Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

‘Right on time,’ Anthony Crowley thought with a glimpse at the clock on the wall as he spotted the fair-haired head across the street. It was 8 am on a cloudless Monday morning — promising to be another scorcher of a day — and the man Crowley only knew as Mr Fell was on his way to work.

A man with no hard edges, all soft and round and smooth. Even his hair was fuzzy and light, as if the clouds missing from the sky had settled there instead. He always draped himself in cosy fabrics of light and warm colours, too, wool when it was cold, fine cotton with a soft finish when it was warm. No corduroy, no jeans, no leather except for his shoes, which he had clearly chosen for quality and worn for a long time. All of his clothes had the appearance of being well-worn in but also well-cared for. His anachronistic sense of fashion that suited him so well, Crowley could not imagine him in anything modern. Mr Fell stood out in the most unobtrusive way possible.

And just like every Monday and Friday he was about to come into ‘Seekers of Caffeine’ for his morning cup of Earl Grey tea and a croissant to go.

Crowley heard the oven in the kitchen ding. “Tina, can you get me one of those fresh croissants, please?”

“Sure thing.” Half a minute later, the woman managing the kitchen came out holding a plate with a perfect-looking, still steaming croissant. “He on his way then?”

“Yep.” Crowley took a bag out from underneath the counter and placed the croissant inside. Then he set the milk and sugar out on the counter. “Just crossing the street.”

“Like clockwork, that man.” Tina smirked at Crowley with a knowing — and entirely wrong, if you asked Crowley, but he knew better than to argue — sidelong glance. “You know what he’s going to get, why don’t you prepare his tea ahead of time?”

Giving his apron a last brush with his hands to remove any crumbs that might have mysteriously appeared in the minute since he’d last done this, Crowley draped his long, braided ponytail stylishly over his shoulder… and himself over the counter. He ignored the only half-swallowed snort coming from Tina.

“Travel mug,” Crowley grunted, pointing with his chin at the man about to open the door, “plus, he prefers it. Likes to make sure his tea doesn’t steep too long, you know?”

“Fussy,” Tina mumbled and went back to her domain.

Most people would call it fussy. But, to Crowley, it just meant that the man knew exactly what he liked and made sure to get it. Impressive, that was. Admirable. Being more like that was Crowley’s aspiration.

‘What he likes is what you want to be. Can’t lie to yourself.’ He pushed that annoying voice back into the box where it kept escaping from at the worst possible moments, and bashed its figurative head in with a very determined bang. No matter what that voice claimed, he was, in fact, excellent at lying to himself.

“Good morning, Mr Fell,” Crowley called out at the exact moment the man stepped inside. Was that a new bow tie? The fabric had a pretty sheen to it, making the red and gold in the tartan pattern Mr Fell favoured stand out and offset his eyes perfectly.

“Good morning,” Mr Fell answered with a smile like the summer sun at noon as he was setting his travel mug on the counter. The smile was almost blindingly bright enough to make Crowley check that his toned glasses were still sitting properly. “Earl Grey and a croissant to take away, please.”

With a nod, Crowley brought the mug over to the machine, puts a bag inside, lets it fill up to the rim with hot water at the perfect temperature and sets the timer. “The tea will be just a minute, Sir,” he said to Mr Fell and put his order already into the system. Mr Fell liked to pay while he waited for his tea to be done. “That’ll be £6.80,” Crowley said without glancing at the display.

A Monday like any other. The same price, the same few sentences spoken. While Mr Fell paid with his card, Crowley put the bag containing the croissant on the counter. Mr Fell took it to put in the bag he took to work — an old-fashioned leather satchel that suited him perfectly — and sighed. “Oh, it’s still deliciously warm. Thank you, my dear.”

“Anything for our valued regulars, Sir.” Crowley flashed him his best smile — not the customer service one. The one he would have given a nice bloke across from him at a restaurant table if he still went on dates. Again, just like any other Monday, and somehow it still resulted in the same slightly coy answering smirk.

The timer went off and Crowley turned to the travel mug to take care of the tea bag. From the corner of his eyes, he saw another familiar figure make her way across the road.

