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Asa Fell’s chest is pounding far too quickly that can be good for him, but he’s feeling so happy that he just doesn’t care. He’s met an amazing man – who’s also an author – and he’s worked up the courage to run after him, and now the man is signing his book! This really is turning out to be a very good day…
“Um, do you have a-”
“Oh! Yes, sorry.”
Wincing in embarrassment, Asa digs into his pocket for a pen. He draws it out with a flourish, and Anthony J. Crowley smiles as he reaches over for it. There really is something rare and beautiful about that crooked smile, and yet Asa can’t help but feel he’s somehow seen it before. Perhaps this is simply one of those little moments that can change a lifetime.
He proffers the pen, heart racing. As he hands it over, their fingers brush ever so slightly, and suddenly he’s assaulted by a wave of images.
Asa drops his pen, clutching his head as the snapshots flood through his brain. He sees a garden, with a strange snake-like man at his side. A flood, goats, a man being nailed to a cross. He tastes escargot, crepes, sushi – flavours and emotions inundating is senses as the images morph from one to the next.
Paris now. A bookshop. St. James’ Park. And there always, Crowley. Over and over and over.
After an eternity – several eternities – the barrage subsides. He doesn’t know how long he’s been hunched there, his hands clapped over his head. There are a few passersby across the street staring at him with concern.*
Aziraphale stands, stretching out his neck and back. He glances across to where the author was standing, and then looks down. Crowley lies groaning, spreadeagled on the road, the books carelessly on top of him. He’s muttering something that sounds suspiciously along the lines of, “Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit, shit, shit.”
Then he glances up and meets Aziraphale’s gaze. How strange it is seeing regular brown eyes in Crowley’s face rather than those brilliant gold.
Then – still lying on the road and oblivious to the stares – Crowley starts to laugh. The chuckles seem to start in his chest, and vibrate his whole body.
“So she had one final twist after all.” He gasps, “Had to have the last laugh, didn’t she?”
Aziraphale watches, not trusting himself to speak, as Crowley throws out his hands and pushes himself painfully to his feet.
“The Great Ineffable Plan,” he grunts drily. He digs his thumbs into his pockets and regards Aziraphale.
The two of them stare at each other. Aziraphale feels his bottom lip trembling, as Crowley gazes at him with undisguised longing.
“Crowley,” he whispers.
Crowley tilts his head, his trademark smirk falling over his lips.
“Hello Aziraphale,” he murmurs softly.
And so, it begins again. Somewhere along the way, they get a date and a cottage with the perfect view of the night sky. And over a few streets away, a nightingale sings.
*But not so much concern that they want to risk their personal safety to approach him.