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Aziraphale sighed as he scanned the spreadsheet, his eyes stinging with fatigue.
It was a late afternoon in May at the Harold Washington Library in downtown Chicago, and Aziraphale was at his wit's end.
The title at the top of the spreadsheet said, "Overdue Book Status." This was a meticulously kept document that Aziraphale's colleagues jokingly referred to as the "rap sheet," due to Aziraphale's habit of using it to — in an organized fashion, of course — ruthlessly track down offenders and persuade them to return their books.
Aziraphale had a process, which he kept to religiously. It was how he maintained his stellar reputation as the librarian who always got patrons to return their books. Always.
Step 1: Populate the spreadsheet from the library's automated system. This was essential, and it required Anathema's technological help. She was in the habit of reminding him repeatedly of the fact that he couldn't do this without her, and while he always thanked her, it was with increasing annoyance each time.
Step 2: Send out the first round of text messages and/or phone calls, depending upon the patron's noted preference, although Aziraphale often did both. He tended to think you forfeited your right to preferences when you desecrated the rules of a place as hallowed as a library.
Step 3: Send out the second round of messages and the first round of letters. The letters always walked a fine line between polite and menacing, a skill that Aziraphale had mastered over time.
Step 4: Send out a third round of messages and a further follow up letter, including an invoice for the fees that had accumulated, and ending with a message stating that the library reserved the right to collect the books in person at the address listed if the books were not returned before the required date.
Not one single time in five years had a patron failed to return a book after Aziraphale had exhausted all the steps. In a city the size of Chicago, that was no mean feat.
To be fair, he rarely had to execute step 5: knock on the offender's door until they opened it and relinquished the book and/or paid a replacement fee. Most people didn't let it get that far. After all, Aziraphale could be quite persuasive when he put his mind to it.
However, rarely didn't mean never, and it looked like Aziraphale was going to have to make a house call on this one.
The offender in question, one Mr. AJ Bentley, had checked out twenty books over the past month and returned none of them by their due dates. Aziraphale personally felt that the library could avoid these problems if they would only lower the maximum amount of items allowed out at once, but unfortunately that particular decision was above his pay grade.
The large volume of overdue books, combined with the fact that Aziraphale had already sent the Step 4 letter to this patron, meant that Aziraphale would have to move on to Step 5 to collect the books. The final required due date had been set for today, and so far the books had yet to be returned.
"Rap sheet giving you troubles, angel?" a low voice drawled, interrupting Aziraphale's bleary-eyed perusal of the spreadsheet.
Aziraphale felt his spirits lift at the sight of Tony Crowley walking towards him, in his signature black clothing and with his usual swagger that always seemed to defy gravity somehow, as though his hips existed on their own plane of existence.
Aziraphale did his best to tamp down the butterflies that always fluttered in his stomach at the sight of his best friend, with little success. Crowley had that effect on him, especially when he used that nickname, and although Aziraphale had resigned himself to the fact that he and Crowley would never be more than friends, it seemed like his body never quite got the message.
For the past three years, Crowley had been engaged to the wealthy Lucian Morningstar, the eldest son of a prominent and wealthy Chicago family. Aziraphale and Crowley had met at the annual Chicago Pride Parade shortly after their engagement, and despite some obvious outward differences, the two men had become fast friends.
In a perfect world, Aziraphale would have wanted to pursue more than friendship with Crowley; however, the engagement ring on Crowley's finger put a (mostly) full stop to those feelings on Aziraphale's part and allowed their friendship to flourish.
For the past few months, Aziraphale hadn't seen much of Crowley. Aziraphale assumed this was due to Crowley being busy planning his upcoming nuptials. This was only an assumption because, as a rule, Aziraphale didn't fish for information about Lucian and Crowley's relationship unless Crowley volunteered it. But it seemed fairly likely, so Aziraphale purposefully hadn't dwelled on it.
All in all, it was a surprise to see him at the library on a random Tuesday afternoon. A smile rose easily to Aziraphale's lips as he said, "Crowley! What a pleasant surprise!"
Crowley grinned and leaned against the reference desk. "Was in the area running some errands for work, thought I'd drop in. You've got your 'step 5' look on. Who's the offender this time?"
Aziraphale blushed a little. "I have a 'step 5' look? And you know I can't disclose patron info, Crowley."
Crowley smirked. "Yep. It's more irritated than your 'step 1' look and more resigned than your 'step 3' look, which is usually the angriest. What can I say, I've catalogued all your expressions. I should get a medal for 'the best best friend of Chicago's most hardened library cop.'" He accompanied this with a dramatic flourish of his hands.
Aziraphale rolled his eyes affectionately. "I don't think that's a thing."
Crowley said, "I'll make it a thing. You up for dinner? I was thinking that place with the crepes on the Riverwalk."
Aziraphale felt his whole face light up at the suggestion, and decided to leave his worries about the step 5 offender for tomorrow. After shutting down his computer — making sure to save the spreadsheet first, of course — he grabbed his jacket and he and Crowley made their way down the escalators.
Aziraphale's desk was on the 8th floor, and although there were banks of elevators in the library, Aziraphale much preferred to ride the escalators. Because the escalators often alternated which side of the building they were on, using them gave Aziraphale a chance to say hi to his colleagues on other floors and to generally take in the energy in the sprawling building, whether it was the people listening to records in the 8th floor music room, or the students studying literature on the 7th floor, or the children gathered for story time on the 2nd floor.
As they walked across the 7th floor to the opposite set of escalators, which would take them down, Aziraphale realized that Crowley probably didn't share his own affinity and might want to get downstairs in a more efficient way.
"Oh! I'm sorry, dear, we could take the elevators if you'd rather." He started veering off in that direction, but Crowley stopped him with a hand on his arm.
Actual escalators at the Harold Washington Library
Lobby Ceiling
"Nah, it's all good, angel, I know you love taking the escalators," Crowley said, continuing to walk across the room. Aziraphale hurried to catch up, and by the time he was walking next to Crowley again he had managed to tone down the silly smile on his face, if only a little.
Having finally made their way to the ground floor, Aziraphale and Crowley emerged onto the street. As they walked through the main doors, Aziraphale looked up with fondness at the red brick facade of the library. He was constantly in awe of the architecture in the city of Chicago, and he was proud to work in such a beautiful building.
"It's really beautiful, isn't it?" Aziraphale said with a sigh, still looking up.
Harold Washington Library from Choose Chicago
After letting his gaze linger on the building for a few more moments, Aziraphale looked back down and caught Crowley's eye.
"Yes, it is," said Crowley, with a smile, still looking at Aziraphale.
Aziraphale felt another flutter in his stomach, and quickly looked away before his thoughts could go somewhere dangerous.
They continued walking, turning the corner and climbing the stairs to the "L" station, where they caught a Brown line train heading towards the river. After getting off at Clark and Lake, they walked down to one of the many Riverwalk entrances off of Wacker drive.
The Riverwalk was one of Aziraphale's favorite things about Chicago. He often came here, sometimes starting at the west end and walking all the way to Lake Michigan, sometimes stopping at his favorite restaurants to eat or to grab a beer. He often went alone but just as often went with Crowley or Anathema, and on gorgeous evenings like tonight he would bask in the warmth of the setting sun shining off the buildings and be very content indeed.
