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Aziraphale Fell had a sacred routine. Every morning he lingered over his breakfast in his pyjamas and dressing gown, and then had a nice long soak in the bathtub before donning his clothes to leave his bookshop at nine-thirty. He went directly next door to the village bakery, where he purchased a single chocolate eclair. Agnes, the owner, made the most scrumptious eclairs in the world, as far as he was concerned. No one aside from his beloved grandmother had ever even come close to matching their perfection.
Then, treat in hand, he returned to his shop to fix tea to go with it, and he sat in an overstuffed armchair at his old rolltop desk, eating and drinking while gazing out the front window at the few passersby in this quiet little place he had called home for many years. Then he opened his bookshop at ten.
He had been patronizing the bakery in this same way without fail that fateful Summer of the Upset. Every day, same time, same order. A single chocolate eclair. Except for Saturdays, when he bought two to tide him over Sundays, when the bakery was closed. Nothing else would do. Everything Agnes baked was delicious, but Aziraphale always had his heart set on one thing and one thing only. His tea break was not complete without that lovely crisp, yet fluffy pastry filled with smooth creamy goodness, topped with the most sinful dark chocolate glaze.
His routine was not to last, however, because of the Upset. It happened one day in early July. As usual, he left his bookshop at nine-thirty. As always, he strolled happily next door to the bakery. With anticipation building, he went up to the counter and the row of glass cases — which were, to his surprise, nearly empty of any and all baked goods.
Agnes only made a dozen of the labor-intensive eclairs each day, but they rarely sold out before eleven. He had once asked if she could kindly hold one back for him each day, but she refused, saying she couldn’t play favorites, as it wouldn’t be fair to her other customers. And it looked as if only one eclair was left on the strangely denuded shelves. Oh, dear.
And then he watched in horror as Agnes used a pair of tongs to extract the last eclair, pop it into a paper bag, and hand it to the customer right in front of him.
Aziraphale gasped. He couldn’t help it, the shock was so severe. “Nooooooo!”
The customer turned around to stare at him. Tall, lanky, quite handsome with dark red hair, a striking nose, and good cheekbones. He recognized him immediately — Anthony Crowley, the fellow who had recently opened a plant shop directly on the other side of the bakery.
The thief raised a single eyebrow, and lifted his sunglasses, showing off lovely golden-brown eyes. “Are you alright?”
“What? No, I am not alright! You took my eclair!” It was rude, of course. But he had a routine.
“Seriously? Sorry, mate, but first come, first served and all that.” Then Crowley started to walk off.
“Wait!” Aziraphale tugged at his sleeve. “Please! Could you not consider exchanging it for something else? I come here every day at nine-thirty to buy my eclair, everyone knows this. I simply must have my eclair with my tea, it’s important.”
The Thief pursed his lips. “Sorry, but this is the best thing Agnes makes. It’s my favorite.” And then to add insult to injury, the devil pulled the eclair out just enough to bite off a large piece. Right there in front of him. The sheer effrontery of the man!
“Mmmmm. Fantastic.” Then he shoved it back in the bag. “You’re the bookshop bloke, yeah? A.Z. Fell?”
“Aziraphale Fell, yes.” He had been defeated, and he released a long, deep sigh which he hoped would convey the depth of his sorrow. “And you are Anthony Crowley, new owner of that plant shop.”
“Got it in one. Just call me Crowley.”
“I do not wish to call you anything at all.” Aziraphale straightened his shoulders and adjusted his bow tie. “I was, in fact, prepared to welcome you to our fair village once you got settled, but that is no longer the case. You have taken my eclair. You have wounded me, sir!”
Crowley laughed. “Really? Wow. Are you going to challenge me to a duel?”
“Do not patronize me. This isn’t over.” Then he shoved past the scoundrel and strode briskly back to his bookshop, where he spent the rest of the day mulling and stewing and pondering his next move.
*
The next morning Aziraphale went to the bakery at nine-fifteen. The cases were almost empty again.
“Sorry,” Agnes explained. “I had a busload of tourists at eight-thirty, just like yesterday. Nearly cleaned me out both times.”
Thankfully, there were still two eclairs left. And it was Saturday. As he was purchasing both of them, the shop door bell tinkled, and he turned round to see Crowley stroll inside. He scudded to a halt just as Agnes was popping the eclairs into a bag. Then he looked at the empty case. Then he looked at Aziraphale, a deep frown creasing his brow.
“There were TWO,” he said. “And you’re here earlier than nine-thirty.”
“I need one for Sunday,” Aziraphale replied. “And I might note with some suspicion that you are here earlier than nine-thirty as well. Were you intending to undermine me, perhaps?”
Crowley just grinned.
“As I thought. I am not amused.”
“Uh huh. Whatever. See you Monday, Fell. And you better be prepared.” Then the devil spun on his heels and sauntered out.
Oh, dear.
*
On Monday Aziraphale disrupted his morning routine by not lingering as long over breakfast, and by skipping his bath in order to get to the bakery at nine sharp.
