#but I don’t like the idea of butchering stuff up unless its America | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

megglesthegeek · 4 years ago

Text

Merry Christmas! (But I think I’ll skip this one this year)

For @jukeboxomens Song event.

Rating: T

Word count: 14223

AO3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28081347/chapters/68800308

Summery: Human AU. Aziraphale Fell and Anthony Crowley met on a flight from New York to London and were instantly smitten with one another. But busy schedules, as well as plain stupidity, lead them to some hit and miss encounters that always feel a bit too long in between. As the calendar moves along, both begin to wonder if maybe it all means it just won't work out. At least, that's what they think until the hit December. A sort of songfic based on "Christmas Wrapping"

January

Aziraphale Fell sat in his business class seat heading back from New York to London and sighed. His publishers in America were always a little more daunting to deal with than the ones back in the UK, but he couldn’t deny that being in person to discuss the movie rights to his book series was the smart move. After all, he may have lost nearly all his creative control if he hadn’t. Goodness knows what sort of butchering would have happened to his story if he hadn’t been there to amend that yes, he did want to be part of the scriptwriting process, thank you.

But it was done, and a bonus was being able to do a few book signings while he was in town and getting to meet his fans. He was terrible at social media, typically allowing his assistant Anathema to help him with it. Rarely did he ever post something directly. Gabriel had insisted it was absolutely necessary to have a “presence”, otherwise, he’d not bother. So these encounters had meant something to the people who read his books, and more so he got to hear from them directly.

The encounters from just earlier in the day were still warming his soul as he peeked out the window at the tarmac, watching as the people on the ground below went about their pre-flight work while they continued the boarding process.

There was a shuffling to his right, and he half expected to look up and see a flight attendant, but instead, he saw a tall, thin man with red hair and sunglasses putting his bag in the overhead compartment.

Without meaning to, Aziraphale traced the man’s figure with his eyes. Lean, so painfully lean, legs for days. Not hard to look at in the least. Then he forced himself to look away and back out the window at something safe.

“Sorry, mate,” the man said as he dropped into the seat next to Aziraphale’s. “‘Magine you were hoping to get by without a seatmate.”

“It’s no trouble at all, I assure you. Plenty of room.” Aziraphale smiled as he turned back to the man and good lord he was not prepared for the cheekbones. Or the golden-brown eyes. Or the devastating half-smile.

“Still, no one really shells out this sorta money to spend eight-odd hours next to a stranger.”

“Well, if I had been that adamant on not having a seat partner, I would have ensured I had booked one of those,” He said, indicating the middle row where single seats were located. “But it’s never particularly bothered me.”

“For the best then.” The man replied, giving a more toothy grin this time before offering his hand. “Anthony Crowley, last-minute flight booker.”

“Aziraphale Fell,” he said as he took Anthony’s hand and shook it. “You’re heading… home?” He wagered, taking Anthony’s accent into consideration.

“Yeah, can’t bloody wait, either. I love New York, but I hate America you know what I mean?” He asked with a wrinkle of his brow.

“I believe I do,” Aziraphale replied as the flight attendant went about closing the overhead bins. “New York, while it does have its flaws, almost feels like it’s an entirely different world. Especially when one goes into Central Park.”

“Bloody baffling, right? You almost can’t hear the city depending on where you are. Get in the right spots, no tourists, just the trees and the grass and the pigeons and you’d never even know.”

Aziraphale hummed in agreement, nodding, noting Anthony buckling his seatbelt without being prompted.

He didn’t really sit back in the chair. Aziraphale wasn’t sure if what Anthony was doing could be called sitting, but he was at least in the chair, buckled, legs out of the aisle.

“So were you in the city long?” Anthony asked.

“Oh, no, just a few days on business.”

“Oh?”

“Yes, I’m an author. I was meeting with some of the folks here to discuss plans for future projects. What about you?”

“Oh, I’m a musician. Part of a band, not in the spotlight directly, yeah? I was here to help write a song with someone else.”

“You came all the way to New York to write a song?” Aziraphale asked as the flight attendant came back through, peeking in to make sure everyone was buckled.

“Well,” Anthony stretched out the word. “I was in LA originally, finishing up some stuff with my band when I got the call. Buddy I was working with is a friend so I thought I would pop over. Rest of them are already back in London far as I know.”

“Oh, well, staying behind, helping a friend instead of going home, that was very kind of you.”

“Shut up,” Anthony groaned, blushing all the same.

Aziraphale was completely and utterly charmed. It had been a long time since he looked at a man and found him magnetic, someone terribly difficult to look away from. Anthony Crowley utterly gorgeous, and on top of it he seemed a rather nice person. Aziraphale couldn’t be absolutely sure, but there seemed to signs that Anthony was of the same persuasion as Aziraphale. Certainly not at all in the same league, but it meant that he didn’t have to worry about a sudden cold shoulder when his quirks and mannerisms gave him away.

The pilot came over the speaker, announcing their pending departure, and Anthony partly straightened in his seat. He stuck his hand in his pocket, withdrawing from it a pack of gum. He took out a couple of sticks, then turned to Aziraphale.

“Want one? For the…?” He scrunched his face, gesturing to his ears with his free hand.

“Oh, no thank you,” Aziraphale decline with a smile.

Anthony swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing. “Right,” He said as if partly in a daze then turning abruptly away. Shyly, he said, “I, um, I never got used to it, ya know? The whole ear popping thing. Been doing this for something like fifteen years and I still can’t find a way to get’em to pop besides this.”

“I’ve always just made a swallowing motion,” Aziraphale said as Anthony began to unwrap one of the sticks of gum.

He fumbled it on his lap while making a sound in his throat that sounded vaguely like they were made of consonants of the English language but no real words.

Aziraphale pursed his lips to stop himself from laughing, though he was sure he didn’t do well to hide his amusement altogether.

