Chapter Text
Nothing in the universe stays the same forever. Crowley, having spent what amounts to eternity in human terms, knows this better than most. As a demon, he’s rather fond of change—thrives on it, even. He’s more in tune with the ebb and flow of human trends than many actual humans, especially the ones who mutter things like, “Back in my day…”
Sure, he sometimes wonders if things are changing too fast—particularly the day he realised Queen had fallen out of fashion. (In his opinion, they ought to be immortal.)
Still, on one particular corner of Whick Street, time seems to have stood still.
Crowley parked the Bentley and sauntered towards the red-fronted bookshop, pastry box in hand. Along the way, he caught Maggie’s eye—Maggie of the record shop—who waved at him cheerily. Honestly, he sometimes suspected the department responsible for building the human brain must’ve cut a few corners. How else could no one have noticed how… peculiar this place was?
Maggie had inherited the record store from her grandmother, and she’d been running around this neighbourhood since she was a child. How had she never clocked the uncanny resemblance between her current landlady, Ms Fell, and her grandmother’s landlady? They looked uncannily alike—far beyond what you'd expect from distant family members.
And let’s not even start on the fact that Aziraphale hadn’t changed her outfit in centuries.
Crowley pushed open the door and strode in, casually removing his sunglasses and hanging them on the little table by the entrance—a table whose decorative stand had long since been repurposed into his personal eyewear perch. He didn’t care whether there were customers in the shop, or if anyone might glimpse his decidedly un-human, slit-pupilled eyes.
This was Aziraphale’s place. And in here, he did as he pleased.
He glanced to the left, and sure enough, there she was—seated behind her desk, a beam of sunlight pouring through the front window and catching in her long, fluffy, platinum-gold curls, forming what could only be described (in human terms) as a literal halo.
Not that she couldn’t produce an actual halo. She was an angel, after all.
Of course, she was an angel—she could radiate actual divine light, if she chose. But there was something about the way the sunlight caught her hair that felt more... poetic. Less heaven-sent, more heartbreakingly human.
Time didn’t just slow in this bookshop—it curled up in the corner and took a nap.
Even though they’d been mid-quarrel at the time, Crowley was quite certain that in 1941, as Aziraphale sat at this very desk, sorting through her books in preparation for that fateful church rendezvous, the scene would have looked exactly the same as it did now.
She was wearing her glasses—a sure sign she was deeply absorbed in whatever she was scribbling. When the glasses were on, Aziraphale was firmly in “do not disturb” mode, and would remain so for the foreseeable future.
Crowley hesitated.
He was briefly torn between two equally tempting options:
—Creep up behind her and give her a bit of a fright, purely for the pleasure of watching her faux-indignant scolding.
—Or settle in and wait, then enjoy the sweets he’d brought with her (mostly watching her eat them).
He chose the latter, albeit with a dramatic sigh, and flung himself into his usual spot on the sofa.
Just as Crowley’s demon-grade patience was wearing perilously thin, Aziraphale finally looked up—turning as if she’d somehow sensed him.
Her face, that perfect blend of every Renaissance master’s depiction of the Madonna, lit up the moment she saw him.
“Crowley! When did you get here? I didn’t notice you at all!”
Crowley would never, under any circumstances, admit how much he liked hearing his name spoken in that voice, laced with delight and framed by those wide, baby-blue eyes.
If Nina from the café across the road had been present, she would undoubtedly have told him to "rein in that look before someone calls it a proposal." But Nina wasn’t here.
And Aziraphale, bless her, never noticed. After all, that was just the way Crowley had always looked at her.
“I’ve been waiting quite a while,” he drawled, making a deliberate show of not sounding too much like he was whining. “No joke, you were so focused that my side could have launched three invasions, popped across the road for a coffee in between, and you still wouldn’t have noticed.”