There were no eclairs. Not a single one.
With a sinking feeling, Aziraphale asked Agnes, “Were there more tourists?”
“Not today. That Mr. Crowley came in half an hour ago and bought them all. Sorry.”
This simply could not be tolerated. He marched next door to the plant shop and stopped when he saw the sign in the front window. FREE ECLAIR WITH PURCHASE WHILE SUPPLIES LAST.
The shop was open. He girded his loins and strode inside. It was devoid of customers. Crowley stood behind the counter at the back, doing something with a computer monitor.
Aziraphale walked up to the counter. “You are a foul fiend!”
“Hi, there, Fell.” The Fiend looked up with a triumphant smile. “Want to buy a house plant?”
“This is absurd. I do not want a plant. I want my eclair!”
“Can’t say that I saw your name on any of them, not today, and not that first day when you practically accused me of stealing yours. Bit rude, if you ask me.”
He did have a point. Aziraphale felt a slight flush in his cheeks. He cleared his throat. “Yes, fine. I will admit that my behavior was not entirely well-mannered, and I apologize. I was under duress. However, that hardly warrants the way you practically taunted me with that eclair by taking a bite right in front of me.”
“Yeah, okay, I’ll own that one. But you didn’t need to buy the last two on Saturday. You can survive one Sunday without.”
“No, I cannot. Nor do I have any control over rampaging hordes of tourists. Nor does my entirely necessary purchase of the last two eclairs entitle you to seek revenge by this egregious appropriation of every single eclair today.”
Crowley crossed his arms. “Are you going to buy a plant or not? Because if you’re not actually here to shop, I’m going to ask you nicely to go away now.”
“I do not wish to buy a houseplant.” Though now that he looked around at the shelves, Aziraphale could not help but notice how lush and beautiful the plants were. But he had to remain firm. There was a principle at stake here. What it was, exactly, he wasn’t entirely sure. But he stuck to his guns anyway. “I wish to eat a chocolate eclair.”
“Yeah, good luck with that.” Crowley uncrossed his arms, raised one hand, wiggled the fingers at him. “Toodle-oo.”
Oh, honestly. Aziraphale stomped his foot, said, “Harrumph!” and stormed out.
He had lost that battle. But tomorrow morning, he was going to win the war.
No matter what it took.
*
Anthony Crowley didn’t really dislike Aziraphale Fell. For one thing, he didn’t even know the man well enough to hate him. For another thing, the man was gorgeous to look at, even when he was going all frowny-face.
It had been a long time since he’d felt that special zing of attraction when meeting someone. He certainly hadn’t expected it to happen here in this village of all places, where he had come to get away from everything to do with romance. Yet there it was, the first time he’d ever seen the bookseller, which hadn’t been that day in the bakery. No, he’d first seen A.Z. Fell shortly after moving everything into his new shop. He had finished up the display in the front window, and happened to glance across the street, and had seen a man in a three-piece beige suit strolling along — a man with striking pale blond curls and a kind face. He had stepped inside the tea shop directly opposite. Crowley had stayed there, waiting for another glimpse of the extraordinary fellow, and was soon rewarded as he emerged with a paper sack. Then the man strolled right across the street and Crowley almost thought he was coming to his place, but then he veered off towards the bakery next door. But he got a much better look as he passed right by the window, and when he saw the handsome features and the soft smile, Crowley felt a flicker of interest.
No, no, no, he had told himself. No more romance. It’s all bollocks.
He’d been disappointed too many times to put himself through that particular wringer again. Anyway, they seemed to be mortal enemies now. Or at least, feuding neighbors. Which was ridiculous. As long as there weren’t boatloads of tourists descending on the village, the bakery should have plenty of chocolate eclairs on hand. He didn’t want to make an enemy this soon in his new home.
With a sigh, he took up the plant mister and made the rounds of his shop.
He sure hoped enough people bought plants today to get rid of those eclairs. He had saved one for himself, of course, but he didn’t need eleven more. And he didn’t think they would freeze all that well. Damn.
But even though he didn’t want to make an enemy of Aziraphale Fell, Crowley was definitely not going to take any leftover eclairs at the end of the day over to the bookshop. There was a principle at stake here. What it was, exactly, he wasn’t entirely sure.
But he would stick to his guns anyway. And come up with another plan for tomorrow morning.
*
The bakery opened at eight. On Tuesday morning, Crowley decided to park himself outside the bakery at seven forty-five in order to be first in line.
But when he arrived at the bakery door, he found Aziraphale Fell there, slumped on the pavement, sniffling and moaning.
Crowley scratched his head. “Hey. What’s wrong?”
Fell looked up, eyes red-rimmed. He pointed mutely at the glass door.
The bakery was dark. Crowley read the sign on the door, which stated that Agnes had been suddenly called away by a family matter, and expected to be gone for a fortnight, and was very sorry for the inconvenience. “NGK. Erk grr augh!” He slumped down next to Fell, and leaned back against the door in utter defeat.