Aziraphale and Crowley enjoyed themselves immensely that evening, engaging in a spirited discussion about the best British actors to have acted in Shakespeare plays. Aziraphale was a fan of Sir Ian McKellen, having caught his performance in Hamlet when in London visiting relatives.
Crowley, on the other hand, went on and on about David Tennant's performance in Hamlet, as well as his appearances in Macbeth and Much Ado About Nothing, to the point that Aziraphale wondered exactly what it was about the man that made him so engaging, and resolved to look him up one day.
Truthfully, Aziraphale just enjoyed watching Crowley's eyes light up and the enthusiastic and graceful motions of his hands when he got particularly worked up about something. It seemed like a long time since he had seen his friend so relaxed and happy.
They also argued about how the Chicago Cubs would fare in the upcoming baseball season. It was the hope that killed you, and like most people who lived in Chicago, Crowley and Aziraphale had already resigned themselves to disappointment for another year.
Later in the evening he parted ways with Crowley at the "L," feeling the usual twinge of sadness as he watched his friend hop onto a train going in the opposite direction from Aziraphale's own.
Standing on the platform, feeling a cool breeze coming in from the lake, Aziraphale shivered a little and reminded himself that being friends was good. If friends was all they would ever be, Aziraphale would be grateful for it.
He wouldn't give that up for anything.
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When he arrived at work the next morning, Aziraphale found Anathema already at his desk perusing the rap sheet (crap, now he was calling it that too).
She looked up at him, eyes sparkling behind her large glasses. "Looks like we've got a step 5 offender! Can I come with you to collect?"
Anathema had been asking this for ages, claiming that Aziraphale needed backup if he was going to be randomly knocking on people's doors.
Aziraphale supposed she had a point, and in any case she would likely be of more use in a tense situation than he would. Anathema could be a little scary and more than a little persuasive when she wanted to be.
Sighing, Aziraphale said, "I suppose so. I thought I'd get it out of the way first thing, shall we grab coffee first?"
They got their beverages and descended into the Jackson street subway station to catch the Red Line going north. The address listed on the step 5 offender's registration was on Addison Street in Wrigleyville, so they had about a half an hour's train ride.
As the red line train swayed in its underground concrete tube, a group of rowdy teenagers talked loudly at the other end of the carriage and the unmistakable smell of marijuana drifted over them. Aziraphale wrinkled his nose.
Anathema noticed his look of irritation and said, "Nothing we can do about it, library cop. Hey, did you go out with Crowley last night? I tried texting you and you didn't reply." She wiggled her eyebrows at him in a suggestive way.
Aziraphale felt his cheeks going pink. "Yes, we went out for dinner. I'm sorry I didn't reply, by the time I got home I was pretty tired."
Anathema contemplated him for a second. Then she said, "You know, I don't know why you don't just tell that skinny little ginger that you love him."
Aziraphale, who had been taking a sip of his coffee, choked and spluttered. "Anathema! It's - well, I - it's ……" he trailed off.
Anathema skewered him with her gaze. "Come on, Aziraphale. How long have you been pining after him? Three years now? When is enough enough?"
Aziraphale, trying to calm his racing heart, said, "I - I just - look, that wouldn't be fair to him. He's engaged! And come on, he's engaged to Lucian Morningstar, of all people. There is absolutely no way that he would ever choose me over someone like that. It would only end in heartbreak for me."
Anathema's eyes softened as she looked at Aziraphale. "Look, I don't mean to pry, but remember that engaged isn't married. And it's been three years since they got engaged. Isn't that a pretty long engagement? Maybe that signals trouble in paradise."
Aziraphale sighed. "I think he's been doing wedding planning stuff lately. I haven't seen him as much as I usually do."
"Has he actually told you that's what he's doing?" Anathema asked shrewdly.
"Well….not as such," mumbled Aziraphale.
Anathema exclaimed, "Well, maybe this is it, then! Time to tell him how you feel. Even if nothing changes and he still marries Lucian, at least you will have told your truth."
"But what if he hates me for it?" Aziraphale asked desperately. "Or is so disgusted by me that he never wants to see me again?"
"First off, that's not possible. You're a goddamn catch, Aziraphale. Secondly, if that happens, it's his loss," said Anathema. "In the end, all you can do is be true to yourself. Everything else will work out."
"Anathema, you can't possibly know that," Aziraphale said.
"Yes, I can," she countered. "I've got a hunch about you two. And usually my hunches are correct."
"Hunch or not, I can't lose him as a friend. He's too important to me," Aziraphale said, with a finality in his tone that at long last made Anathema abandon the conversation.
They got off the "L" at Addison, and using the GPS guidance on Aziraphale's phone they walked a few blocks towards their destination, finding themselves right in the heart of Wrigleyville.
Aziraphale stopped when they were standing opposite the facade of the famous stadium itself, frowning down at his phone.
"That's odd…." he said. "GPS says we are right on top of it."
He looked around, craning his neck to try and find address numbers posted on the buildings. "Anathema, do you see number 1060 anywhere?"
Anathema didn't say anything. She was looking suspiciously at the front of Wrigley Field. Slowly, she pulled her phone out of her pocket, typed for a moment, and then wordlessly held her phone out to Aziraphale.
On the screen, Anathema had pulled up Wrigley Field on Google Maps. There, below the rating and the description of the stadium, was the address they were looking for — 1060 W Addison St, Chicago, IL 60613.
Aziraphale felt winded. Anathema just stared at him for a minute, then, without warning, burst into peals of delighted laughter.
Anger rising in his chest, Aziraphale went back to his own phone. Before they left the library, he had typed the address into the search bar and let the GPS navigation take over, as he usually did when going somewhere in Chicago he wasn't familiar with. He hadn't even noticed that it said, "at this place - Wrigley box office" in the navigation bar.
Anathema was still laughing. She wheezed, "Oh fuck, the guy put Wrigley Field as his address. It's like in the Blues Brothers!" This sent her into another laughing fit.
The Blues Brothers (1980)
Aziraphale was dumbfounded. He couldn't believe he had been so stupid. For Heaven's sake, he and Crowley had just watched that movie, probably less than six months ago, and he had laughed himself silly at the part where the Illinois Nazis had ended up at Wrigley Field because Elwood had listed it as his address.
He should never have fallen for it, and now they had wasted a whole morning, and apparently he was no smarter than the Illinois Nazis, which on the whole did not make him feel good about himself.
With a huff of indignation, he said to Anathema, "If you are quite finished, I think we should go get back on the train."
And without another word, he stalked off. After a moment Anathema rushed to catch up, tears of laughter still streaming down her cheeks.
"Well, I'm certainly glad you're having a nice time," Aziraphale said haughtily. "I, for one, don't find it quite so funny."
"Oh, come on, Aziraphale," Anathema laughed. " You have to admit that it's kind of cheeky. I like his sense of humor."
Aziraphale sniffed but didn't say anything.
Once they were back on the "L," Anathema said, "So what do we do now? There isn't exactly a step 6 in your master plan."
Aziraphale said, "I think I'm going to go talk to Dr. Gabriel. Patrons have to show a form of ID when they apply for a library card, and the ID has to match the address they write on the application. Maybe it slipped past whoever was processing the applications that day, and the man's real address will be on his ID."
"Right you are, boss," said Anathema.
Aziraphale gave her a grudging smile. "You know I'm not your boss."
Anathema grinned at him. "Yeah, but it's kinda fun. You do get bossy when you're mad."
Aziraphale rolled his eyes, but smiled at her fondly.
