly, lashes fluttering in a way Crowley supposed was meant to be alluring. “That depends on what I’m looking for.”
Crowley had enough sense to realize she wasn’t simply making idle conversation. She wasn’t just some bored socialite fishing for company. No, she was here for something.
Didn’t mean he cared.
The woman leaned forward slightly, her flowery perfume suddenly wafting towards the demon who grimaced. “Why do you wear sunglasses indoors at night?” she asked.
“Maybe I’m a spy.”
“If that were the case, you’d be a remarkably conspicuous one.”
Crowley let out a huff of amusement. “And you’re remarkably nosy.”
Her smile didn’t waver. “Occupational hazard.”
He wasn’t going to ask what occupation. Didn’t matter.
“Why do you wear a hat with stupid feathers in it?” he shot back, deflecting with no real effort behind it. His attention flickered back across the room, watching as Aziraphale's soft eyes swept over the stage with quiet appreciation.
“What have you got against black feathers?”
Satan below, Crowley thought. He was this close to redirecting a bomb to fall on the lounge just to get out of this tedious conversation. Then again, that would rather ruin the view…
At his table, Aziraphale was tapping his fingers lightly on the table in time with the music. An unconscious movement—one Crowley had seen countless times before, tracing along the spines of books, smoothing over the gilded edges of pages, gesturing mid-conversation with enthusiasm.
Crowley exhaled slowly and rolled his shoulders. “Looking for something in particular? Or just trying to get under my skin?”
She shrugged and took another sip of her whiskey. “Now that you mention it, I’d hate to leave town without adding a new volume to my collection. But I have a rather extensive library already. You wouldn’t happen to know a good bookshop nearby, would you?”
Crowley arched a brow over his sunglasses and hissed, “Do I look like I spend a lot of time in bookshops?”
The demon missed him—achingly so—but he couldn’t just saunter into Aziraphale's shop, not after all these years. Not after how they’d left things.
But sending someone to him? That was different. That was easy.
And if that someone just so happened to be an insistent customer looking to pry a rare book from Aziraphale’s carefully guarded collection, well…that would be rather demonic, wouldn’t it? The angel hoarded books like a dragon with first-edition gold, loathed to part with them even when it was good business. Nothing got him flustered quite like a persistent buyer. The angel's cheeks would flush that soft, irresistible pink, a flicker of stormy blue in his eyes as he bristled, torn between politeness and the fierce protectiveness he had over his collection. His hands would flutter in delicate protest, trying to gesture away the offer with all the grace of a gentleman holding his ground.
And if they pushed just a little too hard—oh, if they really got under his skin—Aziraphale would reach up and tug at his bowtie, just enough to loosen the constraint at his throat and draw in a slow, steadying breath. That fleeting little tell of frustration, had always undone Crowley completely. Satan, how he’d missed seeing it.
This was too tempting to pass up.
Crowley smirked, lifting his glass to his lips. “Try that man in the tartan bow tie over there. He happens to run a bookshop.”
She followed his gaze, her expression turning thoughtful as her eyes settled on the angel. Then she swiftly turned back to Crowley. “Funny,” she mused. “If you’re ‘just passing through’, how could you know what kind of business that man is in?”
Crowley bared his teeth in something that wasn’t quite a smile. “I read minds.”
The woman laughed, dabbing a napkin at the corners of her red lips. “Oh? And what am I thinking now?”
“You’re debating whether you should keep asking questions, or take the damn hint.”
She considered him for a moment, and then smiled—not offended, not deterred. If anything, intrigued. “And who do I have to thank for the bookshop recommendation?”
“Not in the habit of handing out my name,” he replied, tapping a rhythm against his glass. “But Mr. Fell over there is excellent at his job.”
“Mr. Fell,” she repeated, rolling the name over her tongue like she was tucking it away.
“Mhm.” Crowley hadn’t even said the angel's name aloud for over half a century.
She studied him, eyes sharp and searching. “But you won’t give me your own name.”
“Nope,” the demon said, letting the final consonant pop.
“Why? Are you famous or something?”
Crowley made a vague, non-committal sound.
Her eyes glinted in lowlight. “Infamous, then?”
“Aren’t I just?”
The woman lifted her glass in a toast, a slow smirk curling like a cat’s. "Well then, to infamy."