“So,” Anthony began, his voice pitching a little high before he cleared his throat, “Author. What sorta books do you write?” Anthony asked, adjusting his position so he was turned slightly more toward Aziraphale and very much gave off the air of “cool”. He popped the unwrapped stick of gum in his mouth and began to chew as the plane began to taxi.

Aziraphale felt suddenly flushed. “Oh, well. Umm, you see… I write, umm, fantasy novels. Nothing, nothing too… I’m no Tolkien, that’s for sure. But there’s, you know… magic. Fantastical creatures. Sword fights.”

“Anything I might’ve heard of? Not a big reader, mind, so if I haven’t don’t take that as a marker of any sort of renowned.”

Aziraphale swallowed. “Well, it’s the, umm… well the main character’s Landon, and his friend is umm… Artemis, and-“

“Oh my god, you’re A.Z. Fell.” Anthony interrupted him, eyes wide and jaw dropped. “Listen, mate, I don’t read. When I say I’m not a reader, I’m serious. Books, unless it’s something in my field - a biography or something - I don’t tend to pick it up. If I want a fantasy world I put on a film. But I have listened to the audiobooks of your stuff, and it’s bloody brilliant. That gets made into a movie I’ll be first in line to see it. Hell, I’ll probably try to convince the band to try and get on the soundtrack.”

“Ah,” Aziraphale grinned. “Funny you should say that.”

~C~

Three hours into the flight from New York to London and Crowley knew he was in love.

He’d had moments similar to these in the past, meeting a random stranger and finding himself utterly enamored with them while making small talk in an airport, at a bar, wherever they may be. A pretty face with a bit of intrigue behind it, and he could probably churn out a song when he thought back to it.

It never stuck, of course. Half the time he might get their number, only to either be ghosted or find the luster had worn off and he’d move on. He avoided saying he was the guitarist of The Demons, knowing full well it would mean they would look at him differently. These little flights of fancy never led to the reveal of his minor fame. And since he wasn’t usually the main focus of albums, photographs, and all that he could get away with it.

But this was so very different. Because Aziraphale was so very different.

By this point on a flight, Crowley usually had his earbuds in, either watching some movie he’d seen a dozen times or listening to something and drift off. But he couldn’t bear the idea of not talking to Aziraphale.

He was just so bloody interesting.

The man had inherited a bookshop that had been in his family for generations, dating back to the 1800s. And while he did carry plenty of new, modern titles and sold those with ease and relish there was a case in the back of repaired tomes and first editions that Aziraphale wouldn’t part with if he could help it. Half of them had apparently been repaired by his grandfather or father, and he had far too much sentimental attachment to them to let them go. And while he would never host a book signing at his own shop, his was the only place in all of London that had signed editions of all his work.

Where Crowley wasn’t a big reader, Aziraphale wasn’t a fan of most modern music though he heard it often enough pumped through the speakers of the shop. He had heard of his band and was fairly sure that he had heard the music but couldn’t say for certain. Same with film and most television, Aziraphale had heard of it, was exposed to it now and then, but tended to stick to the classics he was fond of and familiar with.

“Except for The Lord of the Rings ,” he’d confessed to Crowley as the two ate from their fruit, cheese, and cracker tray, glasses of wine at their sides. “I must confess I was eager to see each and every film when they were released and did so in the theater no less.”

“And did you munch popcorn?” Crowley asked before popping a grape in his mouth.

“No,” Aziraphale scoffed. “I’m not afraid to admit I’m a bit of a snob when it comes to food.”

Crowley looked from him to the tray with an arched brow, and the bastard rolled his eyes.

“I’m not saying this is any sort of haute cuisine, but it’s also some of the only food I’ll have for another five hours. Though I must admit I would hate to see what they’re serving back in economy.”

“Yeah,” Crowley agreed, taking a sip of his wine. “Suppose this isn’t so bad. So what will you do when you get back?”

“Probably begin another book,” Aziraphale admitted. “At least until they get me a script to look over, work with. I imagine my agent will likely try and sell more of them now. But either way, I foresee many hours of work on my laptop. To which my assistant will try and convince me needs an update. What about you?”

“Oh, easily we’ll be recording and promoting,” Crowley replied. “We won’t tour until next year, I’m sure. Just a few smaller gigs throughout the year, slowly starting to unveil songs and such. Be busy, but I’ll get to sleep in my own bed at the end of it.”

Yell at his plants, but he wasn’t about to tell Aziraphale that.

“It sounds lovely,” Aziraphale commented. “What more do you miss about London aside from your bed?”

“Ooooh,” be blew a breath out of pursed lips, looking at the ceiling of the plane. “St James Park. Love walking about there. And maybe this little bar not far from my place where I like to get a quiet drink.”

“I’m a big fan of St James Park myself,” Aziraphale said before taking a sip of his wine. “I frequently go to feed the ducks. Helps work out my writer’s block.”

“Same. When I’m writing. Most times I go just to feed the ducks. Usually… toss a few peas down, then chuck the next few bits towards some unsuspecting picnickers. Gets the ducks to sorta bug them for a bit.”

“You’re quite the mischief-maker,” Aziraphale said with a smirk that would have made Crowley’s knees buckle had he been standing.

As it was, he had to shift a bit in his seat.

“Can be.” He agreed.

By the time the flight landed it was dark out, Crowley was exhausted but so utterly happy. He’d spent the whole time talking with Aziraphale and was walking off the plane without his heart, having decided to give it the cherubic, old-timey professor sorta man he just happened to sit next to by chance.

“Well,” Aziraphale said as they grabbed their luggage from baggage claim. “It was lovely to meet you.” He offered Crowley his hand.

Crowley beamed, taking it, clasping the wonderful warmth of it and shaking. “You too.” He said, someone calling Aziraphale’s name causing the men to look over.