‘Ah, shit,’ Crowley thought. Ana was on her way. It was never good when she came over while Mr Fell was still in the shop. She had a way of looking at him in this ‘nagging mum’ kind of way that was unfortunately and surprisingly effective despite her being younger. One of her favourite topics to pester him about was Crowley’s (in her opinion) lacking initiative around—

“Mr Fell! Good morning,” Ana called out happily as she breezed in through the door like she was the bloody Spring, here to make all the flowers bloom and the birds sing. Or pair up.

“Ah, good morning, Mrs Device.”

“I will not stop asking you to call me Ana, you know?” She shook her head with a faintly bemused smile. “But it’s a good thing I caught you. Next Wednesday we’ll have someone coming in to look at the faulty lights in the stairwell. We may be without electricity for a while. They said they’d be there some time between 9 am and 1 pm, you know how they are…”

“Oh, don’t worry about me, I’ll be at work then.”

Crowley could have told her that. Crowley had, in fact, told her that. Just this morning. “Here’s your tea, Mr Fell,” he said, setting down the travel mug with a smile for Mr Fell and a withering glare for Ana. He got to spend such little time talking to Mr Fell, despite living in the same building. She really didn’t have to cut into it further. This could’ve been a note dropped in his mailbox.

His interactions with Mr Fell were always polite and professional, never anything more than that, but Crowley had come to enjoy them regardless. Something about Mr Fell just brought the sun out every time their paths crossed, and it wasn’t how the man’s practically white hair shone when light fell on it.

It wasn’t just the way the man smiled, either, although that certainly helped. That brightest of smiles was turned Crowley’s way now, the only kind of brightness he could bear looking at directly. It almost made him want to adjust his glasses, or better yet, throw them away entirely so he could bask in the full force of it. “Thank you, Mr Crowley,” Mr Fell said, his voice seemed so light and warm then, only a hint of a burr. He might have imagined it, but it seemed different from when he spoke to Ana, a tone of voice just for him. Too beautiful to be true, though he almost believed it. And, for a moment, it seemed like the rest of the world fell away.

“My pleasure as always, Mr Fell.”

On the edge of his vision, he saw Ana roll her eyes at him. He desperately wished he could flip her off, but that would hardly be professional and (while he normally didn’t care too much around Ana) around Mr Fell it was important. The man had poise and character and deserved to be treated with respect. Ana was like a bloody little sister who always knew when to prod and when to annoy him for maximum effect. That was what he’d learned from television, in any case; he’d never had siblings.

Mr Fell was hoisting his satchel over the shoulder and was just about to bid his farewells (presumably) when Ana spoke up again.

“So, what do you want to do for your birthday, Crowley?”

Oh, the little— “Thought we had settled on ‘nothing much’?” he answered, glaring at her pointedly.

“Well yeah, but it’ll prove to be a significant birthday with how the number kept coming up, no matter what divination method I used. And you know that the cards told me important things will change for you this coming year—” she actually glanced at Mr Fell and then winked at Crowley. He would wring her neck if she didn’t let him stay at the flat she shared with her quasi-husband/life partner and their children.

“Oh, happy birthday, Mr Crowley.” And there was that beaming, life-bringing smile again, directed straight at Crowley. How could anyone hope to withstand it for long? Crowley had known the man for five years — ever since Mr Fell moved into the flat above Ana’s and started his routine of coming to the café — and he still hadn’t managed to evolve a resistance for it. “If you don’t mind my asking, a significant birthday, you say? It’s not the big 3-0 already as the young people say these days, is it?”

“Uh,” Crowley said cleverly.

Oh, for fuck’s sake, he couldn’t honestly— Crowley didn’t look that young. He knew he didn’t, saw the lines on his face every time he looked in a bloody mirror. Depressing as anything because every time they reminded him how his life had turned out to be nothing like he thought it would when he went off to uni all those years ago. He hadn’t planned to work at a café, he hadn’t planned on not having a place he felt he could call home, he hadn’t planned on not being with—

Anyway, point was, Crowley was definitely not turning 30, not even in the ballpark of 30. And what did he mean by ‘already’? Did he honestly think Crowley was younger than that?

“Oh, he’ll be 35 next week on Thursday, actually.” Ana looked absolutely delighted to be pointing this out to Mr Fell. “Looks pretty good for that age, doesn’t he?”

“Ana—” he warned with just a hint of his more typical, everyday tone of voice that wasn’t nearly as customer friendly and much more prone to using words that would be considered inappropriate in polite company.