He made no move to return her toast. Instead, Crowley watched as she tipped back the last of her whiskey with a tilt of her wrist. Then she rose, the sharp click of her heels cutting through the low hum of conversation and music, as she strode straight toward Aziraphale.
Something cold crept along his spine. Crowley had the distinct feeling he’d just made a mistake.
“Here you are, sir.”
“Thank you, my good fellow,” Aziraphale murmured, accepting his third glass of wine from a waiter with a gracious nod.
Dinner had been excellent, the ambiance pleasant. He was simply enjoying being among, well, people. The illusion of company, if nothing else.
The music swelled, sweet and smooth. Couples swayed together, stealing a few precious hours of warmth and laughter, pushing back against the grim weight of war beyond these walls. Laughter rippled from the next table over, glasses clinking softly in celebration of something small but significant. A night of respite, the semblance of peace. Aziraphale ought to have felt content.
But the seat across from him remained empty.
The angel hadn’t come here seeking companionship exactly. But after weeks of solitude in his bookshop—days passing in near silence, no customers lingering to browse, no idle conversations to distract him—he had found himself longing for the presence of others. War had made the notion of leisurely bookshop visits seem frivolous, and while he’d never been overly inclined to part with his precious volumes, he was used to the occasional visitor. Now, with the long months of air raids and uncertainty pressing in, even those small interactions had disappeared, leaving him with nothing but his own thoughts.
Or rather, one thought in particular.
The absence of a certain demon had worn on him more than he cared to admit.
Aziraphale sighed, swirling the ruby red wine in his glass.
Their last conversation had been dreadful. It played out in his mind over and over, rolling like a stone in his palm until it had been worn smooth by worry. Crowley, his jaw tight, his voice low, demanding something Aziraphale could never give. Holy water. A weapon against his own destruction.
Aziraphale refused him, of course. Handing over something that could annihilate Crowley felt unthinkable. As if the mere act of passing the bottle into his hands would stain Aziraphale’s own, brand him as complicit in whatever end might come. It was unbearable, the thought of Crowley using it, of being reduced to nothing, and knowing it was Aziraphale who had given him the means to do so.
He wouldn’t be able to live with himself.
The angel missed him. Desperately. So much so that, for a fleeting moment, his gaze caught on a tall, lean figure at the far end of the lounge’s bar. The tilt of a hat, the sharp line of a well-tailored suit, the way the dim lighting caught the glint of what could have been glasses—hope flared inside him like a struck match.
But it was foolish, wasn’t it?
Crowley had been gone for decades, vanished without a word, and Aziraphale had gradually stopped expecting to see him in every shadowed corner. And yet, here he was, staring at a stranger, tracing familiar shapes onto an unknown man, projecting his own longing onto the nearest approximation of what he wished to find.
Would that Crowley were here though.
Aziraphale watched the couples sway across the floor, wrapped up in each other, lost in the music, in the warmth of shared breath and soft laughter. The press of palms at the small of a back. The slow slide of fingers tracing a shoulder.
He could almost feel it—Crowley’s touch, imagined but no less searing, a ghost of sensation that had never been.
He would take Crowley’s hand, firm and sure, threading their fingers together, tugging him onto the dance floor. Crowley would let him, wouldn’t he? Let Aziraphale guide him, only to turn the tables in an instant—those long, clever fingers splaying against his waist, pulling him close with the effortless grace of someone who knew exactly how to move. With their bodies aligned, his own melting into the heat of the demon’s frame. Crowley would be warm. He always was, heat curling off him like an ember refusing to die out.
Aziraphale would rest his hand at the nape of Crowley’s neck, just there, where the fine red hairs met the collar of his sharp dark suit. He would trace the line of his spine down, down, until his palm settled at the small of Crowley’s back, drawing him closer, pressing them together, leaving now space between them. And perhaps here, on the dancefloor, Crowley might finally let himself lean in. Let Aziraphale steady him.
He could tilt his head just so, let his lips brush against Crowley’s temple under the pretense of a whisper, could breathe him in.
Crowley would hold him, wouldn’t he? His hands spanning Aziraphale’s waist, his grip possessive. He would pull him in, flush against him, hips aligned, burning through layers of propriety until Aziraphale could no longer pretend he didn’t want—
“Might I ask for the next dance?”
The voice cut clean through his thoughts, and Aziraphale startled, blinking as the dream vanished like smoke.
“Oh.”