“Ah,” He said as a gorgeous, witchy looking woman smiled and waved him over. “That would be my lift. I probably shouldn’t keep her.”

“Yeah, right, gotta… get my car.” Crowley stuttered. “So umm, yeah….”

Aziraphale gave him another one of those grins, then wheeled his tartan suitcase toward where the woman was waiting just on the other side of the security line.

Crowley watched him the whole time, and was pleased as punch when Aziraphale turned and gave him a little wave when he spotted him still looking.

Crowley then began to make his way out of the airport to the secure parking facility where the Bentley had been kept while he was away.

He was nearly there when it hit him like a ton of bricks that he never asked for Aziraphale’s number.

“Fuck,” He said rather too loudly, earning him a glare from a well-to-do looking woman. He gave her a sarcastic grin then moved with a bit more purpose to where the Bentley was waiting, wondering what the chances were that he would find Aziraphale’s number in the directory, or what bookshop he actually owned.

February

“Well you’re a bloody idiot, aren’t you?” Bea said, smacking Crowley upside the head with their drumstick.

He lifted his face from his hands long enough to glare at his petite band member before reburying them. He felt a hand on his back, knowing it was Hastur’s, and braced himself for what was coming.

“Don’t feel too terrible. At least you didn’t-“

“Tell the story of how you told Scarlet Johanson to fuck off again, and I swear, Hastur, we will all murder you gladly.” Ligur interrupted, saving Crowley from hearing the tale for at least the dozenth time. “And I doubt very much she had wanted your number anyway.”

“Yeah, well, I wanted his number. Bloody hell he was fucking gorgeous.”

“So why don’t you call the publishing house and ask for his contact info?” Bea asked, and Crowley dropped his hands to look at them as though they had spoken a completely different language.

“Right, yes, of course. I should just call them up. Right, yes, excuse me, just looking for the contact information of one A.Z. Fell. Wondering if you might help me with my inquiries.” He mocked in return.

“Throw your name around.” Bea shrugged.

“Yes, my name. As the guitarist of The Demons, I would be widely known by name outside the music industry. I’m sure they’ll drop everything as quick as they would for ol’ Ligur here.” He gestured off to the side.

“Well, what good is celebrity if you don’t use it to your advantage?” Bea asked. “Where’s this bookstore he has. It’s never mentioned in his bio. Then again, it’s a half-faced picture and he goes by A.Z..”

“I don’t know. You’d think I’d have been smart enough to ask where in London his little bookshop is, but I didn’t because I’m a bloody genius.”

“Well, suppose it doesn’t matter now, does it?” Bea said in their stoic way. “You’ll either find him or you won’t. But not in time for the Brit Awards, so figure out who you’re taking so we can call Tracy and let her know already.”

~A~

“Oh,” Aziraphale said as he caught sight of a very familiar face on Anathema’s television. “I guess he’s gay after all.”

Anathema looked from him to the TV just as they showed Anthony with a half-smile, a rather handsome looking man with his hand in his.

“Tabloids said they broke up.” Anathema commented in a “huh” sort of tone, and Aziraphale couldn’t help gaping at her. She watched the TV for a moment, narrowing her eyes before shrugging and going back to the magazine she was flipping through while they waited for the actual award show to begin.

For reasons Aziraphale couldn’t fathom, Anathema had managed to convince a few of the people from the publishing firm to bet on various awards given out, and she insisted Aziraphale join her with his laptop and a bottle of wine so they could toast all of her victories. Apparently there enough people who hadn’t known of her talent for predicting outcomes with uncanny results.

He had had every intention of writing on his latest draft, but it seemed now Aziraphale would find his eyes focused on the television more often than not in order to glimpse a look at the beautiful stranger he met on a plane.

“Who’s he with?” He asked Anathema.

She didn’t even look up from her magazine. “He’s with an actor he was dating last year. Not anyone too well known, was pretty sure he was only using that guy to get ahead but it didn’t work.”

Aziraphale felt a pang of pity at the idea of Anthony being used in such a way. That someone would only ever consider dating him to advance their own career. If he’d had the chance, he would….

But it didn’t really matter, did it? No, he mucked that up well, hadn’t he? Not even asking for an email or a phone number. And anyway, it probably didn’t matter. Anthony Crowley probably walked away from the flight with a fun story about meeting an author he liked, getting some insider information, and likely would

April

The flat in Mayfair was starting to feel stifling. It was still sparse and mostly utilitarian, but after a week inside, writing, recording a few demos to get back to Ligur and the others, Crowley was beginning to feel caged in.

Ligur’s voice was something else, smooth and beautiful, deep in a sensual way, easily what anyone would call tempting. Bea was the sort of drummer many strived to be. Hastur…. Well, Hastur had never broken a string to Crowley’s knowledge, and that was something he supposed.

But none of that would matter if there wasn’t a killer song for them to apply their talents to, and that’s where Crowley really came in. Because unlike the others, Crowley had an imagination. He didn’t need to be angry to write a song that expressed that rage. He didn’t need to be in pain to supply an adequate amount of angst. And he’d never been in love, not properly, and yet they could top charts with their love songs. He had a vast amount of songwriting awards in his office to prove it.

And yet. Yet. Being in love with someone he hadn’t seen in literally three months (two at a stretch, they did meet at the end of January) was beginning to provide some heavily romantic and very angsty material that The Demons didn’t want anything to do with. It was, however, selling to other musicians spectacularly well.

Which meant, of course, that there were so many people wanting him to fly here or there to help them with this album and that. The offers were bountiful, and since Bea and Ligur were currently bickering about bringing Dagon on as a full-time member of the band again, there wasn’t anything getting done within The Demons.

And if Hastur asked one more time if Crowley wanted to get together for a drink, maybe a jam, Crowley may damn well lose his mind.