“Oh, you do say the silliest things,” Aziraphale replied, utterly oblivious to the sarcasm. She stepped over to him with serene confidence and perched on the sofa’s edge, right between his outstretched legs and the armrest. “But no demon could break into this shop. You know that.”
“I did just break in,” he pointed out.
“You’re different.”
“How exactly am I ‘different’?” The words slipped out before he could stop them, and the moment they left his lips, he regretted not miracle-ing them into silence.
“Because you were invited, of course,” Aziraphale replied, tilting her head with innocent logic. “Although, I’m not quite sure which invitation counts as the start. But I do recall writing in that letter back in 1783, when I told you I planned to open a bookshop—I’m fairly certain I ended with ‘You’re always welcome.’ So, even if the shop didn’t technically exist yet, the invitation’s been valid ever since.”
There were many things in the world that could be measured. Celestial permissions, unfortunately, were not among them.
Crowley didn’t know what sort of answer he’d expected, or why he’d even asked. But whatever it was, his previously good mood had dimmed by a shade.
“So,” she asked brightly, “what brings you here today?”
It was an odd question. Crowley rarely needed a reason to visit the bookshop, and Aziraphale had never asked for one.
But then he noticed her gaze flitting—not quite subtly—towards the pastry box he’d placed on the table.
The demon from hell decided to pretend he hadn’t noticed.
“What? Can’t I just drop by?” he said, feigning offence. “Are you telling me that the ‘Welcome’ all the way back in 1783 came with conditions? How very unangelic of you.”
“I didn’t mean—oh,” Aziraphale began flustered, only to break off when she caught the devilish grin tugging at his mouth. Despite herself, she laughed. “Fine, tell me what’s in the box. Is it what I think it is? Is it... for today’s tea?”
A confirming nod was all it took. She sprang up from the sofa like champagne from a shaken bottle.
“You lay the table, I’ll make the tea! Don’t forget to flip the ‘Closed’ sign!” Her platinum curls bounced like sunlight as she swept off towards the kitchen.
Crowley rose to carry out his assigned task. His expression barely changed, but his mood was unmistakably buoyant.
“You’ll want wine, won’t you, Crowley?” Aziraphale called from the kitchen. “I happened upon a bottle of Romanée-Conti—though not the finest vintage, I’m afraid.”
“Doesn’t matter,” he said, half-smiling. “Anything you give me, I’ll take.”
That earned him a smile wide enough to light all of Soho.
Within the shuttered bookshop, a small round table had been laid with a tablecloth. On one side, ruby wine glinted in its glass. On the other, steam curled invitingly from a freshly brewed pot of tea.
Aziraphale, humming contentedly, opened the box.
Crowley took a slow sip of wine, hiding his anticipation behind the rim of his glass—and resisting the urge to comment on the fact that she was, in his presence, humming “God Rest You Merry, Gentlemen.”
He had expected surprise. Delight. Maybe even effusive praise.
What he got was: “...Cupcakes? But they look a bit... odd?”
“This, my dear angel, is a Cruffin. From Richoux,” he said, with pointed emphasis on the name. No self-respecting demon goes unrecognised for effort.
“Cruffin?” Aziraphale blinked. Clear confusion. A total blank.
“You live in Soho,” he said, scandalised.
It was unbelievable. The newest darling of the pastry world had just moved into the neighbourhood. Even typing ‘Soho’ into a search bar would bring up ‘Cruffin’ before you hit the ‘o’. Crowley had only gotten this box because someone with a reservation had a "last-minute emergency."
Aziraphale’s wide-eyed innocence was almost... painful.
“Never mind,” he sighed. “Just try it. I think you’ll like it.”
The first bite offered crisp, buttery layers—croissant-light. Then came the soft richness of whipped cream, warm vanilla custard following in its wake. Just when the decadence threatened to become too much, a sharp, bright fruit jam cut through, balancing sweetness with tang. And at the end, a sip of fragrant Earl Grey brought everything together in one perfect sigh.