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Aziraphale stared at Dr. Gabriel in horror. "What do you mean, there's no information in his file?"
Dr. Gabriel, esteemed director of the Harold Washington Library, shrugged his shoulders in an affable way. "You know how it goes, Aziraphale, sometimes these things fall through the cracks."
"But — " spluttered Aziraphale, "— but how is it possible for someone to get a library card if they don't fill out the application and turn in the required documents? He shouldn't have even gotten a card in the first place! And he has now checked out 20 books and hasn't returned any of them!"
Dr. Gabriel rose from behind his desk and came around to place his hands on Aziraphale's shoulders. Aziraphale cringed inwardly at the overfamiliarity of this gesture, but didn't move away.
"Relax, Aziraphale," he said, not unkindly. "We plan for these things in the budget. In a city this big there's bound to be things like this that happen in a public library. We'll have those books replaced in no time!" He removed his hands from Aziraphale's shoulders and gave him a little fake punch on the arm.
Aziraphale sighed inwardly and left Dr. Gabriel's office. He took the elevator back to his floor and sat at his desk for a moment, contemplating the loss of his perfect record and trying, without success, to come up with a way to remedy the situation.
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Aziraphale spent the rest of the work week mulling over the problem, turning it over in his mind, examining it this way and that. He was determined to do his best to sleuth out the wayward patron who had stolen so many books. This was the biggest challenge he had faced so far and he was determined not to back down without a fight.
On Saturday morning, he and Crowley met on the Riverwalk for their weekly walk. They started at the west entrance, followed the path around the lake, and finished by crossing Lake Shore Drive and resting for a bit while watching Buckingham Fountain. It had become a sort of tradition to do this during the warm months, and Aziraphale usually enjoyed this time with Crowley immensely.
Riverwalk West End
Riverwalk from a boat - you can see one of the restaurants. Maybe they have crepes 😉
Murals on the Riverwalk
Today, however, not even the sun sparkling off the river and the company of Crowley beside him could shake Aziraphale out of his funk.
Crowley kept up a steady stream of conversation for awhile, talking about some of his coworkers at the security business he worked for, but he quickly noticed that Aziraphale wasn't his usual self.
"Everything alright, angel?" he said, softly.
The gentleness in his tone pulled Aziraphale from his thoughts. "Oh yes, dear, I'm quite fine, just tickety-boo!"
Crowley made a face. "Tickety-boo?"
Against his will, Aziraphale smiled. "Yes, I'm fine. I mean, I guess there's something going on at work that's bothering me, but I'll figure it out before long."
"Okay," said Crowley. "Anything I can do to help? Wait, is it about the step 5 guy?"
Aziraphale laughed. "Yes, in fact. You won't believe what happened, actually."
He proceeded to tell Crowley about how he and Anathema had followed the address listed on AJ Bentley's profile and found themselves at Wrigley Field. Right at this conclusion of his story, he looked at Crowley and caught a flash of something that looked strangely like guilt on his face, before Crowley smoothed it into a delighted grin. Aziraphale didn't know exactly what to make of that, but before he could think too much about it, Crowley had burst into laughter that was reminiscent of Anathema's.
"Oh angel, how did you not know that 1060 West Addison is Wrigley Field? We just watched the Blues Brothers a few months ago and you laughed so hard at that part!" Crowley said, wheezing with laughter.
Aziraphale smiled, reluctantly but genuinely, at Crowley's teasing. "Come on, it was more like six months ago, and remember that you are the Chicago native here. I don't have the addresses for stadiums memorized like you do."
"Eh, to be fair, I wouldn't know it off the top of my head if it weren't for that movie, Chicago native or not," Crowley said. "So what are you going to do about step 5 guy now?"
Aziraphale said, "Would you believe that there's no actual information on file for him? He apparently didn't have to show an ID to get his card, which makes absolutely no sense to me, but Dr. Gabriel just said, 'we budget for this kind of thing,' promised to replace all 20 of the books this guy borrowed, and sent me on my merry way. I guess that's my perfect record down the drain."
Crowley looked both genuinely sympathetic and slightly guilty again, which Aziraphale couldn't make heads or tails of.
"I'm sorry, angel," Crowley said sincerely. "I know that's a big deal to you. If it makes you feel better, you'll always be the number one library cop in my book."
Aziraphale couldn't help it, he laughed. Crowley always did have a way of making him feel better.
They spent the rest of the walk amiably chatting about the books they had read recently. Aziraphale was helping the library prepare a selection of queer literature to display for Pride month, and he had been reading through a few lists to decide what the library would feature. Crowley suggested a few new books to add to his list, and Aziraphale noted them down with enthusiasm.
They had their customary rest by Buckingham Fountain, the breeze from the lake ruffling their hair and the sound of cascading water a soothing companion.
Buckingham Fountain
Much too soon for his liking, Aziraphale prepared to take his leave, as he knew that Saturdays were usually days that Crowley was expected to attend events with Lucian. However, Crowley surprised him.
"Can I tempt you to a spot of lunch?" Crowley asked, in a casual tone, one eyebrow quirked over the top of his sunglasses.
This was a new development, and for a moment Aziraphale wondered what could have happened to inspire a change in routine. But, his rumbling stomach and the thought of spending more time with Crowley quickly won over his curiosity, and with a laugh he said, "Temptation accomplished!"
They ended up at Gyu-Kaku, a Japanese BBQ restaurant north of the river. Between the delicious meat — seared right at the table on the built-in grill — and the easy company of his best friend, it made for a memorable afternoon indeed.
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At work the next week, Aziraphale managed to forget a little about the step 5 offender who had ruined his perfect record, although he still mulled the problem over in his head when he had free time.
In truth, his mind was occupied with other things - namely, Crowley.
It wasn't unusual for Crowley to be at the forefront of his mind, after all. Anathema wasn't wrong when she teased him about pining after the man for three years. Aziraphale had gotten used to the ache, had just accepted it as the price he must pay in order to remain friends with Crowley.
But things felt different now, like something had shifted when Crowley had asked him out to lunch on Saturday after their walk. It wasn't just that it was a deviation from their routine; it was the way Crowley had made a reservation in advance, the way that he smiled at Aziraphale through the smoke rising in spirals over the grill, the way he had insisted that Aziraphale order dessert, and the way he had surreptitiously paid the entire bill when Aziraphale was in the restroom.
When they left the restaurant, Crowley had even hopped on Aziraphale's brown line train with him, making a flimsy excuse that he wanted to stop by a shop on the north end of the city. Aziraphale, however, had the distinct impression that he just wanted to keep their conversation going, and who was he to call Crowley out on that?
It was all very confusing.
To make matters worse — or perhaps better — Crowley had stopped by the library two different evenings that week and invited Aziraphale out to dinner again. While this was not entirely unusual, it was happening at a far greater frequency than Aziraphale was used to, and it unsettled him.
The second time this happened within one week, Anathema was at the desk with him when Crowley sauntered up, and she shot Aziraphale a very significant look behind Crowley's back as they made their way towards the escalators. Aziraphale made a chopping motion with his hand, mouthed the word "later," and turned back to Crowley before he could catch sight of the exchange.
Aziraphale knew that he wasn't the most subtle human being. He didn't think that Crowley was completely unaware of his feelings towards him — in fact, Aziraphale had flirted outrageously with Crowley at the Pride parade three years ago before he had figured out that Crowley was engaged. But since then, Aziraphale had been careful not to cross that line in the sand, and he would be damned if he was going to start now.