Still, did he really want to go out of town again, and nearly all of the best offers for co-writing was across the pond. He liked London. He liked England. But the money would be really good, and he could work out some of these excess feelings through lyrics and melody.

He needed to get some air, for a walk, clear his mind so he could possibly make a bloody decision and get back to Tracy with a decisive answer as to where he was going to be for the next few weeks, if not longer.

Grabbing his jacket, putting on his sunglasses, slipping on his snake-skin boots, and Crowley glared in warning to his plants before heading out the door.

He hadn’t been at all surprised when his feet led him to St James Park. Admittedly since that encounter in January, he’d taken to walking there almost exclusively. Once in a while, he would wander into Hyde Park for a change, but he constantly worried that maybe that was the one time the person he wanted to see the most was feeding the ducks somewhere else.

The crowds were thin, the dark clouds above threatening to open up at any moment and unleash a down power on unsuspecting tourists. He wasn’t really any more prepared for the possible deluge himself, but it was always a bit funnier to watch people with the big, expensive cameras and their fanny packs go fleeing. As if they hadn’t realized they’d chosen one of the rainiest places in the world to pay a visit to.

Crowley weaved his way along the path, fingers in the pockets of his denim and a swagger to his hips that he really couldn’t control, something that fit when he looked more like the rock star he rightfully was. Though strangers who saw him would likely not know what to make of him. He hadn’t done anything with his hair so it hung a bit flat against his head, and he hadn’t shaved in a couple of days which allowed a nice layer of growth to form on his face meaning that even the biggest fans of the band likely wouldn’t pick him out of a crowd.

He probably should have done something before he left.

Crowley made his way toward the duck pond, prepared to watch the little bastards as they bothered some unsuspecting fool when he stopped so suddenly he nearly fell on his face.

Aziraphale.

Aziraphale was standing exactly where Crowley tended to go, still looking exactly like some stereotypical processor without the elbow guards on the sleeves of his beige morning coat. He was wearing a waistcoat, as well, paired with a tartan bow tie. His trousers were a shade of color between the coat and the waistcoat, making the blue collared shirt a pop of color in the monochrome. He gripped the handle of a white umbrella as one would a cane, both hands resting on it making him look that much more dapper.

No one had the right to look that gorgeous while also being completely ridiculous and Crowley very nearly took out his phone to snap a photo of him just in case he would never catch a glimpse of the man again. But that was something paparazzi-like, and Crowley couldn’t bring himself to stoop to that sort of low.

He recalled how he looked, and very nearly turned around and went back to his flat so he could at least look somewhat like the successful man he was. Lucky for him, some higher function he could thank later had his feet moving forward with more confidence than he’d ever recalled faking before, ensuring he wouldn’t let the chance of Aziraphale slipping away happen.

As he neared the Aziraphale, the blonde man glanced up, then did a double-take before his eyes positively lit up and a smile graced his lips.

“Anthony.” He said with utter delight.

Crowley’s knees buckled a bit.

“‘Lo,” He grinned back. “Fancy running into you here.”

“Yes, quite,” Aziraphale replied. “And how’ve you been?”

“Oh, you know,” Crowley replied vaguely, shrugging one shoulder. “Working. Pretty much always working, really. You?”

“I’ve been well, thank you,” Aziraphale replied, the smile no longer reaching his eyes. “I, umm, saw you on television back in February. Congratulations on your awards, you must be proud.”

Crowley blushed but shrugged. “Yeah, guess.”

“Your partner looked very happy for you, anyway,” Aziraphale added, and Crowley narrowed his eyes at him a moment, trying to figure out what the deuce he was on about. “The, umm, the fellow there. That you went with, I’m afraid I don’t recall his name.”

“Oh, John!” Crowley half yelled, startling a few of the waterfowl nearby. “Oh, yeah, no he’s not… he’s not my partner. I mean he was, once, but we broke up last year. I just asked him to go with me then. See, Ligur always brings his wife, and Hastur tends to bring a friend of his. Bea and Dagon have been going together since … fuck, I can’t even remember. Since she first started touring with us? I just didn’t want to go alone, ya know?”

“I suppose it is rather lonely, otherwise.” Aziraphale bowed his head, looking at his hands where he gripped the umbrella.

“Take it there aren’t any sorta literary award shows where you would ask a former flame to tag along?”

“Not so much, no,” Aziraphale replied with a half grin that went nowhere near his eyes. “And if there were, I’m afraid I wouldn’t have a former partner I could ask. The ones I parted with amicably all have new partners now, and those I didn’t… well, why in Heaven’s name would I ask someone I didn’t part on good terms with to something like that?”

“No, guess not.” Crowley replied, trying his best not to remember the screaming fight that had ended with John storming out of the Mayfair flat, the smashed potted plant on the floor that was the victim of one of his great, dramatic fits, and the vow Crowley made to himself never to date an actor again. “So, no former flames. Are you… seeing anyone now?”

That went, to Crowley’s mind, about a smooth as a pumice stone, but he couldn’t rightly think of a better way of approaching the subject. Award-winning lyricist praised for the way he could string words together in a poignant and eloquent way, and he stumbles on the most basic question.

He watched as Aziraphale’s eye crinkled ever so slightly, and a wicked smirk curled his lips.

“As a matter of fact, I am not. I’ve actually come from what was easily the worst date I’ve had in ages.”

Crowley blinked, then looked at his watch. “It’s bloody eleven o’clock in the morning on a Tuesday.”

“Yes, I’m aware. He’s a friend of my agent, I mostly did it as a favor to him. The man was persistent to the point of obsession. I had thought if I told him the only time I was available was early on a weekday morning then he would have to back down. Sadly, he agreed.”

“No chance for the poor sap, eh?”