Aziraphale leaned back and gave a small, blissful groan. It was moments like this—utterly human, inexplicably wonderful—that made her love the world.
Across the table, Crowley sipped his wine and didn’t take his eyes off her.
She was doing something she loved. And so was he.
“Oh, Crowley, that was simply divine,” Aziraphale said, still glowing from pastry-induced ecstasy. “You always bring the most marvellous experiences.”
Crowley snorted quietly into his glass. No way in hell was he going to say, “I’d rather hear that in a different context.”
Impure thoughts lead people to hell during the Last Judgment, but that is where he came from.
“How do you always manage to find these strange and wonderful things?” she asked, studying the Cruffin like a newly discovered species.
“For someone who loves sweets as much as you do, your lack of dessert knowledge is criminal,” Crowley muttered. “What do you even eat most days?”
“I had a mince pie yesterday. Nina recommended it.”
Crowley stared. “A mince pie? Are we back in the 18th century? Am I taking tea with the dowager countess at her country estate?”
Aziraphale puffed up slightly in protest. That was needlessly rude.
“The countess bit I’ll accept,” she said huffily, “but why a widow?”
That’s what she’s offended by? Crowley wisely chose not to follow that line of inquiry, but somehow got a feeling that he should pursue.
“Honestly, angel, it’s time you embraced the modern world—phones, internet, all of it,” he said, downing the last of his wine, throat rasping slightly. “Most people can’t just call a demon. But I never know where you are, so my phone is more open than King’s bloody Cross. Hell, thanks—” He passed his glass over for a refill. “What I’m saying is: get a phone. Trust me, London’s entire cold-call industry will thank you.”
Crowley always ensures that unsolicited marketers who dared to phone a demon paid and never make the same mistake twice.
“Well, I don’t really need a phone,” Aziraphale said, not quite convincingly. “You’re the only one I need to be in touch with regularly.” without noticing the way Crowley’s lips curled upward at that.
“Fine, not a phone. But the internet can do so much more,” he gestured at the pastries. “You wouldn’t want to miss out on this sort of thing, would you? These places don’t put ads in newspapers anymore, angel. And the posters you used to clip for your little scrapbook? Half those shops are Instagram-only now.”
Aziraphale hesitated. She could imagine how lovely it would be to discover treats like this on her own. But part of her didn’t want to be persuaded so easily.
And perhaps… if she had a phone, Crowley might not stop by as often. And that idea—unsettlingly—she didn’t quite like.
A decent demon will never miss a vacillation.
“How about this,” he said, pulling out an iPad from seemingly nowhere (don’t ask—demons have their ways). “If you’re not ready for a phone, try this instead. Doesn’t make calls, but it’ll help you find whatever you like.”
Crowley doesn't see himself as a hardcore Apple fan. He never queued outside an I Store for the latest model—“Please. I invented overnight queues to harvest human misery,” he would scoff. Still, he was a loyal enough user. And when he found out the company’s founder had gone to Hell instead of Heaven, he had secretly felt a bit sorry about it.
The iPad, for its part, had been something of a misguided purchase. He’d intended to use it for “online engagement”—part of Hell’s initiative to increase infernal influence via social media. But it turned out his phone was more than sufficient. Most of the job could be done with a few taps, a sarcastic emoji, and the occasional thumbs-down.
Frankly, Crowley didn’t see the appeal of one-on-one temptation anymore. Why corrupt a soul in person when you could ruin someone's day in bulk with one well-placed comment on a viral post?
It had been collecting dust—until today, when it suddenly found its higher (or lower) purpose.
“I suppose… I’ll give it a try.”Aziraphale accepted it with the air of someone accepting a magical artefact rather than a consumer device.
Crowley leaned in, smirking as he began to show her the basics. Aziraphale listened intently, lips pursed, eyes focused.
The temptation had worked. Demonic persuasion, after all, always starts with the smallest things.