But then Mr Fell spoke again. “I would say that, regardless of age, Mr Crowley’s appearance is one of timeless grace.”

Crowley’s brain stopped working. Just laid down its tools, quit the job and went off to somewhere nice. Somewhere far away from Crowley. All he could do was stare like an idiot for a good 20 seconds before he regained the smallest bit of control over his facial muscles. At least Ana understood her position as his quasi-sibling and best friend this one time and kept up the conversation so no one would notice how much of a pillock Crowley actually was. Hopefully. “Oh, well said, Mr Fell. You have quite a way with words, don’t you?”

“Oh, I don’t know about that. According to some, I merely read too much,” Mr Fell waved her off, with a chuckle. Then his eyes fell on the clock on the wall. “Oh no, is that really the time? I’m afraid I must run if I want to catch my bus. Good day to both of you and again” — he turned back to Crowley, who was exceedingly happy to at least be able to produce a proper smile by now — “I wish you the most wonderful birthday, Mr Crowley.”

With that, the man turned to leave. By the time Crowley had got his mouth back under control, the man was already opening the door. “Thank you!” he called out, maybe a bit too high and too loud, but it was better than not saying anything at all, right? “And have a nice day.” He waved when Mr Fell turned back, graced him with another one of those million-watt smiles, returned the wave and left.

“So,” Ana said innocently about two minutes later, while Crowley was making her coffee, “when are you going to start talking to him?”

“What do you mean? I am talking to him.” Maybe he should use the milk from yesterday for her coffee, the lumpy, granulated liquid he had found left out on a counter in the kitchen when he had walked in this morning — the one time he wasn’t there to check on clean-up, of course. But although he was annoyed with her (and entertaining the thought was a bit satisfying), he wasn’t going to give her food poisoning. Besides, he had thrown the milk away this morning.

“You know exactly what I mean, Crowley.” With a sigh, she crossed her arms in front of her chest, which made them practically invisible with all the frilly black lace at the front of her blouse tumbling over them. Both of them had always enjoyed a more gothic approach to clothing, but where he came in from the more slim, sleek, stylish side, her take on it was a pure, outdated whimsy. All long skirts and frills and billowy sleeves.

And just as Crowley’s style was carefully chosen, a cool exterior he wore like armour, making himself seem rough and harsh and standoffish, hers worked similarly, although it shouldn’t. All that playfulness of her clothing– it would have made anyone else seem soft, but on her it had the opposite effect, her dark hair and large glasses only helping with the imposing image. She wielded it all like a tool, possibly better than Crowley himself did — which he would never admit to.

So even while he wasn’t looking directly at her, just knowing she was there with her disapproving, exasperated glare made the hairs at the back of his neck stand up.

What was worse, Ana was also absolutely right. Crowley did know what she meant. But that didn’t mean her opinion was correct or that he was going to give in to her. They had had this exact discussion plenty of times before, and it always went the exact same way. Funny how much of life was an endless repeating loop.

“He isn’t interested,” he stated merely as he put the cup down in front of her. “And I’m not looking for a date, anyway.”

“Wrong on both accounts.” Ana shook her head at him in disbelief. “How can you not see it? I haven’t seen him look at anyone the way he looks at you. I can see how his aura changes, adapts to yours when you’re together — and so does yours, by the way.”

There were no customers at the counter now so he let loose one of his, although subdued, more customary growls. “Ana—”

“And you,” she pointed her index finger straight at the centre of his chest, not the least bit cowed by him, “you simply aren’t looking for a shag, but you are absolutely interested in a relationship.” He was about to hiss a refusal at her, but the issue with people who were your best friend since uni was that they knew you, and she was very much prepared for that. Her small hand shot up, flicking against his nose and index finger hovering threateningly in front of it. Ready to strike again. “Don’t even try to deny it, you know I can read it in your aura. And Mr Fell looks to me like someone who’d be much more interested in relationships than short-lived physical affairs on general principle. And he’s single—”

“You don’t even know that.” Turning back to the espresso machine, Crowley pretended to be busy by cleaning them. Every time. This ‘discussion’ went the same way, every single time, the only change being that Ana had recently become even more tenacious. Ever since that damned Tarot reading. It was his own mistake, really; he’d known better than to let her do it but had gotten tired of saying no and given in anyway. Just to get her off his back. And now he was reaping what he’d sown. What had been an occasional point of disagreement between them had become something she kept purposefully circling back to every few weeks.