“I want my eclair,” Aziraphale sobbed. “It’s special.” He took out a handkerchief and rubbed at his eyes. “My nana used to make them for me. No one else except Agnes could make them the way she could.” Snuffle snort. “I cherish the memories of those days, and have tried to recreate a small part of that joy in my morning ritual. Tea and a chocolate eclair, just the way my grandmother would make it.” Sniff. “She cannot make them for me anymore, either. She’s gone.”
With a sense that this was not the time to be mortal enemies, but rather a time to bond against adversity, Crowley offered him a tentative shoulder pat. “I didn’t know. I’m sorry for your loss.”
“My what? Oh, no, she’s not dead! I meant she moved. She used to live right here in the village, but last year she moved to the Happy Sunny Retirement Home near Oxford. My parents live in Oxford, you see. But thank you.” Sniffle. “This is such a shock. I cannot possibly last two entire weeks with my eclair.”
“Nope. I’m kind of addicted to them, too.”
“What are we going to do?!?”
Crowley dug out his mobile and started poking at the screen. “Must be other bakeries in other villages hereabouts.”
“I cannot imagine they would produce an eclair as magnificent as Agnes’s.”
Crowley made a call. “You don’t? Okay, thanks.” He poked some more, and made more calls. “No?” “Really?” “Huh.” Some minutes later he tucked the phone away. “Damn. The closest bakery I can find so far that offers eclairs is in Portsmouth.”
“Good heavens. That’s a good thirty or more miles away. Not impossibly far, but rather a chore every single morning.” Aziraphale sighed. “No, I cannot do it. What if I drove all the way there only to find they had sold out already?”
“I have to open the shop at nine. And I like to sleep in.”
“Then we’re doomed.”
They both sat there for a while moping, until Crowley had an idea. He perked up. It was probably an idiotic idea, because he had a track record of coming up with those, but it was worth a shot. “Hang on. Do you carry cookbooks? Maybe we can learn how to bake them ourselves, yeah?”
Aziraphale gaped at him. “Bake them our—my dear fellow, have you ever baked anything that complex before? I certainly haven’t.”
“No, but where there’s a will, there’s a way.” He shoved himself up. “Come on, I want to look at your cookbooks.” He offered a hand.
“Very well.” Aziraphale took his hand and was duly pulled upright. “But I do not see the need for us to work together. We don’t even like each other.”
Crowley snorted. “Get over it, Fell. Other than this absurd eclair thing, I’ve got no reason to dislike you.”
“Oh. Um. I mean…yes, I suppose you have a good point. I don’t really know anything about you, aside from your unusual acquisitiveness regarding fine pastries. You might be a decent fellow overall.”
“I am! And you might be one, too, for all I know.”
Aziraphale lifted his chin. “I am a gentleman. I have standards.”
“Uh huh. Your standards seem to include deviously undermining your neighbor.”
“Needs must when the devil drives.”
“Where in the world did you come from? And what’s with the antiquated outfit? Are you into roleplay or something?”
“I beg your pardon. This is a replica of a mid-Victorian suit which I have owned for over twenty years, and have kept in tip-top condition. Nineteenth century history is my particular area of expertise. I am quite fond of the clothing. It is stylish. I find both contemporary culture and modern couture to be — “ He gave Crowley a once-over. “Rather tawdry.”
“Tawdry?!? Seriously?”
“I was speaking generically, not specifically.”
“Uh huh. Look, Fell —”
“Aziraphale.”
“Okay, so we’re mortal enemies who don’t like each other but now we’re on an informal basis?”
“We have a common goal. I shall withhold my judgment on your character for the nonce, as it would be the gentlemanly thing to do if we are going to work together on resolving our current predicament.”
“Ngk.”
“I’m so sorry, but was that English?”
Crowley had no idea what to make of the clever bastard, but he was starting to like him more and more. Aziraphale Fell was nothing if not unique. “Yeah. It means, which century did you time travel here from?”
“Very droll. Come along, then, my dear fellow. To my bookshop!”
Dear fellow??
Crowley followed his incredibly peculiar but incredibly intriguing companion, wondering what on Earth he was about to get himself into.
Hopefully, whatever happened, he would at least get a chocolate eclair out of the adventure.
*
Aziraphale had flour on his face.
He stood in his cottage kitchen, gazing forlornly at the saucepan taunting him from the hob. “I think we need to be more careful.”
“Should I keep stirring this mess or give up?” Crowley had flour on his face, too, and some in his hair.
“No, you can stop. There is too much flour on us and not enough in the pan, and we cannot simply add more flour without knowing precisely how much is missing, because baking is about exact measurements.” He sighed. “I do hate wasting the butter and milk, though.”
Crowley stopped stirring and turned off the heat. He picked up a tea towel, and reached over to dab Aziraphale’s cheeks. “Want to have another go?”
“Absolutely.” He was bound and determined to learn how to make his favorite treat, no matter what.