The angel found himself looking up at a woman—well-dressed, poised, chestnut hair styled into careful curls, and wearing a confident red-lipped smile.
“Oh, my dear, thank you for the invitation, but I’m afraid I don’t dance,” Aziraphale said, his tone warm but dismissive, already half-preparing to return his attention to the music and the swirling couples on the dance floor.
“Really?” The woman’s smile didn’t falter. If anything, it deepened. “I think you’ll want to, Mr. Fell.”
That gave him pause. Had they met before?
“I’m afraid you find me rather at a disadvantage, Miss…?”
“Rose Montgomery,” she supplied smoothly, extending a hand. Aziraphale took it, finding her grip firm, self-assured, her smile charming enough to nearly match his own.
“And what makes you so certain that I’d want to dance, Miss Montgomery?”
“Because we’re in the middle of a war, Mr. Fell. And even those of us who don’t fight need a moment to forget. You’re the type who spends long hours often alone in quiet rooms,” she continued. “A mind like yours—always thinking, always occupied. But even the most devoted scholar needs a reprieve now and then. It does a person good to get away from that, if only for a song or two.”
It was careful flattery. Aziraphale had seen Crowley do it for millennia—stroking egos just enough, planting the right thought, letting it settle and take root. It didn’t fool him. But that didn’t mean it wasn’t effective.
“Ah, you’re familiar with my bookshop?” he asked, still sifting through his memories and coming up short. “Forgive me, but I don’t recall having the pleasure of seeing you there before.”
“We have our ways of staying informed.”
The angel arched a brow. “And who is ‘we’, exactly?”
“How about I tell you over a dance?” she offered, extending her hand to him once more.
He considered her for a moment. There was something about this that intrigued him, the way she played her part so smoothly. And if, by the slimmest of chances, that dark figure at the bar truly was Crowley—well. It had been far too long. If the demon wasn’t going to come to him, then he could watch.
Aziraphale smiled graciously, taking her small hand in his own. “Of course, my dear.”
Rose led him to the dance floor, where the music had slowed into a sultry, swaying melody. Aziraphale hesitated for half a beat, then placed his hands as he’d seen others do—one resting lightly at her waist, the other poised and clasping hers.
It felt strange.
Not at all how he had imagined dancing one-on-one would be. In fact, in every idle imagining he had ever entertained of dancing like this, his partner had never been human. The gavotte had always provided the comfort of distance, the polite rotation of partners—a formality, an amusing past time. This felt rather alarmingly more intimate than Aziraphale had anticipated.
“How did you come by me?” the angel asked, already searching for a polite excuse to slip back to his table for one.
“A little bird told me you are exactly the type of man I’m looking for.”
Aziraphale raised a brow. “I beg your pardon, but what little bird?”
“A blackbird,” Rose murmured, the corners of her red lips curling as she swayed them around the dancefloor. “Practically a crow.”
Oh. Almost on instinct, Aziraphale’s eyes flickered toward the bar, his pulse thrumming. The man he’d seen earlier was still there, the brim of a fedora casting a shadow over his face. Could it—was it truly—?
“Tell me more about your line of work, Mr. Fell,” Rose asked, watching him keenly.
Aziraphale forced himself to focus, dragging his attention away from the bar. “My bookshop?”
“Your collection, yes.”
He cleared his throat, grasping for steady ground. “Well, I deal in rare and antiquated books.”
“How marvelous.”
Their steps moved in tandem, though it was Rose who led. Aziraphale brightened a little, ever pleased with his chosen human profession. “I pride myself on my ability to acquire first editions—quite a talent, if I do say so myself.”
“That is exactly the kind of talent I’m looking for,” Rose replied, the approval in her voice warmer than her hand in his.
Aziraphale felt his attention momentarily drift again, his eyes flicking back to the bar. “And what, may I ask, is your interest in rare books?”
Rose pressed just a fraction closer. “I trust you’re the sort of man who puts God, the Queen, and his country above all, Mr. Fell?”
Aziraphale blinked. “Naturally, my dear.”
She hummed her approval, hazel eyes watching him closely. “And I trust you can keep a secret as well?”
Aziraphale gave her a polite chuckle. “Ah, well. I am rather adept at knowing when to keep my mouth closed, if that’s what you mean.”
Rose leaned in a touch closer, voice lowering conspiratorially. “Very well. I’m British Military Intelligence, Mr. Fell. And it’s Captain Montgomery, not ‘Miss.’”