“Oh, none,” Aziraphale said emphatically. “I’d met him at writer’s convention last year, though he is neither writer nor agent. He merely wanted to be there for the sake of it, though I can’t understand why. He’d been hounding Gabriel - my agent - ever since, though I had never had an interest. I still don’t, and to be frank, am even less willing to see him again. I had Anathema call me to fake an emergency.”

“Ha!” Crowley barked, “what emergency happens that early in the morning?”

“A problem with the register at the shop. Which is next to impossible, because the thing is an antique. My assistant manager, bless him, is inept with modern technology. While updating the system would certainly make things easier, I would hate to see what sort of damage he can do.”

“Quite right,” Crowley grinned. “So,” Crowley said a bit too loudly, earning a disgruntled quack from a mallard that he ignored. “Bad date. Not doing anything or seeing anyone. I’m not doing anything or seeing someone. Perhaps….”

“Yes?” Aziraphale smirked knowingly.

“Could I tempt you to a spot of lunch?” Crowley asked.

Aziraphale’s smirk turned into a smile.

“Temptation accomplished.”

~A~

The pub they went to was the sort that served a proper English fish and chips and a pint that somehow paired well with the food without trying. In a corner booth near the back, Aziraphale and Crowley ( “Please call my Crowley, no one ever calls me Anthony.”) carried on as though they’d been friends for years and not a pair of men that met exactly one other time.

They talked about everything and nothing, a pint with lunch becoming two or three more heading into dinner. Around them, the crowd waned and grew once more until their server came by and pointedly gave them their bills. She did so with a knowing smirk so reminiscent of Anathema Aziraphale was starkly reminded that he hadn’t done a single bit of work - writing or at the shop - all day.

“Oh,” he said as he looked at the slip of paper. “I suppose I really should be getting on. I’ve been rather neglectful of my duties.” He added with a quick upturn of his lips.”

“Shit, suppose you probably wanted to get some writing done.”

“Oh, it’s no bother at all,” Aziraphale waved Crowley’s concern off. “I’ll go and let Newton and Alice head home, close up, do some writing this evening if I can.”

“Is it far from the shop to your home?” Crowley asked as the two of them stood, each moving slowly to the bar to pay their tab.

“No, it’s right above the shop.” Aziraphale grinned. “It’s a bit small, only one room, really. But I’m rather fond of it. Admittedly it looks almost like an extension of the shop, what with all the bookcases and their wares. But they were some of the original cases from when the shop first opened, and while I did have to modernize it for safety reasons, I simply couldn’t part with some of the better ones.”

“A one-room flat above your shop?” Crowley asked as the bartender took their pound notes and bills to ring them through. Once they were given the wave that they could leave, they meandered to the doors. “I mean, I know it’s not really my business, but you’re a best selling author. There’s bloody merchandise for your novels. You mean to tell me you don’t make enough to afford something a little more grander? Or is it a choice, or you need to live there for trust reasons?”

“Ah,” Aziraphale blushed even though he had nothing to be embarrassed about.

They emerged out on the sidewalk, concrete beneath their feet stained darker from the earlier rain that mercifully had already stopped. Aziraphale looked up and down the road for no reason at all, then down at the handle of his umbrella.

“You see, yes. I suppose… I would have made that much over the years. The thing is, though, I uh… well the money. Most of I … I give it away.”

Crowley blinked.

“Sorry, you what?”

“I give it away,” Aziraphale said with a shrug. “I kept a good chunk, don’t get me wrong. Enough to ensure I would live comfortably if I never wrote another book again or even sold the shop. But I don’t need big and fancy. I pay my employees more than a fair wage, Anathema included. The rest? I give to charities. Anonymously, of course, I would hate for it to get out on the internet that I donate as much as I do, I would rather not draw the attention. But yes, I … give it away.”

Crowley stared at him with something like awe, his sunglasses had come off when they were inside and had yet to be replaced. It made Aziraphale shift his weight from one foot to the other, want to look anywhere else but at the beautiful man who seemed entirely focused on him.

“Please don’t look at me like that,” He asked with a sideways glance at Crowley.

“Like what?” Crowley blinked, shaking his head subtly. “Sorry, you’re just so bloody selfless. Give it away? I know people with three houses because it never occurs to them that maybe they don’t need it. Damn angel, you are.”

“Oh please,” Aziraphale rolled his eyes but really couldn’t help but smile from the warmth that surged through him. “Much as I hate to-“

“Let me walk you,” Crowley offered, gesturing for Aziraphale to lead the way.

Aziraphale turned toward the shop, leading Crowley through the streets in silence at first.

“So,” He started. “What’s next for you, did you say?”

“Not sure.” Crowley sighed. “Still trying to debate if I want to go write with others or not for a while.”

“Right,” Aziraphale nodded, suppressing the need to tell Crowley he wished he wouldn’t go anywhere simply because he had no reason to say that. They weren’t together, they weren’t even friends, not properly.

“But, I mean, even if I travel I could… call you?” Crowley offered uncertainly.

Aziraphale stopped and looked at him, eyes a bit too wide. “Oh, really?”

Crowley shrugged. “Why not?” Then smacking himself, yelled, “phone number!”

A woman passing them on the street looked at Crowley with uneasiness before hurrying along.

“What?” Aziraphale asked him.

“Phone number. Mine, let me, yeah, I could… give it. To you, that is… if you want it.”

Tension Aziraphale hadn’t realized was building suddenly left his body, and he grinned rather bashfully. “I’d like that. Perhaps I could give you mine as well.”

Crowley took his mobile from his pocket so quick he nearly dropped it, fumbling with it as he did. After a few moments of his long fingers dancing around the screen, he handed it back to Aziraphale. “Just... Yeah.” He said, gesturing to it before attempting to stuff his hands in his pockets, and looked anywhere but at Aziraphale.