“Fine. But next time, I’ll add the flour and you get to do the stirring.” Crowley’s brow furrowed. “I can’t tell if you’ve got flour in your hair or not. Same color.” He casually ruffled it. White flour dust floated through the air.
“Oh, dear. Now I’ll have to sweep and mop the floor, you miscreant.”
“Wait until we’re done. I’m sure they’ll be more of a mess soon.”
“No doubt.” Aziraphale snatched the towel, and carefully wiped the flour off Crowley’s face. Then he ran his hand through that lovely hair to rid it of the very obvious white flakes. “There. That’s better. Now, then, to work!”
Naturally, before starting this little project, Aziraphale had read through the instructions on making chocolate eclairs from The Joy of Cooking five times, on the theory that familiarity with the daunting process would make it feel less daunting.
It didn’t.
Crowley, it turned out, had a miniscule kitchen in his flat, which was above his plant shop. This clearly would not do. So once they had settled on the right cookbook, Aziraphale had to invite the handsome devil into his cottage, which had a large, well-appointed and modern kitchen in which they could work.
After locating the cookbook yesterday morning, and reading the recipe too many times, and after spending that afternoon going to the shops to buy the ingredients he didn’t have on hand, as well as the pastry bags and tips he didn’t own, Aziraphale had collected Crowley from the plant shop at closing time and they walked the half-mile to his home.
“Wow,” Crowley had said as they entered the living room. “Don’t you get tired of staring at bookcases all day and night?”
“Nonsense. The ones in the bookshop are entirely distinct from this small personal collection of mine.”
“Small? You must have several thousand!”
“Fifteen thousand, actually. There are more in the library. And both bedrooms.”
“Did you raid an antique store to furnish the place?” Crowley wandered around gaping at the furniture and the collectible statues and the oil paintings. “This is amazing.” He peered more closely at a lamp on an end table. “Is this a genuine Tiffany? It’s stunning.”
“Yes, it is genuine. I do enjoy being surrounded by fine things.”
“I like it. My flat looks like a hotel room compared to this. Spartan necessities only. I’m envious.” Crowley pushed on the overstuffed sofa. “This looks comfy.”
“Yes, well, do come into the dining room, please. We can review the recipe better at the table. Shall I fix us some tea?”
“Sure. And dinner, while you’re at it.”
“It’s only just after five. Do you often eat this early?”
“Nope. But cooking a good dinner takes time.” Crowley smiled in a hopeful fashion. “What are we having?”
Well, he probably should have thought this through a bit more before extending the invitation. He did usually eat around six, and he had planned to start cooking fairly soon. He supposed it would be ungentlemanly to ignore his companion’s obvious hints. “Do you like chicken fettuccine alfredo?”
“Sounds great. Thanks, Azira—say, what does your name mean? It’s unusual.”
“Ah. I was named for one of the lesser angels. Aziraphale was said to be the guardian of the Eastern Gate of Eden.” He smiled. “He got to carry a flaming sword.”
“Oh, yeah? Cool. You’d look good brandishing a flaming sword. And then you could use it to keep interlopers away from the case at the bakery.”
“What a delightful plan. I shall bear it in mind, should the need arise.”
“It won’t, though.” Crowley grinned. “We’re going to resolve our differences via shared baking. Why don’t you go do whatever you need to do about tea and dinner while I study the recipe.”
“Very good.”
He had made them tea. And he made dinner, which they shared over a rather convivial chat in which they got to know each other a bit more, as it seemed silly to continue pretending they were at odds. After washing up after dinner, they had tackled the chocolate eclair recipe.
“Looks like our first step is to make something called pâte à choux,” Crowley had said.
“Ah! La fleur française est faite en longueur! Nous allons préparer le chou!”
Crowley stared at him. “Um…was that supposed to make sense?”
“What do you mean? Don’t you speak any French? I said, Ah, the fabulous French language. We will make the choux pastry.”
“Actually, you said, The French flower is made long, and we will make the cabbage.”
Aziraphale rolled his eyes. The fellow clearly didn’t know the language. “I most certainly did not. I studied French at university for two solid years, and have been to Paris at least a dozen times. No one there ever corrected me!”
Crowley raised that one eyebrow he seemed able to deploy to great effect, conveying the perfect mix of incredulity and amusement. “Yeah…okaaaay. We will make the pâte à choux.”
“Très excellent!”
“Without cabbage.”
“Now you’re just being silly.”
“Yup.” Crowley smiled. “Pâte à choux for two.”
Aziraphale laughed. And suddenly, in that moment, he had a realization. He was enjoying the man’s company. How about that?
Then they made their first attempt at the choux pastry, failing miserably. It was his own fault, really, for not being more careful about adding the flour to the boiling mixture. After cleaning up the mess, he set a fresh saucepan of milk, water, butter, and salt on the hob and turned up the heat. He read through the instructions one more time out loud, then measured out the flour, sifted it, and handed it to Crowley. The four eggs that were supposed to go in afterwards were still sitting on the worktop, so that was all good.
He rubbed his hands together. “I feel more confident this time.”