For the first time since stepping onto the dance floor, he completely forgot about the figure at the bar.
British Intelligence. A captain, no less. That explained a few things—how she knew his name, how she carried herself with that easy confidence, how she had steered the conversation so smoothly in exactly the direction she wanted. He met her gaze fully now, all pretense of light conversation eclipsed by the thrill of intrigue.
“And what interest does the British Military Intelligence have in literature, Captain?”
“Well,” Rose twirled lightly beneath his hand before stepping back into place. “We have reason to believe the Führer has taken a peculiar interest in acquiring certain volumes of prophecy. Our job is to ensure he doesn’t.”
Aziraphale’s fingers tightened ever so slightly around hers.
The angel had faced two great wars now without Crowley by his side, and for all his patience, for all the ways he had learned to tuck away the ache of their long separation, life on Earth had never felt quite so lonely. He missed him. More than he should. More than was wise.
He also wanted peace again. The kind that came with undisturbed afternoons, streets and buildings unshaken by air raids and skies free of searchlights. The quiet of a London that was not under siege.
Perhaps…perhaps this was something worth doing. If he could play a small part in ending this war, in restoring order—perhaps peace would come sooner. And if Crowley still wanted to keep his distance, then…Aziraphale could wait. But perhaps without the noise of war and an atmosphere of gloom surrounding the city where he chose to put down roots.
His mind settled and he met her eyes.
“How may I be of assistance?”
The angel was dancing.
Something ugly and unbidden clawed its way up Crowley’s throat, thick and hot, settling in his chest like burning coals. Was it the whiskey? Or the sight of Aziraphale letting someone—some stranger —into that carefully guarded bubble of personal angelic space?
Letting her touch him. Letting her press close, sway with him.
His gaze was locked on the way Aziraphale’s fingers curled gently around her hand, the way his palm rested lightly against the small of her back, holding her. And his face—slightly flushed, whether from wine or something else, Crowley didn’t know. The sight seemed to blow on the coals inside his chest, sending them flaring.
Since when did Aziraphale dance?
Crowley had never seen him dance before. Well, that wasn’t quite true. Twice, he had. Once in 1650 and again in 1793—an awkward, heartfelt offering of apology. Those moments were seared into Crowley’s mind, private and amusing and just for him.
But he’d never see the angel dance like this. Never with someone else in his arms.
Crowley swallowed hard, the question ringing in his skull like a struck bell. He’d been gone too long, hadn’t he? Left too much space for other interests to take root, for someone else to step into the absence he’d thought—hoped—might have remained open, waiting for him to slip back in.
Was…was this something Aziraphale wanted? Sought, even? The word fraternize echoed bitterly in the angel’s voice, dredged up from a hollowed-out place in Crowley’s mind.
Then, just for a second, Aziraphale’s eyes flicked toward the bar. Toward him.
The demon hunched over slightly, trying to look as though he weren’t watching. As though his entire focus hadn’t just narrowed to the possibility that Aziraphale was seeking him out.
It happened again. A quick, darting glance before the angel turned back to his dance partner, nodding at something she was saying.
Or maybe Crowley was just imagining things, seeing what he wanted to see.
Either way, it wasn’t stopping him from staring.
But then—then—the woman in Aziraphale’s arms leaned in, her lips tilting toward his face, close enough to whisper something against his ear.
Crowley’s stomach dropped. Heat roared, searing, through his veins. The glass in his hand cracked, whiskey dripping through his fingers.
That was his place. His job.
The thought surged through him like a curse, wild and possessive and utterly, terribly irrational.
And just as it did—just as that vicious, covetous thing in his chest threatened to break free—
The bomb fell.
The impact came first as a tremor beneath Crowley’s feet, a bone-deep warning before the world above caught up. Then, all at once, the floor lurched, the walls shuddered, and the ceiling gave a groaning protest as dust rained down in soft, choking clouds.
The lights flickered—once, twice—then died entirely, plunging the room into darkness.
Then came the panic.
Chairs scraped violently against the floor, voices rose in startled cries, glass shattered as someone knocked over a drink. The crowd surged toward the exits in a chaotic tide, bodies pressing, shoving, scrambling toward safety. Crowley barely registered any of it.
Aziraphale.