The cards had told her his life would change in big ways this year and for the better. To Crowley it was just a bunch of colourful pictures, randomly drawn from a deck and put down in an order that made as much sense to him as the messages she claimed to read in them. One of those things being — coincidentally, and definitely not simply coming from Ana’s own scheming mind — a new romance to someone who was already known to him. Ridiculous. Even more ridiculous was that she was certain the cards must mean Mr Fell. A man like that had no reason to be interested in a mere ‘coffee boy’. Not that anyone would still call Crowley a boy. Galaxies, no universes apart. That was what they were.

But Ana didn’t see it that way. And it wasn’t as if Crowley could tell her that; she’d never accept such an argument coming from him. So he didn’t say anything else, let her complete the argument without his involvement.

“When have you last seen him with another man?” Ana asked expectedly.

And try as he might to stop it, his mind — always enjoying the chance to torture Crowley — was still producing the answer.

A year ago. Here in this very café. At the table just a little to the right of the counter. That was when he’d last seen Mr Fell with someone.

Mr Fell had brought the man around repeatedly for about a year and a half, and each time he brought him along, it had been… unpleasant. An American and, although Ana was also originally American, in this case the word was meant as an insult. He was a special sort of wanker. Always on Mr Fell’s case about how he should make healthier choices and take better care of himself, and did he know how many calories were in that hot chocolate? And just going for a walk wasn’t proper exercise at all, and why wouldn’t Mr Fell listen to his fashion advice when he was so clearly in need?

And not that it mattered, but he hadn’t had a single good thing to say about the café or their menu, either. Crowley always got the impression that he’d considered ‘Seekers’ to be beneath him, just like Soho, the way he’d tried to convince Mr Fell to move to Mayfair, where that wanker just happened to live…

Honestly, patience of a saint, that was what Crowley had. A bloody paragon of self-control. He had never gone over and punched the man or kicked him out, never once emptied a nice, fresh, very hot and very large cup filled with nothing but a ton of espresso over his head. But he had imagined it.

“Exactly,” Ana said finally when Crowley didn’t answer, “a really damned long time.”

Crowley remained quiet, just scrubbed away at the espresso machine that was already gleaming.

With a sigh, Ana took her coffee and turned to leave. But before she made it all the way to the door, she stopped and half-turned back. “Just put yourself out there again, at least. Do something with your life. You’ve been hiding away for far too long. Luca was an ass who didn’t deserve you.”

Crowley held his breath, until he heard the door fall shut. His shoulders sagged as he leaned against the counter. If only all of this really was as easy as Ana made it all seem…

The door opened again. Crowley put on his customer-service face and turned back to the room. No time to cry over spilled milk: he had to work.

It was evening and although his shift had ended a while ago, Crowley had come back into the café to close up and to take care of the plants decorating the entrance and the inside of ‘Seekers’.

The plants had been his idea. He’d had a small jungle worth of plants to take care of when he still lived with Luca, and hadn’t been able to take any of them with him when he left. And Crowley was already taking up so much space at Ana’s, but here there was enough room and light, and they added to the vaguely magical, outlandish decor.

As the most senior staff member and the only one who literally lived across the street from ‘Seekers of Caffeine’, Crowley often came in around closing or opening time to help out, regardless of whether it was his shift, anyway. He didn’t really have anything better to do, and if it meant that Marjorie could rest at home secure in the knowledge that someone with experience had an eye on everything — well that was just more incentive.

He was alone now, back in the kitchen and just doing one last check to make sure that everything was put away — including the milk — and spotless, when the little bell above the door jingled.

The door should have been locked. And the only one with a key, other than him and Tina, was Marjorie herself.

Surprised, he made his way back to the front of the shop. And indeed there stood Marjorie. She wore more subdued clothes, none of those flashy, flamboyant dresses that used to be a sort of uniform for her when she worked in the café. No ginger hair either — a wig she had started to wear around the café after she had hired Crowley because she thought it was fun when they matched — but her own more grey than blond hair.