“Great. Because it’s past my movie-watching hour.”
“What is more critical to your happiness — mindless entertainment or chocolate eclairs?”
“How do you know it’s mindless? I might have been planning to watch Pride and Prejudice tonight.”
“It was meant generically, not specifically.” Aziraphale smiled. “I view all television shows as mindless, when one could be reading the divine Miss Austen instead.”
“Really? Do you even own a TV? I don’t recall seeing one.”
“I do not. Were you planning to watch Pride and Prejudice?”
“Nope. I was going to rewatch some old Doctor Who stuff.”
“Oh! Well, that’s different!” He adored the show. “Everyone loves the Doctor! Which one is your favorite? I’m old-fashioned myself, and prefer the earlier incarnations, especially Tom Baker, of course. And I do like Sarah Jane so much.”
“Classic goodness,” Crowley replied. “I’m a fan of the fifth Doctor, too. The reboot was great, though. I love Amy and Rory, and the whole River Song arc.”
“I adore Donna Noble.”
“Who doesn’t?”
Aziraphale scratched his head. “Do you know, there’s something of a resemblance between you and the Tenth Doctor—”
“Angel! It’s boiling!”
Angel?? “Oh!” He readied himself with the wooden spoon. “Flour!”
The second disaster wasn’t the same as the first. But it was still a disaster.
Crowley did not spill any of the flour. It all went into the saucepan just fine, and Aziraphale stirred it in vigorously, and kept stirring until the mixture came away from the sides of the pan, as it was supposed to do. He continued stirring for one more minute, and then emptied the mess into a bowl.
“‘Let cool for five minutes,’” Crowley read. “‘Stirring occasionally.’”
That went just fine.
“‘Beat in one at at time by hand, with a wooden spoon, or on low speed with a mixer: four large eggs.’”
He should have stuck with the spoon. But Aziraphale had already set up the mixer in advance, and his hand was tired. He should have asked Crowley to stir the eggs in instead, but no. He decided the mixer would be easiest.
And it would have been, had he not accidentally pushed the high speed button rather than the low speed one.
“Can I use your shower?” Crowley asked after the debacle. He brushed a few bits of dough off his shirt. “And your clothes washer?”
Aziraphale sighed. “Next time, we’ll stick with the spoon.”
“Are we going to try again tonight? Or is it going to take too long to clean your kitchen floor, worktop, cabinets, and walls first?” Crowley looked up. “Might be a few bits on the ceiling, too.”
“I’m out of butter.”
“Oh. Okay. Sorry. Where’s your mop?”
“No, no, it’s alright. You can go home if you wish.”
Crowley pursed his lips. “Um…don’t really want to.” He smiled. “I kind of like hanging out with you now.”
A warmth flooded through Aziraphale’s chest. “Do you really?”
“Yeah…I really do. I’d even watch Pride and Prejudice with you.”
“No television set, remember?”
“Right.” Crowley gave him another affectionate smile. “Want to come over and watch it at my place?”
A tingling shiver flew up his spine. A frisson of attraction. It had been far too long since Aziraphale had felt anything of the sort, and he rather liked it. A lot. “Tonight?” he asked hesitantly.
Crowley nodded. “If you like.”
The tingling and the warmth increased. Oh, my. Aziraphale considered the fact that he barely knew this man. Then he thought about how easily they had slipped into camaraderie after that initial irritation over their eclair contretemps had dissolved.
He contemplated the fact that Anthony Crowley had been kind to him since their discovery of the closed bakery, and how they had chatted so amiably over dinner. And he thought about how long it had been since he’d been touched in casual friendship, and how long it had been since anyone had ruffled his hair in that gentle, teasing way.
He thought about how relaxed Crowley seemed in his home. And about how lovely the man looked as he just stood here now in his kitchen, leaning languidly against the worktop. Good lord, he was beautiful.
“Yes,” he said now without any hesitation at all. Then he smiled. “We already ate dinner…does this mean we are having a dinner-and-a-movie date?”
“Yup.” Crowley’s smile brightened the whole kitchen. “I’m very much into that idea.”
Aziraphale wiggled with excitement. A date. After he’d given up all hope of finding someone again…how astonishing. He pointed. “The mop is in that cupboard. I’ll get some cleaning rags.”
They quickly got to work.
*
Halfway through Pride and Prejudice, Crowley tried out the Yawn That Leads Into A Casually Draped Arm Over the Shoulders move.
Aziraphale did not object.
They snuggled closer together on Crowley’s sleek black leather sofa. He liked the way they felt against each other. Solid strength where their thighs touched, a more supple give in their waists, a sense of warmth and support in their chests and arms. After cleaning up the cottage kitchen, Aziraphale had changed his clothes before they headed over here, and he was now wearing loose beige trousers with a pale-blue long-sleeved shirt of a brushed material that felt soft against Crowley’s skin. For he had changed into looser jeans and short-sleeved black t-shirt, because he wanted to be comfortable.