Crowley moved without thinking, slipping through the desperate, wide-eyed rush of the living like a snake, seeing the dim outlines of figures rushing past, in a blind scramble for safety, his unnatural sight cutting through the darkness, honing in on a single presence pushing through the press of bodies until—
Soft, solid warmth collided with him. A sharp inhale. A firm chest against his own.
Crowley’s back hit the wall hard, stealing the breath from his lungs. Not that he would have had any breath regardless. Because Aziraphale was right there.
Pressed against him.
Breathing hard.
Bodies molding together in the dark.
The force of the crowd had them crushed into the narrowest sliver of space against the wall. Crowley had nowhere to go, no space to pull back. His hands found purchase instinctively—one braced against the wall behind him, the other gripping the front of Aziraphale’s jacket.
Aziraphale lurched against him, caught off balance, hands reaching out blindly to brace himself. One splayed wide against Crowley’s chest, fingers curling slightly into the fabric of his shirt. The other—God help him—clutched his arm in a desperate grip, as though Crowley were the only solid thing in a world suddenly unsteady beneath their feet.
Crowley heard a breathless little oh. It wasn’t spoken so much as pressed out of the angel. A soft little sound that barely carried over the frantic movement around them. But Crowley felt it—warm breath skimming against his neck, sending something twisting hot and tight down his spine.
Fuck, they were too close.
He was drowning in the heat of him, in the scent of old paper and vanilla and something sweet beneath it all. Around them, the world was still moving—people rushing past, pushing toward the underground shelters, their voices crying in frantic urgency. But here between the quaking floor and the choking dark—
There was only this. The shuddering warmth of the angel in his arms.
He should move. He should say something. Anything to stamp out the heat curling low in his gut, the hunger clawing its way up from the pit where he’d buried it for millennia.
But Aziraphale spoke first.
“I’m terribly sorry, sir,” he said breathlessly, voice near Crowley’s ear. “Oh.”
Does he—?
No. No. He couldn’t know.
The air thickened around them, laced with dust drifting from the trembling rafters. The bar behind their stolen sliver of space was a dark blur of movement—people rushing, bodies pressing, shoulders knocking.
“Oof, pardon me, I’m afraid I can’t seem to—”
Another shove. Someone crashed into Aziraphale’s back, knocking him further into Crowley.
Crowley swallowed hard. His hands burned where they clutched at Aziraphale’s coat, instinct taking over as he pulled the angel closer, attempting to shield him from the crush of bodies. And fuck, that was a mistake.
Because now there was nothing between them. No air, no space, no sense left in his godforsaken head—just Aziraphale pressed against him, stomach to stomach, thigh to thigh, the warmth of him bleeding through every point of contact. And Crowley was clinging, fingers fisted in fabric, breath tangled between them, and it felt too real, too raw, too honest—
“You all right?” he forced out, voice wrecked, nearly unrecognizable. Which was probably for the best.
Aziraphale let out a shaky breath against his cheek. And oh, Crowley wanted to chase it, to tip forward just a fraction, enough to—
“Yes,” Aziraphale murmured. “I believe I am.”
After two more thunderous heartbeats, the crowd finally ebbed and the crush against Crowley’s chest lessened. Slowly—agonizingly—the warmth of Aziraphale slipped away as the angel straightened, leaving behind a ghost of heat across the demon's body.
Crowley let go first. He had to.
Aziraphale steadied himself, and Crowley forced his hands to his sides, curling them into fists to keep from reaching out again and hauling the angel back towards him into the darkness.
“You should get to safety,” Crowley rasped through the dust in his mouth. The words scraped out like a command, but they were anything but. “And stay there.”
He fled before Aziraphale could respond. Before he could see recognition dawn, before that gentle voice could shape his name.
Crowley pushed through the lingering stragglers, slipping into the night, his long strides carrying him far too quickly, not quickly enough. A street away, he slowed his pace and dragged in a breath he didn’t need. The air stung. His hands trembled.
The lounge was still standing, but just barely—fire licked at the remains of a building just next to it, its windows shattered, its façade crumbling from the force of the blast.
Too close. Too damn close.
He braced a hand against the nearest wall, trying to steady himself, trying to breathe. Too close, too close, not close enough, never close enough—
Something caught his eye.
Down the street, just beyond the reach of the flickering firelight, the woman from the bar stood in close conversation with two men.
That was odd. The air raid hadn’t ended, yet they weren’t seeking shelter. Crowley narrowed his eyes and moved, slipping into the shadows, closing the distance fast.