It was hard, though, not to dream, when Crowley was being so lovely. During those few months where they hadn't been talking much, he had missed Crowley terribly. Having him back was such a relief that Aziraphale was determined not to ruin it, and so he accepted this new turn of events with as much grace as he could muster.
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Aziraphale discovered the book that would change the entire course of his life by sheer chance.
It was Friday afternoon and Anathema had been asking him questions about Crowley, and it all got to be a bit too much for his confused mind. Claiming that he needed to check the status of some re-shelving, he managed to escape into the 7th floor literature stacks, breathing a sigh of relief as he found Jane Austen.
It was one of his favorite spots in the library, where he went when he needed a little pick-me up. He was perusing the tomes, his fingers running along the spines, trying to decide between Sense and Sensibility and Pride and Prejudice, when a spot of neon green color caught his eye, something that was terribly out of place amongst the dulled spines of the early Austen editions.
Curiosity piqued, Aziraphale moved towards the shocking color and found it wedged inside a copy of Emma. He pulled the book off the shelf and opened it to the page that had been bookmarked by that garish shade of green.
To his horror, Aziraphale discovered that it wasn't just a piece of paper but a sticky note, which had been placed on top of a line of text. On the bottom of the sticky note were the words "READ ME" in block lettering, with a little arrow pointing to the line of text below which the sticky note had been placed.
Despite his general abhorrence that a vintage copy of Emma had been befouled by a neon green sticky note, Aziraphale was intrigued, and began reading the paragraph indicated.
"I cannot make speeches, Emma:" he soon resumed; and in a tone of such sincere, decided, intelligible tenderness as was tolerable convincing. — "If I loved you less, I might be able to talk about it more. But you know what I am. — You hear nothing but truth from me. — I have blamed you, and lectured you, and you have borne it. — Bear with the truths I would tell you now, dearest Emma, as well as you have borne with them. God knows, I have been a very indifferent lover. — But you understand me. — Yes, you see, you understand my feelings — and will return them if you can. At present, I ask only to hear, once to hear your voice."
Aziraphale felt a little flutter of something in his stomach. Of course, he knew the passage; as a Jane Austen fan it was hard not to understand the significance of Mr. Knightley's declaration.
But who in the world had left the sticky note? And for whom?
Forgetting that he had come to the literature section specifically to get away from Anathema, Aziraphale wandered in a trance back up the escalator to his 8th floor desk.
"Aziraphale! Earth to Aziraphale!"
Blinking, Aziraphale came back from his internal musings to find Anathema trying to get his attention.
"What's that?" she asked him, pointing to the book in his hand.
"I found a sticky note inside a copy of Emma. Happened to catch sight of it when I was in the Austen section." He handed it over to Anathema, who took it and opened to the bookmarked page. Her eyes widened a little bit at the sticky note, and she took a minute to read the passage.
Once she finished, she fixed Aziraphale with a shrewd gaze. "And you have no idea who might have left this?"
Aziraphale shook his head. "No idea who, or who it was intended for."
Anathema said, "Well, there's an easy enough way to find out, isn't there?"
She walked over to the check out kiosk, scanned the barcode, and gasped.
"Oh my God, Aziraphale. It's our step 5 offender. AJ Bentley. This is the exact book he checked out." Anathema said.
"What?" Aziraphale said sharply, walking around to look at the computer screen.
Sure enough, there it was - Emma - Jane Austen - AJ Bentley - followed by the due date and the annotations Aziraphale had left to show the steps he had taken to get this maddening person to return his books.
"Hang on -" said Aziraphale. "This book has been here the whole time?"
Anathema looked at him with large eyes. "Apparently."
Aziraphale mouthed soundlessly in horror at her. To his chagrin, Anathema started laughing again.
"Like I said…cheeky. He's got a sense of humor," she said.
Aziraphale huffed and took the book back from her, voicing a thought that had just occurred to him.
"If he's returned this book to the shelves, do you think he's returned the others too?"
Anathema gasped in delight. "Maybe he has! Time to go on an adventure, boss."
She printed off the list of twenty books that AJ Bentley had checked out, including their call numbers, and sliced the sheet down the middle with the office paper cutter.
"Okay, you look for this half, I'll look for that half, and we'll meet back here when we are done," Anathema said, setting off without another word.
So Aziraphale set off on his quest, wondering just what exactly Mr. Bentley was playing at.
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After an afternoon's fruitless search, Aziraphale returned to his desk, sweaty and tired and discouraged.
Some of the titles remained missing, the shelves vacantly awaiting their return. A few of them had other copies on the shelf, but when Aziraphale scanned them in to the library's online system he found that they were exactly where they were supposed to be, shelved correctly and marked as "available" in the system, which meant that AJ's copies were not among them.
It seemed Anathema had better luck, for on the desk in front of her were two books, both with green sticky notes poking out of them. Aziraphale felt a thrill of excitement as he caught sight of them.
"Looks like you had better luck than I," he said, rushing to pick up the first book, which was Different Seasons by Stephen King, one of the author's collections of novellas. "Oh, this is a good one!"
Anathema suppressed a shiver. "Well, Rita Hayworth and the Shawshank Redemption is great, of course, and so is The Body, but Apt Pupil is fucking creepy," she said.
Aziraphale said, "Well, of course, it's Stephen King, what else do you expect? Sometimes he's extremely profound, and other times you kind of wonder if he's a psychopath."
To his surprise, he saw not one but two sticky notes sticking out of the book. He opened it to the first note and read the passage indicated, out of Rita Hayworth and the Shawshank Redemption.
Dear Red,
If you're reading this, then you're out. One way or another, you're out. And if you've followed along this far, you might be willing to come a little further. I think you remember the name of the town, don't you? I could use a good man to help me get my project on wheels.
Meantime, have a drink on me — and do think it over. I will be keeping an eye out for you. Remember that hope is a good thing, Red, maybe the best of things, and no good thing ever dies. I will be hoping that this letter finds you, and finds you well.
Aziraphale hummed and turned to the next sticky note, this one located in The Body.
The most important things are the hardest things to say. They are the things you get ashamed of, because words diminish them — words shrink things that seemed limitless when they were in your head to no more than living size when they're brought out. But it's more than that, isn't it? The most important things lie too close to wherever your secret heart is buried, like landmarks to a treasure your enemies would love to steal away. And you may make revelations that cost you dearly only to have people look at you in a funny way, not understanding what you've said at all, or why you thought it was so important that you almost cried while you were saying it. That's the worst, I think. When the secret stays locked within not for want of a teller but for want of an understanding ear.
Anathema had been reading over his shoulder. When she finished she said, "Okay….what exactly is this guy playing at, do you think?"
Aziraphale didn't know, and he said as much. He picked up the other book Anathema had found, one he didn't recognize. Wild Spirit, Soft Heart by butterflies rising. The sticky note marked a simple, short poem.
if I do but one thing today
may I be human sunshine
for someone
For reasons he couldn't explain to himself, Aziraphale felt an ache somewhere deep in his chest.
He glanced at Anathema. "Thank you, my dear, for your help today. I think I'll take off a little early."
And without another word, he left Anathema staring after him as he took the copy of Emma and the two books she had found to the kiosk, checked them out under his own name, and left the building.