Her back was turned as she surveyed the place she had built but rarely visited these days. She was getting on in years, and the commute from the outer rim of London could be tiring. Inside London, rents had only been rising for as long as Crowley could remember, and — much like Crowley — she had never been able to get a flat closer to the café.

‘But at least she has one,’ a small voice in his head chimed in.

When Crowley started working here over 15 years ago now, Marjorie had been a fixture at the ‘Seekers of Caffeine’. She had been there every day, working more hours than anyone else, and almost always present for closing and clean-up. But then her husband had had a stroke seven years ago, and she’d understandably spent as much time taking care of him as she could until he died three years later. All of that had taken a toll on her, and she had aged considerably since.

It was unusual for her to be here, especially at this time and without calling ahead first.

“Mrs M?” Crowley called out tentatively, using the nickname he had coined all those years ago, and that always delighted her.

“Ah, Anthony, what a lucky coincidence,” Marjorie turned, a pleased smile on her face. She may have aged, but she was still a striking figure even at her rather diminutive size, and as charismatic as ever.

With her arms outstretched, she strode over to Crowley and took him by the arms. Crowley let her pull him down to face level so she could kiss his cheek and hug him.

She still wore the same perfume as when Ana had introduced them half a lifetime ago. A scent like fresh rhubarb cakes and tea in a blooming spring garden, like comfort and nostalgia. Crowley quickly kissed her cheek and moved back before the wistfulness that came with that scent settled in too deep.

“I haven’t seen you in a while,” Marjorie said, clearly studying him with her eagle-eyed gaze. “How is life treating you, my boy?”

“Same old,” Crowley shrugged and tried to scrounge up anything that could possibly qualify as ‘news’. “Ana and Newt are expecting a third.”

Her face lit up, just as he had expected. “Really? Good for them! Poor Newt will really have his work cut out for him then with three wee ones underfoot.”

“Yep, but he chose this, so my sympathy is limited.” Crowley picked up his old backpack from next to the counter, where he’d left it when he went to do his last check, and slung the strap over his shoulder. “Are you planning on staying longer or—?” He gestured with his thumb toward the door.

“Not staying, no. I was feeling a little heartsick for this place, though.” Marjorie’s smile was subdued but not unhappy, and her gaze seemed a million light-years — or possibly a decade or two — away as she turned on the spot to take it all in.

“Everything is more or less the same as you can see. One of the chairs finally fell apart, but Dave found a used replacement that worked really well with everything else after he gave it a new coat of paint.” He pointed at a purple chair on one of the larger tables in the middle. Its eclectic cousins were a diverse bunch in both style and colour, so it fit right into the whimsical chaos that made up the café’s furnishings and tableware.

This was a style choice Marjorie had made consciously when she first opened the place. Items will break in normal day-to-day business but, if there were hardly more than two items of any given style, replacements were much easier and cheaper to come by. It gave the place a certain character that matched not just herself but her employees, as well as the café’s location in Soho.

“Yes, a beautiful addition.” She touched his arm gently, a proud smile on her face. “You take such good care of this place, Anthony.”

He gave her a wobbly kind of half-smile and quickly turned his head away. “It was really all Dave.”

“Our employees feel like this is just as much their place, and it shows. That’s thanks to you.” She squeezed his arm once before letting him go. “You’re leading them in a way where they’re trying to do their best for ‘Seekers’. That’s a skill that’s a lot less common than one should like, and hard to teach.”

“Just doing my job, Mrs M. Following in your footsteps and all that.” Crowley lifted his chin a little higher. Most people would think this to be a gesture of pride, which suited him just fine.

Most people. Marjorie was a lot of things, but she had never been, wasn’t now and would never be, ‘most people’.

She looked at him again and her knowing gaze became very fond. Crowley could practically hear her chiding him for always dodging her praise.

But she didn’t comment on it. No, instead she switched to an even more difficult topic. “Have you considered my offer, Anthony?”

Crowley swallowed. It had been three weeks since she had asked. He really should have expected this. But instead he’d pushed the entire conversation to the deepest, darkest hole in his mind, cemented it shut, threw a leaden slab on top for good measure and surrounded it with signs warning him away from the dangerous abyss housing a feral, venomous, seven-headed tiger.