Just near enough to overhear.
The woman’s voice was low, edged with irritation, barely carrying over the distant wail of sirens. “You said the bombs wouldn’t fall here tonight.”
The shorter of the two men—round-faced, his coat pulled tight around him—exhaled sharply, his voice a rough whisper. “They weren’t supposed to, darling. My contact assured me this area would be clear.”
“Well, it isn’t,” she snapped. “Make sure your informant knows about this close call. I’ve no intention of getting buried under rubble before we’ve finished our work.”
The taller man, lean and bespectacled, adjusted his gloves. His accent, when he spoke, was unmistakably German. “Did you find a contact?”
The woman’s irritation melted slightly into smug satisfaction. “I did, actually. A Mr. Fell—owns a bookshop. Very proud of his ability to acquire first editions.”
Crowley’s stomach twisted.
She went on, “He seemed confident he could find the books the Führer requested.”
The taller man tilted his head. “Did you give him a way to contact us?”
“No, Dummkopf,” she huffed, “I barely had enough time to tell him to meet us at St. Dunstan’s before that damn bomb dropped. At least we know where to find him.” She clicked her tongue. “The shop’s on Whickber Street.”
Crowley’s breath left him.
The shorter man hummed approvingly. “Sehr gut. If this Fell is as devoted a collector as you say, two days should be plenty of time.”
“Oh, he is,” she assured them. “And eager to help—the dear fool.”
The taller man glanced at the sky. “Come. Let’s get to the shelters before we meet our Maker.”
Crowley stayed frozen in the shadows, watching the trio disappear into the dark, his mind racing.
A Nazi spy. A whole dimwitted team of them. And he’d let one of them waltz Aziraphale across a dance floor, smiling like she hadn’t just been planning to drag him straight into a trap.
His hands clenched into fists. He felt the sudden urge to level the entire street. He’d sent her directly to him, for Someone’s sake.
Crowley could just picture it. Aziraphale would show up, eager and willing, his soft heart convinced he was doing something good . And he’d walk straight into the hands of the very people who’d most likely burn his precious books and shoot him where he stood.
Crowley groaned. Not only would the angel be discorporated. But he would complain about the paperwork well into the next century.
St Dunstan’s. A bloody church. Consecrated ground. Not exactly the wisest place for a demon to stage a rescue, but when had intelligence ever stopped him where Aziraphale was concerned? One more reckless, self-sacrificing decision wouldn’t kill him—well, it would definitely hurt. But he could endure a bit of holy discomfort if it meant getting that ridiculous angel out of there—preferably in one piece.
Going to the bookshop to warn Aziraphale? Out of the question. For one, Crowley had no idea how the angel would react to him sauntering in after their fight. For another, it would mean confessing he’d been at the lounge tonight—not by accident, not really. That he’d been watching, listening, lurking in the shadows just to be near him. That he’d gotten far too close, only to nearly be caught in an agonizingly glorious way, pinned by Aziraphale in the dark, bodies pressed together in the frenzy. Admitting that? Not a chance in Hell.
Simply stopping the angel before he stepped through the church’s door? Well. Where was the flair in that? No, this called for something more dramatic. Something grand.
Oh, it had been a while, hadn’t it? They’d never spoken about it outright, but Crowley had a sneaking suspicion Aziraphale didn’t exactly mind being rescued. Perhaps even liked it, in that flustered, self-righteous way of his. And if Crowley played this just right, he could even save some of Aziraphale’s beloved books.
Now, wouldn’t that be a sight? Aziraphale holding in his arms a bag of books Crowley had snatched from the brink of destruction. Something warm and bright and sparkling in his eyes.
Maybe he could see that look again. That quiet, grateful gaze, the one Aziraphale had given him in stolen moments over the centuries, soft as candlelight, warm as sunshine. Even the memory of it was enough to make the risk worth it. To make the prospect of burning his feet on holy ground seem like nothing at all. If there was even the slightest chance of earning that look again—of watching Aziraphale’s eyes go gentle just for him —then Crowley would walk through fire.
He shook his head and finally moved again as a plan unfurled in his mind. Because of a stupid impulse, he’d gotten the angel caught up in this. And now he was going to get Aziraphale out.
And that Nazi woman who had the audacity to dance with his angel?
Yeah. She was definitely getting a bomb dropped on her.