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Aziraphale spent his evening re-reading both Rita Hayworth and the Shawshank Redemption and The Body, but could not divine any inspiration from them other than to take at face value the sentiments in the two passages that had been marked.
As to the mystery of who they had been marked for, Aziraphale still did not have the faintest idea.
He then perused the copy of Wild Spirit, Soft Heart, which seemed to be a collection of poems, albeit one he was not familiar with. They were lovely, full of a restless yearning and clearly written with a lover in mind.
maybe we
could just kiss
for hours
like it's everything,
like it's art,
with no other
intention
but this
you are
so wildly beautiful
in all of the ways i could ever
imagine for someone
to be beautiful
The poems hit a little too close to home, uncomfortably reminding Aziraphale of his unrequited affections for Crowley, and after a certain point he had to stop reading. Feeling desperately lonely and sorry for himself, he called Anathema.
"Hello, dear. I'm sorry for leaving so abruptly earlier. How is your evening?"
They passed a few minutes with small talk, and then Anathema voiced a theory about the mysterious borrower that surprised Aziraphale.
"I had a thought today on the train home," she said. "What if this guy is, like, some kind of secret admirer? Maybe he's trying to tell you something through these passages. Something romantic."
Aziraphale was so startled by this idea that he laughed. "Me, having a secret admirer? I hardly think I'm the kind of person that someone would go to this kind of effort for, especially someone I don't know."
"Oh, do shut up, Aziraphale," Anathema said vehemently. "How many times have I said this? You. Are. A. Catch. That smile, those gorgeous eyes, your cute little upturned nose - you're beautiful and smart and funny, my friend. Any man would be lucky to have you."
In spite of himself, Aziraphale felt his cheeks grow warm at Anathema's praise. "You really think so?" he said softly.
"I know so," she said stubbornly. "And I'll keep saying it until you believe it."
"Thank you, dear friend," Aziraphale said, his throat constricting with emotion. "I think I needed to hear that tonight."
"That's what friends are for. Okay, if this guy is for real and my theory is right, then I'm betting he will keep returning these books in similar fashion, meaning we should probably check on them every day. You keep your list, I'll keep mine, and we'll report back to each other when we find things, okay?"
"Okay," said Aziraphale with a smile. "It's a plan."
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Over the next week, Aziraphale spent every free moment he had trying to figure out AJ Bentley's real identity.
He scoured online records and social media, with little success. He also perused the most recent phone books, going so far as to call anyone that had a name even remotely similar to AJ Bentley. In these phone calls he was met with confusion and in most cases outright annoyance. If any of them was the real Mr. Bentley, they were concealing their true identity well.
Aziraphale began to wonder if he would just have to wait until the man revealed himself, which led him to wonder if that was indeed his plan in the first place. All in all, the whole thing was frustrating, unsettling, and exciting in a way Aziraphale couldn't quite explain to himself.
He and Anathema continued to check the books on their respective lists every day. Aziraphale turned up a new title on Wednesday, and Anathema found hers on Thursday.
Aziraphale's find, to his delight, was Charlotte's Web by E.B. White. This was one of his favorite books as a child, and the passage marked was one of his favorites as well.
You have been my friend. That in itself is a tremendous thing. I wove my webs for you because I liked you. After all, what's a life, anyway? We're born, we live a little while, we die. A spider's life can't help being something of a mess, with all this trapping and eating flies. By helping you, perhaps I was trying to lift up my life a trifle. Heaven knows anyone's life can stand a little of that.
Much to their surprise, Anathema's find wasn't a book at all, but a DVD of the first Pirates of the Caribbean movie.
Anathema was confused by this, but Aziraphale was delighted.
"Oh, this movie was one of my favorites as a teenager!" he said with an excited wiggle. "I saw it eight times in the theater!"
"Eight times? Really?" said Anathema. "What made you so obsessed with it, do you think?"
Aziraphale considered this for a moment. "I don't exactly know. I do think I found Johnny Depp as a pirate pretty hot, though. And I've always thought his character was quite compellingly morally ambiguous. I think it was one of the first times that I considered that life has way more shades of gray than I had been brought up to believe. My religious upbringing didn't leave much room for interpretation. You were either good or bad, and there was nothing in between."
Anathema hummed in consideration. "So it was your sexual awakening and the first step towards shedding your religious trauma."
Aziraphale laughed. "I suppose so, when you put it that way."
Pirates of the Caribbean: The Curse of the Black Pearl (2003) 1
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Crowley was continuing his strange, newly established habit of surprising Aziraphale at work and asking him to dinner multiple times a week.
Not that Aziraphale was complaining — spending more time with Crowley was never a bad thing, and even if it was a bit confusing, Aziraphale wasn't about to tell him to stop. He was enjoying himself far too much.
It did, however, interrupt his thoughts about his potential secret admirer, if only a little bit. The more he thought about it, the more he hoped, rather foolishly, that Anathema was right. The idea was very romantic, and Aziraphale wasn't above dramatic declarations. He was, after all, a stalwart fan of Jane Austen. Besides, with Crowley unavailable to him, it was high time he considered getting back in the dating world.
As May slid into June, the library's Pride month activities came into full swing. This meant that Aziraphale and Anathema were a little busier than usual, but it didn't stop them from searching almost daily for the titles the enigmatic AJ Bentley had checked out in the hopes they had been returned to their shelves.
Aziraphale only turned up one title in the first week of June, a comedy/fantasy novel titled Good Omens: The Nice and Accurate Prophecies of Agnes Nutter, Witch by Terry Pratchett, which had, funny enough, been recommended to him some years ago by Crowley himself. He remembered that Crowley had been a fan of the angel and demon duo in the story, and that the story of the antichrist coming to Earth was meant to be a sort of parody of The Omen.
Two passages were highlighted with the customary green sticky notes.
It may help to understand human affairs to be clear that most of the great triumphs and tragedies of history are caused, not by people being fundamentally good or fundamentally bad, but by people being fundamentally people.
Hell wasn't a major reservoir of evil, any more than Heaven was a fountain of goodness; they were just sides in the great cosmic chess game. Where you found the real McCoy, the real grace and the real heart-stopping evil, was right inside the human mind.
Aziraphale was no closer to figuring out Mr. Bentley's identity, but he spent a very enjoyable Sunday re-reading Good Omens, remembering how much he loved the footnotes. He used it as an excuse to call Crowley, and they proceeded to spend three hours just talking about the book, and everything, and nothing.
That night Aziraphale fell asleep with Crowley's voice in his ear and an ache in his heart.
📚📖🎵🎬
Aziraphale was becoming increasingly obsessed with the mysterious person who kept leaving books on the shelves, bookmarking passages that were heartfelt and lovely. He found two more throughout the course of the next week but came no closer to solving the mystery, and it was beginning to drive him a little mad.
The first was a collection of poems titled Dream Work by Mary Oliver. The poem marked was her famous Wild Geese.
You do not have to be good.
You do not have to walk on your knees
for a hundred miles through the desert repenting.
You only have to let the soft animal of your body love what it loves.
Tell me about despair, yours, and I will tell you mine.
Meanwhile the world goes on.
Meanwhile the sun and the clear pebbles of the rain
are moving across the landscapes,
over the prairies, and the deep trees,
the mountains and the rivers.
Meanwhile the wild geese, high in the clean blue air,
are heading home again.
Whoever you are, no matter how lonely,
the world offers itself to your imagination
calls to you like the wild geese, harsh and exciting —
over and over announcing your place
in the family of things.