“Uh,” he started and cleared his throat that was suddenly getting tighter. “I don’t know, Mrs M. I don’t really have that much in savings. And I would have to take classes on top of my work here and helping Ana—”

“We can find a way to make it all work out. Anthony,” she said as she came to stand right in front of him and took his face in between her softly wrinkled hands, “you are such a bright and clever young man, and you clearly love this café as much as I do. I trust you to do right by it and can’t think of anyone better suited to take over. The only question here is: do you want to?”

Marjorie looked him straight in the eyes. As if the answer could be found there.

Sometimes Crowley wondered what she saw when she looked at him like this. Tonight, he just dropped his gaze to the brooch on her lapel. A bird made of some kind of metal, brass or bronze or whatever. He hadn’t checked, hadn’t thought to ask when he’d bought it at that flea market for her birthday, so many years ago now.

She wore it every time they met.

When she released him, her hand slid down to his chest, patted it gently. “Think about it, Anthony.”

Crowley never lifted his gaze enough to find out, but he knew she wore another one of her knowing smiles — this one a little sadder — when she left.

The shops were already closed on Whickber Street when Aziraphale Fell made it back from work. It had been a long, hard day of fixing beginner accounting errors made by one of his (although technically experienced) more hasty colleagues. Swiftness may be a quality many of their clients unfortunately sought out, but much more important were diligence, attention and care — a point he made thoroughly, abundantly, to be certain Sanderson understood. When even small mistakes could cost the client large sums of money and potentially land them in legal trouble — and oneself as well — one had to be certain of one’s work.

At least the mistake had been caught before it could lead to any more severe consequences than a very stern talk, a cowed and much less cocky Sanderson, and strained, dry eyes with a bit of a headache for Aziraphale himself.

As it often did, his gaze automatically went over to ‘Seekers of Caffeine’ when it came into view. Of course, the café was dark and closed as well, so what he hoped to see was a mys—

There in the centre of the dark café stood the charming, young Barista, Mr Crowley. Although, as he had learned today, the man was barely more than five years Aziraphale’s junior. But the way he dressed beneath that red apron, the way he wore his shining, deep red hair in a long braid that would easily reach his breastbone if not lower, the way he lips would quirk in that enchanting smile— He had a bit of boyishness about himself that not many retained into their 30s.

But then Mr Crowley was exceptional in many ways. Aziraphale truly didn’t know much about the man, but even in their sadly limited and utterly professional exchanges, hints of the true man underneath came through. Glimpses of exasperation at Mrs Device’s antics, the care for the café and the people who worked there, and sparks of snark hidden behind polite smiles and friendly words at particularly unpleasant customers. What was Mr Crowley truly like? What would one see if the work persona was stripped away? The man was fascinating, had been fascinating Aziraphale from the moment they met on the stairs the day he moved in.

However, currently Mr Crowley seemed almost a bit forlorn. He stood stock-still facing the door, backpack over one shoulder and seemingly ready to go. As if time had frozen inside the café. Or he’d become somehow stuck.

Aziraphale frowned. What had brought that on? What could have disrupted the clever, quick-thinking Mr Crowley so much? Should Aziraphale do something? But there was nothing to be done; they simply weren’t well enough acquainted to allow him to pry into the other man’s private matters, no matter his intentions.

With a sigh, Aziraphale turned away, unlocked the door right next to Mrs Device’s shop, ‘The Hidden Door’, collected his mail from the mailbox and started climbing the stairs to his flat. He sorted through the post immediately and put all the advertisements in a separate stack — until he collided with something on the landing between two flights of stairs.

“Oh, my apologies,” he said. The mail dropped to the ground unheeded as his hands shot out in reflex to grasp elbows and steady the person, before his mind could comprehend the form of what he’d impacted with or the soft gasp registered. “I should have taken better care—”

“No no, don’t you worry, Mr Fell,” Mrs Device said with a smile and waved him off, “I could have watched where I was going myself.” She crouched down to pick something up and quickly Aziraphale followed suit. It wouldn’t do to let her pick up anything that only fell because of his inattention.

Books! He’d made her drop books. “Oh no, I hope they are undamaged.” They seemed alright, only the normal signs of being read and pressed open countless times. All of them were about Tarot, from the looks of it.