Once his contact information was given, Crowley took his phone and they continued walking in silence. It was only a little awkward, but if Aziraphale was honest with himself he could admit he wouldn’t have known what to say if he tried. Oh, he could have his hero give a declaration of love that had readers sighing wistfully, that he was told many times over could be felt deep in their soul. Talking to a beautiful man whom he fancied quite a bit in real life, however, was next to impossible.

So they spent that walk back to the shop subtly stealing glances at one another and blushing and smiling when they were caught.

Once at the little shop at the corner, Crowley looked up, and his jaw dropped.

“Seriously?” He asked, pointing up at the simply gold lettering above the shop.

Aziraphale grinned. “Now, I’ll have you know that A.Z. Fell - that would be Andrew Zachery Fell - was the original owner of the shop in the eighteen hundreds. The name remained, but for obvious reasons, the number isn’t listed as such in the phone book. It’s simply Fell and Co’s Books and Sundry.”

Crowley giggled, shaking his head. “Suppose that’s why it hadn’t popped up when I Googled you.”

“Precisely.” Aziraphale agreed. “So, perhaps we can do this again sometime? Perhaps… soon?”

“Yeah,” Crowley replied. “Yeah, definitely.”

Aziraphale smiled once more, then waved, going up the steps and entering the well-lit shop.

“Date went well then?” Newton greeted him with a hopeful smile.

Aziraphale glanced out the window, catching a glimpse of Crowley as he walked down the sidewalk away from the shop.

“I suppose that depends on which man I consider my proper date.” He replied. While Newton stammered, he added, “Go home, Mr. Pulsifer. I’ll take it from here.”

Newton knew better to argue, so he didn’t.

And Aziraphale spent the last hour of the shop’s opening hours forming a dashing hero with red hair and golden eyes in his mind, not the least bit ashamed of where the inspiration sprung from.

June

They, of course, would not do lunch or anything even close to it for a while.

Crowley had indeed gone off to various places to work for a while, which limited them to random phone or video calls, as well as equally unpredictable text conversations since April.

And, of course, among these many random and unpredictable conversations, the topic of whether or not the lunch they did have was a date had never come up.

Aziraphale was fairly certain it wasn’t.

He had no doubt that Crowley had some interest in him, though how or why he couldn’t fathom.

He certainly had an interest in him, but who wouldn’t. Crowley was so aesthetically pleasing anyone would be hard-pressed not to take a second look at him. But Aziraphale had also gotten to know the man behind the lovely face, and that man was so wonderful. Clever, witty, charming, playing at being cool when he was very much not.

Aziraphale had given Crowley his heart without even having realized he’d done so.

But feelings and their reciprocation did not mean their singular outing was a date. And it certainly seemed to mean that they were going to talk about it.

Instead, they chatted about anything else.

“I hate coffee here,” Crowley complained over video, grimacing as he took a sip from a paper takeaway cup. “Realize we’re not known for our coffee, but we do it better than they do here.”

“I’ll take your word for it,” Aziraphale replied, holding his phone a decent distance away from his face so it would capture him entirely. He took a sip of his wine and smirked as Crowley rolled his eyes.

“You’re the epitome of British, you know that?” He said fondly despite the scowl he tried to wear. “Surprised you don’t lift your pinky when you take a drink.”

“Only if the cup is dainty enough,” Aziraphale replied. “I just could never quite find a way to enjoy coffee. It’s far too bitter.”

“Says the man who’s likely drinking the driest of red wines available to him.” Crowley countered, his lips ticking up ever so slightly.

“Well, I have standards,” Aziraphale replied with a smirk. “How’s the work going, then?”

“Awful. She’s a bloody diva.” Crowley replied, seemingly not caring an iota if anyone heard him. “And she can’t properly sing, from what I’ve noted. She’s only here so she can say she has songwriting credit, but she contributes nothing and rejects everything. And she smacks gum, just,” He mimicked the sound, and Aziraphale grimaced. “Yeah,” Crowley said wide-eyed, shaking his head a little. “Exactly that.”

“And how old is she again?” Aziraphale asked.

“A few years younger than us. Mid-thirties, I believe. Been around for ages, she was in a group thing for most of it. She either left or was kicked out, I dunno. I don’t rightly care, either, she’s a bloody nightmare.”

“Perhaps she simply wants to feel heard. Probably didn’t get much say in the way things went before.”

Crowley moved his head from side to side, face screwed up in uncertainty. “Maybe.” He assented. “Possibly. I dunno. How’s the rewiring going?”

“Slow,” Aziraphale replied. “Dreadfully, painfully slow,” he took a pointed drink of his wine. “I do realize and appreciate the need for them to maintain the building’s original structure, but this fishing the wiring through the walls is taking forever. I’m glad they at least did my flat first since, as I think I would have absolutely dreaded the prospect, seeing them slowly move their way through the shop day by day.”

“Not sure you complained too much about that week in Paris,” Crowley smirked.

“Would have been much better had I had someone to share it with.” Aziraphale let slip.

Crowley’s features softened, a gentle hope glimmering in his eyes. “’Magine it would have been. Had you anyone in mind?”

“Oh, just this gentleman I’ve only ever seen twice,” Aziraphale replied casually while his heart pounded furiously in his chest. “I imagine there is likely decent coffee in Paris, so I’m sure he’d enjoy himself at least in that regard.”

“Probably wouldn’t mind a museum or two,” Crowley added with his own put-on casualness.

Aziraphale hummed in agreement. “No, I don’t imagine he would.”

After a beat, Crowley said, “Sounds like a right asshole, though, only ever seeing you twice. I’m willing to bet he didn’t even give his number first go, the sorry sod.”

Aziraphale giggled in delight, taking a drink of his wine. “He certainly didn’t.”

“Ah, see, I was right. Asshole, don’t have anything to do with him.” Crowley grinned.