You only have to let the soft animal of your body love what it loves. Aziraphale felt this particular line like a balm to his soul, and he wondered how it was that this person, this stranger, knew the secret heart of him so well, knew how often in his life he had been admonished for wanting too much, for being too much.
The second find of the week was a unique one. Instead of just finding a bookmark in a book, Aziraphale found an entire sheet of paper slotted inside a DVD case titled Einstein on the Beach - An Opera in Four Acts by Philip Glass.
Aziraphale had seen this particular opera performed once at the Chicago Lyric Opera. It was a wholly unique experience for him, and Aziraphale only found himself there thanks to Anathema's insistence that he needed to see it. Although it hadn't been his usual cup of tea, there were parts of it that he found quite memorable.
On the folded sheet of paper wedged in the DVD case, he found a type-written part of a poem from the most well-known part of the play, the final connecting intermezzo called "Knee 5."
Einstein on the Beach - Knee 5
Samuel M. Johnson: Lovers on a Park BenchAgain there was silence as the two lovers sat on a park bench,
their bodies touching, holding hands in the moonlight.
Once more she spoke.
"How much do you love me, John?" she asked
He answered, "How much do I love you? Count the stars in the sky
Measure the waters of the oceans with a teaspoon
Number the grains of sand on the seashore
Impossible, you say.
Yes and it is just as impossible for me to say how much I love you
My love for you is higher than the heavens,
deeper than Hades, and broader than the Earth.
It has no limits, no bounds
Everything must have an ending except my love for you.
Aziraphale took the DVD home with him and watched Knee 5. It made him cry.
Everything must have an ending except my love for you. 2
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There was something hovering on the periphery of Aziraphale's subconscious, an idea, or perhaps just a hope, something he didn't dare give voice to for fear of scaring it away, something that had nothing to do with the enigmatic Mr. Bentley and everything to do with the best friend who took up so much space in Aziraphale's heart.
This idea remained in the darkness until it was brought violently into the light by the books Anathema found in the third week of June.
The first was Rapture by Carol Ann Duffy, a collection of poems, found on Tuesday. The highlighted poem took Aziraphale's breath away.
Uninvited, the thought of you stayed too late in my head,
so I went to bed, dreaming you hard, hard, woke with your name,
like tears, soft, salt, on my lips, the sound of its bright syllables
like a charm, like a spell.Falling in love
is glamorous hell;
the crouched, parched heart
like a tiger ready to kill; a flame’s fierce licks under the skin.Into my life, larger than life, beautiful, you strolled in.
I hid in my ordinary days, in the long grass of routine,
in my camouflage rooms.You sprawled in my gaze,
staring back from anyone’s face, from the shape of a cloud,
from the pining, еarth-struck moon which gapes at me
as I open the bedroom door.The curtains stir. There you are
on the bed, like a gift, like a touchable dream.
Of everything to come his way so far via green sticky notes in books, this was by far the most evocative. Aziraphale couldn't deny any more that he felt a significant pull towards this person. He found himself experiencing a confusing combination of longing that the person would make themselves known and a familiar yearning for things he had long coveted that he could not have.
Anathema found the next two books on her list early on Wednesday before she had to run off to a meeting. She shoved them into Aziraphale's hands in her hurry to get out the door, which was lucky, because the sight of them sparked a revelation in Aziraphale's mind, and he was glad to be alone.
As he looked down at the two titles, Aziraphale felt his world tilt on its axis.
They were the two books Crowley had recommended to him on their walk a few weeks ago.
House in the Cerulean Sea by T.J. Klune had two passages marked.
You're too precious to put into words. I think it's like one of Theodore's buttons. If you asked him why he cared about them so, he would tell you it's because they exist at all.
He laughed, and it felt like the sun coming out after the rain. "I….when I lived in the city, I dreamed in color, of places where the sea stretched on for miles and miles." He looked at each of the children in turn. "But what I didn't expect was that the color didn't come from the ocean or the trees, or even the island itself. It came from all of you."
The Seven Husbands of Evelyn Hugo by Taylor Jenkins Reid had one passage marked.
People think intimacy is about sex. But intimacy is about truth. When you realize you can tell someone your truth, when you can show yourself to them, when you stand in front of them bare and their response is, "you're safe with me," - that's intimacy.
After reading these, Aziraphale sat for a long time at his desk, a disquieting thread of thoughts running through his head.
These two books appearing couldn't be a coincidence. What were the odds they would appear at the same time, not long after Crowley had recommended them? And how could he have been so stupid to not even look at Anathema's half of the list? If he had, he might have made the connection sooner.
And the more he thought about it, the more the other books that had turned up so far also had some kind of connection to Crowley, or a connection to himself, or both. It just hadn't occurred to him until now that there was any possible connection to be made.
Aziraphale remembered a day around two years ago that a snowstorm hit Chicago and Crowley had found himself stranded in Aziraphale's neighborhood after public transit had been suspended, in need of a place to stay until Lucian could come and pick him up. They had gotten drunk on red wine and watched two different TV adaptations of Emma, arguing about which one was the best.
Aziraphale remembered Crowley, silly with drink, flopping back on the couch, putting a hand to his heart and saying, "It gets me every time. 'If I loved you less, I might be able to talk about it more.'" And Aziraphale had smiled at him indulgently, the haze of his own wine drunk brain doing nothing to dull the sparks of attraction and affection he felt when he looked at Crowley.
Another memory, another time; on their way out of the library for the evening, while on the escalator from the 3rd to the 2nd floor, Crowley caught sight of Tracy, the children's librarian, reading aloud from Charlotte's Web, and when Crowley reached the bottom of the escalator he had practically skipped over to listen. This was so unlike Crowley's usual devil-may-care swagger that Aziraphale had giggled helplessly, delighted to see his friend indulging in a little whimsy. Crowley had confessed that it was one of his favorite books from his own childhood, and Aziraphale had confessed the same, and they had shared a smile before they turned their attention to Tracy's reading.
One hot August day last year, he sat with Crowley on the Riverwalk, drinking beers and arguing about which one of Stephen King's books had made for the best movie adaptation. Aziraphale was firmly of the opinion that Shawshank Redemption was one of the best movies ever made and therefore won that argument by default; Crowley, however, argued the same for Stand by Me. The conversation devolved into silliness when they got on the topic of Stanley Kubrick's The Shining, and they managed to scare their waitress away by saying "Come and play with us, Danny, forever and ever and ever…" and screaming "REDRUM," and afterwards they had both left a massive tip because they felt bad.
Movie night at Aziraphale's place the previous January and Pirates of the Caribbean was on screen and Aziraphale shared with Crowley that this was his favorite movie in high school and he still hadn't quite figured out why, not that there had to be a reason. And then Crowley, smart and lovely Crowley, had managed to articulate to Aziraphale that maybe it was because pirates were supposed to be bad, but the pirates in the movie weren't all bad — in fact, some of them were actually good, and this had slotted something into place in Aziraphale's brain.
"On that note," Crowley had said, "Have you ever heard of Good Omens?"
📚📖🎵🎬
Back at his desk, shaken to his core, Aziraphale pulled out his phone and sent Crowley a single text.
📚📖🎵🎬
Aziraphale didn't know how long he had been sitting at his desk, lost to the world, but he suddenly became aware that Anathema was talking to him.
"Aziraphale? You okay? Hey, I found another book!"