And he was…very, very comfortable. Crowley had seen the movie once, years ago, and he knew how the story went. He was spending more of his mental energy on gazing at the handsome man beside him, and wondering where their unexpected friendship might lead, than on what was happening on the screen.
Eventually, Aziraphale noticed. He turned to Crowley and said, “Do you truly care what Lizzie thinks of Darcy, and vice versa?”
“Not a single bit. Elizabeth didn’t care for Darcy on first meeting, and they’ve been sparky together ever since. But they can’t stop thinking about each other. I know how that goes. I’ve seen a gazillion romcom flicks.”
“The two leads always spar with one another in the beginning, from what I’ve gleaned over the years. Correct?”
“Yeah, that’s the formula for sure. Sparks fly. Yet underneath, attraction can’t be denied. And then something unexpected always happens, something that leads to spending more time together. And that’s when they begin to bond.”
“Ah. Something like a closed bakery, perhaps?”
“Perfect scenario.” Crowley took Aziraphale’s hand, and began stroking the back with his thumb. “They get to know each other better, and discover that their initial impressions were not entirely fair. And then the romance slowly develops…or you know, sometimes it isn’t slow at all.”
Aziraphale brought his other hand to Crowley’s chest. “How about somewhere in the middle?” He raised his eyebrows. “May we start with just a kiss?”
“I’m good with that.”
It was a sweet, tentative kiss — at first, anyway. Just a light, soft caress, a mere darting in and darting out again, as if testing the waters. Then another, slightly longer touch that sent a tremor through Crowley. Oh hell yes. As they broke apart, he felt a familiar ache in his belly, a yearning for contact, for more sensation. His breathing deepened as he pulled Aziraphale even closer, as they turned fully into each other, into a firmer embrace. Then their lips met once more, and the third time was definitely the charm.
They kissed long and luxuriantly then, exploring every contour, and opening to each other with increasing fervor. Crowley clutched at Aziraphale’s back and shoulders, pressing into him, and he could feel the movement of that firm chest and softer abdomen against his own, joined in deeper, gasping breaths between more and more ardent kisses. Aziraphale ran a hand through Crowley’s hair, twining strands around his fingers, and it was all amazing, and it was utterly, incredibly perfect in every possible way.
When at last they stopped, and pulled away from that intense touch with panting breaths, they just looked at each other, and then both laughed lightly at exactly the same time.
“Oh, my.” Aziraphale collapsed against him, his forehead on Crowley’s breast. His whole body quivered as he held onto Crowley’s arm. “Oh, my heavens.”
Crowley felt a release of tension in that shared laughter. As he calmed, he gently stroked Aziraphale’s back. “There, there. Take it easy, Angel.”
“That was so lovely…”
“I know.” He kissed the top of those gorgeous curls. “I know.”
“It was so amazing…my word, it has been such a long time since…since—”
“Since anyone shook my whole world up,” Crowley finished. “Oh, God, I know how you feel—”
Aziraphale lifted his head and gazed up at him, eyes bright. “I want to do it again, please.”
“Damn right.”
In the background, the movie played on. Somewhere on Crowley’s giant TV screen, Darcy and Lizzie were figuring out the truth, while here on his sofa, he and Aziraphale were figuring out what they liked, as kisses led to further touches and caresses, as hands roved over soft cotton and loose denim, and as the romantic story carried on behind them, and as the music rose and fell in emotional accompaniment, so too did they explore romance, and it was slow at first…and for quite some time, it was only a further testing of the waters…until a heat built, until need rose, until the deeper waters beckoned like a siren call.
Crowley was definitely aroused. And as their bodies were so closely pressed together now, he could tell that he was not alone in that.
Oh, damn… He reluctantly pulled back from their caresses. “Sorry. I don’t want to go this fast…I want…” What the hell did he want? Sex? Romance? Friendship? All of the above?
“Shush.” Aziraphale leaned in and brushed his lips lightly over Crowley’s cheek. “I shall attempt to calm my physical desire. I am not in the habit of bedding someone on a first date, I’ll have you know. It’s simply been, well, a very long time since I’ve been so sorely tempted.”
“I’m not judging you, trust me.” Crowley told his body firmly to settle down. Then he brushed his fingers along Aziraphale’s cheek. “God, you’re so beautiful. I really, really like you, and I really, really want to be the best friend you’ve ever had, and I’m pretty sure that I really, really, really do want to make love to you someday. Just not tonight.”
Aziraphale held his gaze steadily through several agonizing breaths. Then he turned his head just slightly, enough to kiss the hand caressing his cheek. “Yes. Yes, I want all of that, too.” Then he drew away, and took Crowley’s right hand in his. “I have never been kissed like that on a first date. Something happened then. Did you feel it, too? As if…well, as if fate had guided us?”
Crowley had felt something special between them during that heady kiss. “I kind of gave up on love. But that kiss made me rethink everything. You’re doing pretty unbelievable things to me.”
“So are you, to me. And we shall pursue this mutual attraction, all in good time. Shall we pretend now that we are actually watching this film?”