“Oh, I don’t know. I’m sure he has his moments, but overall I think he’s rather nice.”

“Not nice,” Crowley half scowled. “Nice is a four-letter word.”

“Please, you can’t be that offended, can you?” Aziraphale countered with an eye roll.

“You had said something like that to me when someone could hear - like now - but in person, I might’ve had you shoved against a wall and gotten in your face.” He said with utter seriousness.

Aziraphale quirked a brow and barely suppressed a smirk. “Really?”

“Done before,” Crowley replied

“Against a wall and in my face? You’re not really making a case for deterrence. If anything, I might just add on a few other four-letter words -kind, good - just to see what further responses I would solicit from you.”

He watched how even on the small screen of his phone he could see Crowley’s throat work and a slight blush creep up his cheeks.

“You’re something else, let me tell you,” He eventually said. “Do you talk like that to all the men you’ve only really seen once or twice?”

“No, but these are rather special circumstances, aren’t they?” Aziraphale countered, butterflies suddenly springing up in his stomach, fluttering about nervously.

“Yeah,” Crowley smiled. “I think they are, anyway.”

“Crowley,” Someone off-camera said, “she’s ready.”

“Right, be right there,” Crowley told the person before turning back to Aziraphale. “Gotta go.”

“Until next time then,” Aziraphale acknowledged.

“Bye, angel.”

Crowley disappeared from his screen, and Aziraphale dropped his arm down on his lap, sighing heavily as he rested his head on the back of his chair.

Oh, how he hated this. This being rather inconveniently in love with a man he never even really got to properly see in person, had barely in the physical orbit of. He wondered if this is how those who fancy themselves in love with a public figure they’d never met felt. If this deep yearning for something unattainable was more universal than he would have believed before.

The problem was that he knew the man on the other end of the call. He knew Anthony Crowley better than he knew Anathema. Certainly more than he knew Newton.

Draining the remainder of his wine, Aziraphale decided not to dwell on it. He couldn’t change how things were, and it may be that before they encountered one another in person again, Crowley might meet someone else and that will be the end of things.

Rising from his chair, Aziraphale decided a nice, relaxing shower was in order before he turned in to bed and read until he grew tired.

~C~

Why had he agreed to this date?

The bloke was bloody boring. He’d been droning on for the last twenty minutes about a coding language that Crowley had never heard of (not that he had really heard of any) and how it was superior to all other languages.

It wasn’t that Crowley had found the man attractive, though he could admit he wasn’t hard on the eyes. It wasn’t even that the man had asked Crowley on this date directly. But one of the blokes he’d been working with for the last few weeks had mentioned he had a cousin who Crowley might get on with.

Crowley’s immediate instinct had been to say no, and sadly it had nothing to do with the fact that this bloke lived in America and Crowley lived in England. No, he only wanted to say no because of Aziraphale.

Aziraphale who wasn’t actually dating. Aziraphale who Crowley couldn’t say for one-hundred percent certainty returned all the warm fuzzy feelings Crowley got when he spoke to him. Oh, the bastard flirted like no one’s business, often saying or doing things that would make Crowley blush and stammer like an idiot. But it didn’t mean that he actually wanted a romantic connection with Crowley.

So he agreed to this date, which he was now greatly regretting. No amount of good food or great wine was worth enduring this circle of hell, but Crowley hadn’t thought to come up with an escape plan, and just leaving seemed far too rude even for him.

His phone began to vibrate in his pocket just as the bill came by, and Crowley took it out to check the name, hoping to see one of the bandmates or even Tracy so he would have a viable reason to cut out.

Instead, he saw Aziraphale’s.

“Oh,” He said with an appropriate amount of worry, cutting the bloke off mid monotoned rant. “I’m sorry, really, I have to take this. It’s my, umm, landlord back in England.” He said, flashing his phone toward the bloke so he could at least see the foreign number. “I’ll, ah, just take the bill up and pay for the both of us, yeah? It was great meeting you.”

“You too,” The bloke said who didn’t seem to care either way.

It caused Crowley to pause and blink but ultimately just shake his head as he grabbed the bill and headed for the front. He answered the phone as he spotted his waiter, flagging him down. “Hey angel,” He said, the waiter taking the bill and Crowley’s credit card. He pointed to the front, and the waiter nodded.

“Hello,” Aziraphale replied a little shyly. “Why do I have the feeling I’m calling at a rather inconvenient time?”

“Actually, you’re calling at exactly the right time. I think my brain was about to liquefy and drip out my ears. Terrible dinner with a bloke.”

“Oh,” Aziraphale replied, and Crowley tensed at the tone. “Oh, that’s… I’m so sorry.”

“No, please don’t be. I wasn’t interested. It was a thing.” He replied as the waiter came back with the receipt. Crowley signed it, adding a very generous tip before taking his card and waving, heading back out into the warm evening.

“Right,” Aziraphale replied, still sounding uncertain.

The realization of the time had Crowley stopping a little ways away from the restaurant, trying to do the mental math as to what the time would be in London.

“Why are you… is everything alright?” He asked, heart starting to pound in his chest.

“Oh, yes. It is, I just… well, I couldn’t sleep, so I thought perhaps if you weren’t working we could chat. But if you’re in the middle-“

“I’m available,” Crowley assured, making his way down the road to the temporary flat he’d been living in while working here.

“You’re almost finished there, aren’t you?”

“Yeah, but when I get back Ligur wants us in the studio.” Crowley sighed heavily. “Means not a lot of free time.”

“I suppose that lunch would be out of the question then.”

“We can try!” Crowley insisted. “I mean, I had a lot of fun when we did that last time, you know?”

“I do know.” Aziraphale agreed. “And I would love to do it again.”

July

“This wine is fantastic,” Crowley half groaned after taking a sip from his glass.