Aziraphale blinked and looked up at her.
"Bentley," he croaked.
"Um....what?" she asked, confused.
Aziraphale cleared his throat and said, "Crowley has always wanted a Bentley. It's been so long since I've heard him talk about it that I forgot completely what kind of car it was. I just texted him to ask, and he confirmed it."
Aziraphale held up his phone.
"Lucian didn't want him to have it," he continued, "because they have a chauffeur, and parking is so expensive in Chicago, and after awhile he just stopped talking about it, and I forgot about it."
"Hang on," Anathema said, eyes widening. "Bentley. As in, AJ Bentley?"
"Yes," whispered Aziraphale miserably.
Anathema's eyes went, if possible, even wider. "He goes by Crowley but his first name is Tony; is his full name Anthony? Do you know what his middle name is?"
Aziraphale shook his head.
"But it doesn't really matter, does it?" said Anathema softly. "It's him, isn't it?"
Aziraphale could only nod.
"Oh, Aziraphale," she whispered. "I guess you don't really need this now, do you? I wondered, when I saw it…."
Anathema held up the book in her hands. It had a bright yellow cover and held the title The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo by Stieg Larsson. She opened it up to the trademark green sticky note, and read out loud one simple line:
What she had realized was that love was that moment when your heart was about to burst.
A book about Lisbeth Salander, hacker extraordinaire, marked with a green sticky note by Crowley, who hacked into networks to test the efficiency of his company's security systems for a living.
Now Aziraphale knew exactly how AJ Bentley had arrived in their system.
Aziraphale couldn't stand to be there any longer.
"I'm going up to the winter garden for a bit. Can you cover for me here?" Aziraphale was surprised to find that his voice sounded fairly normal.
"Yes, of course," Anathema said. "Are you….are you okay?"
"I'm fine, dear." And with that, Aziraphale stood up on wobbly legs and left the room to walk up one flight of stairs.
📚📖🎵🎬
The 9th floor of the Harold Washington Library was home to the Winter Garden, a large, open plan space. It featured a beautiful marble floor, graceful archways, and a glass-paneled roof that flooded the area with natural light. At various points on the floor were planters with small trees and shrubs and the occasional riot of flowers, depending upon the time of year.
Winter Garden at the Harold Washington Library from Trip Advisor
This space was one of Aziraphale's favorite things about his library, and thanks to some divine providence, it was nearly deserted on that bright and sunny Wednesday afternoon in June, which is exactly what Aziraphale needed.
He sat down on one of the benches on the periphery of the room, gazing up at the blue sky and wondering why.
Why had Crowley done this?
Aziraphale had let his imagination get away from him, thinking that maybe he had an admirer, thinking that maybe someone was pining after him the way he had pined after Crowley for so long. And he hated himself for briefly hoping that it was Crowley, that maybe Crowley himself was making a declaration, even if he hadn’t admitted that to himself until a few minutes ago.
Now that he truly thought about it, the idea was ridiculous. Crowley was likely doing nothing other than teasing him. Because the plain truth was, despite Aziraphale’s deepest wishes, and aside from the fact that Crowley was already in a relationship and unavailable by default, there was no world in which someone like him would want to be with someone like Aziraphale.
He was too fussy, too severely devoted to his job, too….soft, too much.
It was never possible, and how Aziraphale had allowed himself to think of it in the first place was beyond him.
Aziraphale thought about finding himself outside Wrigley Field, brought there by a practical joke set by a clever man.
He thought of the books that had been checked out and never returned, necessitating that trip to Addison Street in the first place, and how those unreturned books had sullied his perfect record, and how they had been returned improperly with the sole purpose of….what? Taunting Aziraphale?
And then he thought about how his memories of his best friend would certainly be forever tainted by this awful prank, and he could barely stand it.
Aziraphale sat on the bench and felt embarrassment coursing through him, embarrassment that he didn't see the truth before, at hoping that maybe it all meant something more than it actually did.
He buried his face in his hands and let his tears fall.
Then, the sound of footsteps broke through his haze of tears and he heard a tentative voice.
"Angel?"
Aziraphale's head snapped up. He locked eyes with Crowley's gorgeous amber ones, Crowley standing before him in his too-tight black skinny jeans and his red hair glowing in the bright summer light, and rage coursed through Aziraphale like fire.
"Why?" Aziraphale ground out through clenched teeth. It was all he could manage.
Crowley took a step back, clearly unnerved by the palpable anger radiating off of Aziraphale. "Angel, let me explain, please."
"Don't call me that," Aziraphale snarled, standing up and advancing towards Crowley. "How dare you?"
Crowley held up his hands in a placating gesture. "Okay, Aziraphale. Look, I, uh, see, the thing is…"
"The thing is, what, Crowley? What?" Aziraphale had lost any sense of decorum by this point, his voice echoing in the cavernous space and causing the few patrons sitting at tables to flinch, casting them uneasy looks. A few of them got up and started walking towards the door. "You just decided to, I don't know, fuck with me because you thought it would be funny —"
Crowley cut in, his face horror stricken " — That's absolutely not what this is about, Aziraphale, come on!"
"— Let's throw poor Aziraphale a bone, make him think someone is admiring him from afar, let's send him some books with some lovely words to remind him that he's alone while I fuck off with my rich fiance. Let's send him on a fool's errand to Wrigley Field — "
"— Okay, I didn't mean for you to actually GO to Wrigley Field, I thought you'd recognize the address and you would remember it from when we watched the Blues Brothers! I swear, I didn't mean for that to happen, although I will admit that I seriously underestimated how insane you are about getting people to return books — "
" — you're a fucking asshole, you know that?" Aziraphale growled. "A fucking asshole who has nothing better to do than to string me along, and some kind of friend you are, creating all this extra work for me, ruining my spotless record, putting neon green sticky notes on vintage Austens — "
" — I'm in love with you."
Crowley practically shouted it.
Aziraphale stopped dead. The only sound in the winter garden was his own harsh breathing and the far away closing of the door that lead to the stairs.
"What?" Aziraphale whispered. For all his rage of a few moments ago, his voice seemed to have deserted him now.
Crowley took a deep breath, closed his eyes, opened them, and said, "I'm in love with you."
He stepped a little closer to Aziraphale, who did not back away.
"Look," said Crowley, his voice shaking, "I came here because when you texted me about the Bentley, I knew you must have figured it out. Anathema told me you were up here. I think it's best if you let me do the talking for awhile, because all of this is my fault, and I owe you an explanation. So please, ang- Aziraphale - please sit down. Please."
Aziraphale slowly did as he was asked, sitting on the edge of the bench, tension keeping his spine straight as an arrow.
"Right, okay, so, here it goes," Crowley said, seeming to steel himself. He looked up at the ceiling as if to gain strength, then back at Aziraphale.
"I broke up with Lucian. Four months ago now."
Aziraphale's jaw dropped, and his posture drooped a little in surprise.
"I don't know exactly why I didn't tell you," Crowley continued. "It was pretty hard, for awhile. You don't just leave someone like Lucian without there being….consequences. I guess I wanted to keep you separate from all of that, not get you sucked into the drama. That's why we couldn't spend time together for awhile."
Crowley paced back and forth, running his hands through his hair.
"I had to move out of our apartment and find my own, had to rearrange my work schedule, had to disentangle myself from his life. It felt like getting out of a prison, one of my own making, sure, but a prison nonetheless. I've been working through it in therapy, and there were a lot more bad things going on than I was prepared to admit to anyone. I think…."