“Sounds good to me.”
And it was very good indeed.
*
On Wednesday Aziraphale bought more ingredients, and that evening after dinner, they made a third attempt at the pâte à choux, and miracle of miracles, this time they succeeded in not spewing flour, eggs, butter, or anything else all over the kitchen.
“We did it.” Aziraphale raised his wooden spoon in triumph. “Ha!” He set the spoon down to give Crowley a hug.
“Mm…nice. Can I have a hug every time we master a part of this recipe?”
“Of course you can.”
Their triumph was short-lived. The next step was to fill a pastry bag with the choux paste, and pipe it onto a baking sheet. The instructions for this process covered half a page of small type. Aziraphale tried reading them out while Crowley had a go, resulting in several wobbly blobs. Then they switched places, and Aziraphale’s eclairs were less blobby but distinctly unequal in size.
“I hate baking,” he said after the third and fourth tries at pastry piping.
“Maybe we need a glass of wine or three.”
“That would make this more entertaining, but hardly more likely to succeed, my dear.”
“Point taken. Fifth time’s the charm?”
Aziraphale nodded. “Let’s do it.”
The fifth try was a little better, but still not great, but the sixth effort wound up mostly alright, and they called it good and tossed the sheet into the oven. They paid close attention to the three-part baking instructions and managed to get it right for once despite breaking into the wine while waiting for the timer to go off at each step.
Nearly an hour later, ten reasonably attractive eclairs were cooling on a rack, and then they had to bring out the dreaded stand mixer to make the pastry cream. Crowley gamely handled the mixer, combining the sugar, flour, cornstarch and egg yolks without mishap, while Aziraphale took on the saucepan, where he brought milk and vanilla to a simmer. Then came the dangerous bit — pouring about a third of the milk into the mixture Crowley had made, stirring, and then adding it back to the saucepan and whisking it constantly until it thickened.
It was only a little lumpy here and there, and they decided to live with that.
The cream had to cool a while in the fridge, which meant more wine was shared in the meantime. Then they took the cooled cream, loaded it into the pastry bag, and piped it inside the eclairs, taking turns. They were both pleasantly buzzed by then, and some of the cream wound up on a cupboard door, and a bit of it got squirted onto Crowley’s shirt, which forced him to remove it. Then he retaliated, and soon Aziraphale was shirtless, too.
“Drinking while baking,” Crowley said gleefully. “Guilty as charged.”
Aziraphale just laughed.
The final step was to make either a chocolate glaze or a ganache, and as the recipe for the latter looked simpler, they went with it. Thankfully, there were only two ingredients – heavy cream and bittersweet chocolate — and they turned out a creditable topping for the eclairs, as well as a delicious pan and spoon to lick clean which Aziraphale would not usually countenance, but he was quite tipsy by then and allowed his standards to slip.
“You know what?” Crowley said as they stood staring at the worktop where the results of their messy efforts stood. “I think we made chocolate eclairs.”
Aziraphale hesitated. “I’m afraid to try one. What if they’re bad?” All that work for nought.
“Yeah…but what if they’re good?”
“How will we know if they’re truly good, or merely seem to taste good because we are under the influence of alcohol and are therefore primed to enjoy things more than we might under ordinary circumstances?”
Crowley blinked at him. “What?”
“Oh, to hell with speculation.” Aziraphale snatched an eclair and bit into it.
Ahhhh…oooooh… He closed his eyes as he murmured with appreciation. The light crunch of the pastry shell…the fluffier interior…the creamy smooth filling…the rich chocolate ganache hitting the roof of his mouth and then merging with all the rest as he swirled the bite of heavenly goodness around with his tongue…oh, it was sheer heaven. He chewed slowly, delightedly enjoying every single taste, murmuring all the while. Finally he swallowed, and then felt a small dab of cream on his lips. He darted his tongue out to lick it off, and then opened his eyes to find Crowley staring at him in rank adoration.
Aziraphale hiccupped. “Um. They’re good.”
“I can tell.”
“They are more than good. They’re scrumptious.” He picked one up and thrust it at Crowley. “Here. Please stop staring at me.”
“Can’t help it. You’re not wearing a shirt, and you ate that piece as if you were being seduced by it.”
“Did I? I am so terribly sorry.”
“I’m not.” Crowley took the proffered eclair, and bit into it. He moaned. “Ngk.” As he chewed, his eyes seemed to glaze over. He swallowed, gulped, and released a sigh. “Damn. We may not need Agnes ever again.”
“Ahem.”
“What? We made amazing eclairs!”
Aziraphale waved a hand around at his kitchen. “At considerably more expense than purchasing them from the bakery, and by turning my kitchen into a shambles.”
“Oh, yeah. There is that.” Crowley took another bite. “Mmmph. Still. Mmm. Was worth it.”
Oh, yes. The experiment had absolutely been worthwhile, Aziraphale knew, not because they had succeeded in making puff pastry, but because the process had brought them together. “It was so very, very, worth it.” He took another bite, and relished it as much as the first. “For more than one reason.”