“A friend’s coming by the shop to borrow these tomorrow. I’ve read them plenty of times, even spilled my tea over one of them once, some protection oil over another. I don’t think a mere fall could do more damage to them than I did.” With a soft laugh, she held out his mail.

Before taking it, Aziraphale stood and held out his hand to Mrs Device.

A soft smile spreads over her face. “I’m not sure if I should be offended that you think I’m incapable of getting up by myself, or flattered.” Despite her comment, she took his hand and let him help her up.

“I don’t think you weak, Mrs Device. I’m merely doing the proper thing.” That so many people these days couldn’t, or wouldn’t, muster the effort required for some basic kindness and human decency was concerning to him. The best thing one could do to combat this trend, though, was to afford others this kind of respect in the hope that it was true what people said: that one kind act bred another.

“You know, I understand why Crowley likes you so much, you are a rare old soul and truly kind. It’s not just an act for you, it’s who you are,” she said suddenly with a twinkle in her eye Aziraphale couldn’t define as anything other than mischievous. He felt the heat rise to his cheeks at the double bombardment of a truly unnecessary but appreciated compliment, and her remark about Mr Crowley’s opinion of him.

“It’s just common decency,“ he said, shaking his head as much in response to her as to clear any mental images of the man from his thoughts. Obviously, she meant that Mr Crowley liked that he was consistently amiable and understanding in their interactions in the café, no matter how stressful the day had already been.

Mrs Device just smiled at him in that strange way she sometimes did. As if she were seeing things that others didn’t, things that shouldn’t be visible to the naked eye or any other for that matter. When she spoke again her voice came in a very controlled neutral tone. “If you don’t mind me asking,” she said — an expression that was usually employed by people who knew they were about to ask a very personal question — and pointed at the stack of papers in his hand, “that cruise, have you been? Is it a good place to meet people?”

Aziraphale looked down at his hands and the stack of mail he was holding. Indeed, at the very top was a flyer for a cruise. They must have sent him another one, after he’d confirmed his booking.

“I’m afraid I don’t know… yet,” he said carefully. “Why do you ask — if you don’t mind me asking?” He couldn’t quite resist the sharp arch of his eyebrows or the teasing undertone in his voice, while he pointedly held the mentioned flyer aloft. “You don’t seem quite the right… audience for this one.” It was advertising a singles cruise geared toward gay men over 30, after all, as the flyer proudly stated right there near the top in bold bright letters.

“I rather hope I don’t.” Mrs Device’s answering laugh was bright and musical. It matched the image he’d always had of her: a bright young thing, who knew exactly what she wanted, wasn’t shy about it either and would pursue her goals until reached. “I’m asking for— a friend. A friend who’d likely fight me tooth and nail if I suggested he’d go to any kind of singles’ event.”

The way she said ‘friend’ suggested… Mr Crowley? Aziraphale hadn’t seen him accompanied by anyone other than Mrs Device or her partner when he wasn’t working in the café. Not since he moved in with Mrs Device, at any rate. But single — an intelligent, beautiful, charming man like that? Seemed unlikely.

“Take the flyer, I’ve already booked,” Aziraphale said then, suddenly taken with the image of Mr Crowley standing on deck, the wind making his hair fly as he leaned against the railing and one of his outrageously captivating smiles on his face. Looking back at him. A self-deprecating little huff, halfway between snort and exhalation, escaped Aziraphale.

“This one is just a short five-night cruise, going to the extraordinarily exotic cities of Brussels and Hamburg. But I know they offer cruises to more exciting places.” Places with beaches that were undoubtedly picturesque and interesting to explore if you didn’t mind the loud parties and scantily clad bodies sweating and dancing — more like lewdly rubbing against each other — left and right. Something that might be a bit more interesting to a man like Mr Crowley.

“Thank you,” Mrs Device said, pocketing the flyer. That strange expression on her face got more intense as she watched him for a moment, before it gentled again, and she let her smile spread. It made Aziraphale feel a little like an insect under a microscope.

Aziraphale cleared his throat. “Well, I had better let you go.” He stepped aside to let Mrs Device pass. “Have a good evening, Mrs Device.”

“You, too, Mr Fell,” she said, looking at him for just one moment more before she continued on her way down the stairs to her shop.

Before Aziraphale had even gone two steps, her lilting voice travelled up to him once more. “And I wish you a very pleasant cruise.”