At this, Crowley paused again, his Adam's apple bobbing as he tried to swallow past his emotion, and Aziraphale felt his own eyes filling with tears too.
"I think I was afraid to tell you because I didn't want it to change things between us. It felt safer to keep that barrier up, keep being your friend, then to take the risk of telling you everything that was going on, and telling you how I felt about you, and even the possibility that you wouldn't feel the same way wasn't something that I could handle at the time."
Crowley let out a strangled sort of laugh. "I've been in love with you for so long and unable to do anything about it, stuck in a toxic relationship that was clouding my judgment, and I knew the second that I told you how I felt that there would be no going back, and that I would move too fast and I would just fuck it up, and I couldn't stand the thought of losing your friendship."
Crowley walked towards him at that, requiring Aziraphale to crane his neck a little to see him. Crowley's profile was back-lit by the light streaming in through the windows, and he was so lovely it made Aziraphale's heart ache.
"Your friendship means so much to me," Crowley said fiercely. "So much to me that I couldn't stand to lose it. I love everything about our friendship, Aziraphale. I love how we can talk for hours about the smallest things, I love how excited you are to see me when I come by the library unexpectedly, I love how enthusiastic you are when you eat, I love how you never pushed the boundaries with me because you knew I was in a relationship, you were just my friend because you wanted to be, and I know beyond a doubt that I am safe with you. I love how passionate and insane you are about this library and books and this city, and… "
He trailed off for a minute, seeming to gather his thoughts, looking away and then back at Aziraphale.
"You're like human sunshine. That's why I picked that poem. If I do one thing today, may I be human sunshine for someone. You're human sunshine for me, Aziraphale, every time I see you. No matter what, I know my day will be better if you are in it."
Tears started to fall in earnest down Aziraphale's cheeks again.
Crowley cracked a tentative smile, and it was like the sun coming out from behind a cloud. "Your beautiful smile, those blue eyes that change color depending upon the light, your cute little wiggle when something makes you happy…God, Aziraphale, I love all of those things about you. And the thought that I could fuck all that up, that I could lose the most important thing in my life, was terrifying."
Crowley took a deep breath while Aziraphale wiped frantically at his eyes.
"But then….we started spending more time together and I started to dream again, literally dream about you, about your smile and your eyes and your name and your hands on my body, and I decided I couldn't spend my life not knowing what it was like to be with you, to kiss you, to make love to you, if any of that were at all possible, and I decided I had to take a shot."
Crowley laughed ironically before continuing. "But I was still afraid that I would fuck it up, so instead I came up with this insane plan that would essentially guarantee that I would fuck it up, typical me. I'm pretty sure I was drunk when I thought of it, but the day after the idea occurred to me, I hacked into the library's server and planted my fake application and the next time I was at the library I checked out those books under my fake name, and insanity followed."
Crowley smiled. "You have been my friend. That in itself is a tremendous thing. I wove my webs for you because I liked you. I just….I wanted to show you how much you mean to me using words, because I know how much you love books and poetry and music, and I….. I hoped you would find it romantic. It was pretty dumb, I know. In my head I thought that if nothing ever came of it, then I would know where we stood and we could go on being friends easier than if I outright declared myself and we had a falling out because of it. But you are so clever, you were going to figure out who I was, some day. And you did."
At this, the energy seemed to drain out of Crowley and his posture deflated.
Aziraphale stood up slowly, wiping the last of the tears from his eyes. "Crowley?" he asked, his voice wavering.
"Yes, Aziraphale?"
"Are you quite finished?" Aziraphale asked.
Crowley nodded.
Aziraphale reached out and took Crowley's lovely face in his hands, delighting in the hitch in Crowley's breathing at this contact, feeling for the first time Crowley's stubble beneath his palms, the softness of the skin on his cheeks. He ran a thumb across the seam of Crowley's lower lip and watched as Crowley's pupils dilated, his breath coming faster, his pulse fluttering against Aziraphale's fingertips.
"You ridiculous man," Aziraphale whispered. "I'm in love with you too. And it was quite romantic."
Crowley's eyes widened, and Aziraphale leaned in and brushed his lips very gently against Crowley's, and he felt Crowley relaxing into his touch.
Before either of them could deepen the kiss, however, Aziraphale pulled back and looked into Crowley's eyes.
"And you will be returning the rest of those books. Properly, this time."
Crowley's face broke into a delighted grin, and it made Aziraphale's heart beat faster and his stomach swoop. "Wouldn't dream of it otherwise, angel."
This time, when their lips met, they lingered for a long time, their bodies coming together, hands cradling the back of heads and slipped around waists as they kissed each other at long last, languid and unhurried, hearts aglow in the bright open space of the winter garden.
📚📖🎵🎬
Some time later Crowley and Aziraphale came back down the stairs to the 8th floor, a little disheveled, lips swollen, smiling widely and holding hands.
Anathema was sitting at her desk. She caught sight of them and practically bounced out of her seat, a wide smile of her own spreading across her face.
"You both are goddamn idiots," she said, before enveloping them in a hug. It was so enthusiastic that the two men practically knocked heads as they were drawn together.
Aziraphale squeezed her back tightly, feeling extremely warm and happy inside.
She released them, surveyed their faces and said, her eyes bright, "Well, that settles it. My hunch was right. So, what's your middle name, then, Crowley?"
Crowley mumbled a few consonants and said, "It's just a J, really. And what hunch was this?"
Anathema smiled happily. "That you two were meant to be together. I tried to convince Aziraphale, but he wasn't so easily persuaded."
Crowley turned to Aziraphale with a raised eyebrow.
Aziraphale turned a brilliant shade of pink and said, "Well, to be fair, I didn't know he was single until less than twenty minutes ago."
"Yeah, that's my bad," said Crowley. "Long story."
Anathema laughed and said, "I am sure I will hear about it in due course. But oh, look at the time!" She looked at Aziraphale pointedly. "Your shift is over, Aziraphale."
Aziraphale frowned at her and said, "No it's not, it's barely 1 o'clock — "
But his sentence was cut off as Anathema forcibly spun both he and Crowley around to face the escalators, physically pushing them forward.
"You both have to go on a time sensitive work related errand," Anathema said as they walked, her hands firmly on their backs. "You need to go to AJ Bentley's apartment and get the rest of those unreturned books. And if it takes you the rest of the day and all of tomorrow, then there's a coworker here who is happy to cover your duties for you."
Aziraphale looked back at her, seeing the wide grin on her face, then at Crowley, who looked delighted.
"I think she and I are going to be friends," Crowley whispered to Aziraphale.
Aziraphale's face hurt from smiling so much. He turned back to Anathema and said, "Thank you, my dear. I owe you one."
"No, you don't," she said, smiling at them and waving them off. "Bye!"
Crowley and Aziraphale went down the escalators, left the Harold Washington Library, and got on the brown line, this time heading in the same direction.
As they crossed the sun-sparkled river, the train gliding smoothly towards the north end of the city, Crowley leaned in and whispered in Aziraphale's ear.
"If I loved you less, then I might be able to talk about it more."
Aziraphale looked back at him, his heart overflowing with warmth and love and delight, and whispered back,
"Everything must have an ending, except my love for you."
The Brown Line going over the Chicago River, carrying our angel and demon home ❤️
The End