Crowley finished his eclair, and took a step closer. “The couple that bakes together, stays together?”
Aziraphale finished his last bite. “That sums it up nicely.” He wiped his hands on a tea towel. “What would you say to adjourning to my sofa, where we can start getting to know each other even better?” He closed the gap between them, and offered his arm — like a gentleman — albeit a gentleman without a shirt on.
Crowley just grinned, and took it.
*
TWELVE DAYS LATER…
“And that is how we met,” Aziraphale explained to Agnes the morning after she returned to reopen the bakery. “And we have agreed to take turns coming in every morning at eight sharp to buy two eclairs to share over our morning tea break.”
She praised the plan, sold him the treats, and waved him off with a directive to invite her to the wedding.
Aziraphale shook his head and rolled his eyes at that. Wedding. As if they were going to get engaged anytime soon! Surely they still had a very long way to go before that.
He turned out to be quite wrong.
*
THREE MONTHS LATER…
Crowley woke up with his nose buried in a mass of curls. He smiled. Oh yeah…he had made love to an angel last night. Glorious, wonderful, revelatory love…and now here he was in the morning, waking up curled around Aziraphale, who, during the past few months, had rapidly become his best friend, over so many long conversations which had flowed so easily between them. They had talked about their childhoods, their families, their university days, their first jobs. They had laughed a lot, and exchanged a great deal of teasing banter, and had even gotten serious and heartfelt at times over more solemn memories they wished to share.
And they had discovered more and more about one another, likes and dislikes, favorite forms of entertainment which they discussed with passionate joy, favorite places to visit, travel reminiscences, favorite attractions and restaurants in London, where both of them had lived at one time. They found common ground all along the way. They both opted to keep their shops closed on Sundays and Mondays in order to spend whole days together, exploring the local footpaths, and other villages, and having picnics at one of the nearby beaches.
They took more and more steps together towards friendship, and towards love, and in the end, it had not taken long at all to fall into both.
“Fate,” Crowley told Aziraphale last night. “Somehow, in some way, I think we were both meant to fight over the last chocolate eclair.”
“I suspect you may be right,” Aziraphale replied. “As I suspect Agnes was meant to take a sudden absence from the bakery at precisely the right time.”
“I love you,” Crowley said simply. “And I want to make love to you tonight, and for every night thereafter.”
“Please do,” Aziraphale replied, and then said simply, “I love you, too.”
And that was their first night together in the same bed, where they had loved each other with a passionate tenderness, and with a tender passion unlike any Crowley had ever experienced before.
Now, in the morning, he kissed his sleeping lover's forehead, heard a soft murmur, and felt Aziraphale stir. “Sorry, Angel. Couldn’t help it. You’re too irresistible.”
“Hm…mm? Oh, good morning, my love.” He shifted round in their loose embrace, and kissed Crowley’s cheek. Then he yawned. “Mmph. Goodness. What time is it?”
“Nearly eight. Bakery will be open soon.”
“Ah. I suppose we ought to get up, then, and get dressed. Pity.” He lightly stroked Crowley’s chest. “I rather prefer you this way.”
“The feeling is mutual. But you know what?”
“Tell me.”
“We could take a nice, steamy shower before we get dressed…it’s large enough for two.”
“Ooh. I suddenly feel motivated to rise after all.”
It was a very nice, and rather long shower.
When they finally strolled into the bakery at half-past eight, with damp hair and silly smiles on their faces, Agnes just laughed, shook her finger at them, and then silently placed their chocolate eclairs in a bag.
*
THREE MORE MONTHS AFTER THAT…
Aziraphale helped Crowley move into his cottage, and allowed a very large TV to be installed on his living room wall.
They celebrated by watching Pride and Prejudice that evening.
Well, more or less watching…
Well, mostly listening, truth to tell.
THREE MORE MONTHS AFTER MOVING IN TOGETHER…
They drove up to London for a long weekend of restaurants and theater shows, and Crowley proposed over champagne at the Ritz.
Aziraphale accepted, and they set the wedding date for one year from the day they first met.
AND THAT ONE YEAR ANNIVERSARY CAME AROUND…
Of course they invited Agnes to the wedding. She had baked the cake for it, after all.
On the top of the cake, in place of the usual figures of the happy couple, she placed two chocolate eclairs.
Instead of cutting the first slice, Crowley and Aziraphale took the eclairs, and lovingly fed them to each other.
They spent their honeymoon in Paris, where Aziraphale butchered the French language at every opportunity, while Crowley pretended not to understand a word.
There was really only one French term he ever cared about, anyway – the only one that meant the world to him, and to Aziraphale. They had it painted on a custom sign to hang on the cottage’s front door, with an illustration of two chocolate eclairs. And every day from then on, when they came home, they would both look at it, and smile.
Pâte à choux for Two.
And then they would turn to each other, and they would kiss.
And then they would go inside, and shut out the world.
Until the next day, when they would do it all over again.
Forever more.
***