“Told you,” Aziraphale replied smugly.

Crowley picked up a cheese cube, popped it in his mouth. “You know this is almost like the time we met. Only better nibbles and better wine.”

“I tend to agree.” Aziraphale nodded. “Though-“ He was cut off by a rather loud horn blaring in the background on his end, and he turned to glare at the traffic over his shoulder before turning back to the screen he had propped up somehow on his picnic blanket. “Though I couldn’t be absolutely sure without being able to participate myself. I’ll have to stick to tea.”

“I’m surprised you’re outside, given how hot it tends to get there,” Crowley commented with a frown before popping a grape in his mouth.

Aziraphale lifted his arms to the camera, and Crowley had to suppress a groan at the idea that the man he was pining for having his forearms exposed. It was bad enough that there was no coat, waistcoat, or bow tie. Agony that the top button of Aziraphale’s shirt was undone. Now he was exposing his forearms? Bloody torture, that.

“I realize inside is far more comfortable, given the central air and all, but there’s something to be said for feeling the sun on your face. That, of course, and the fact that the scriptwriters are inside and I would very much like to be where they are not at the moment.”

“That bad, huh?” Crowley asked.

Aziraphale blinked.

“Well, they’re trying to make Meg and Landon a couple, for a start.”

“No!” Crowley snapped. “No, no! No! That jus- no! No, he’s meant to be with Artemis. He and Artemis… the kiss! The kiss that Artemis gives… while he’s sorta… what are they…?”

“One bloke thought it would be best to eliminate it altogether,” Aziraphale said, an icy edge to his voice that Crowley was certain would be a prelude to a murder. “Another thought they should change the speech to make it more buddy-like. A bromance, I believe they called it.”

“Do those idiots even understand that half of the appeal of the story is the fact that the hero has no intention whatsoever of ‘getting the girl’?”

“I would wager not,” Aziraphale replied with a sigh. He ran his hand through his hair (forearms!!) and glanced at the house before looking back to Crowley. “I’ve already spoken to Gabriel, told him this was a complete nightmare. He agreed we need to have a talk with the studio, tell them to either hire new scriptwriters or tell these lot to not take away the biggest selling point of the story.”

“You sound like you need a break,” Crowley said sympathetically.

“I rather do.” Aziraphale agreed, then smiled wistfully. “I regret not being able to spend any time with you before I left.”

“Don’t worry about it, angel. Shit happens.” Crowley replied, telling the ache in his chest to kindly sod off.

He’d been in the studio with the band almost every hour of the day once he’d gotten back from the States. Of course, just as they were finishing up, Aziraphale informed him that he was requested to join the writers across the pond. It seemed weird, but now Crowley understood why.

“When do you head this way next? Soon?”

I’m in New York the first week of August. Maybe… if you’re still there?”

“Given that that’s a week from now, I would say so. If nothing else, I could possibly pop your way for a day or two.”

Crowley beamed. “I look forward to it.”

August

Coney Island was busy, the beach crowded, and yet they were essentially ignored.

“So you’re finally going on a date with this bloke tomorrow?” Bea asked Dagon on the other side of her sitting up from her towel and looking over her lover at Crowley.

“Dunno if you can call it a date,” Crowley grumbled. “His agent got wind that Aziraphale was popping this way and insisted that we go on his big boat thing for the day. So, you know, not much is gonna happen.”

“You’re not having much luck with this guy, are you?” Dagon asked with a frown. “It’s been, what? Eight months of pretty much nothing?”

“We call. And text.” Crowley argued.

“Right,” She said, looking at Bea, the two exchanging a rather loaded look.

“Hey, yeah, alright. It sucks that I haven’t actually physically seen him since April. But he’s clever. He’s clever and gorgeous, and a right bastard and I am quite in love with him.”

“In love with someone you’ve met twice. Yeah, you almost sound like a really rabid fan.”

“Not a rabid fan. I mean, I am a fan of his, but it’s not like that. We actually, you know, talk. Know each other.”

“Crowley,” Bea said flatly. “I’m not saying this to be mean, for once, but I think you gotta chalk this one up to a lost cause. I mean, think of what it was like when Ligur was dating that girl from that band in the beginning before he met Lenore. Their relationship was pretty much just like whatever you got going on with this author, only maybe a bit better because we toured together for a bit.”

“It’s nothing like that,” Crowley assured confidently, laying back on his blanket with his arms tucked behind his head, closing his eyes. “You’ll see, we’re gonna meet up tomorrow, and things will be just great.”

~A~

“Crowley?” Aziraphale questioned when he answered the video call and found no image of Crowley looking back at him.

“Right, please don’t be upset. I can’t make it to the boat thing today.”

Aziraphale frowned. “Did something come up with work?”

“No,” Crowley hesitated. “But, umm… alright, don’t laugh. I’m going to turn my video on.”

“Alright, but I’m not sure why you would need to preface it with that, why would I - Oh good lord!” Aziraphale cut himself off and then promptly pressed his lips together in a herculean effort not to grin, let alone allow the laugh he really wanted to let loose out.

Crowley was red. His face, while still handsome, was very lobster like except around his eyes where he quite obviously had sunglasses.

“Are you alright?” Aziraphale managed to ask with only a minor giggle.

“It hurts to talk,” Crowley admitted. “It hurts to move my mouth at all. The assholes who I call friends and bandmates let me, a bloody ginger, fall asleep without reapplying the sunscreen to my face, and this is what happened.”

“I do hope you don’t have any television,” Aziraphale began to ask, but at the distraught look flashing over Crowley’s features, he giggled. Briefly. Just a little. “Oh my dear, I’m so sorry.”

“It’s tomorrow night.” He said. “Which is why I need to stay here, inside, aloeing, hydrating, just… trying to heal as much as I possibly can before they have to cake me in make up. When do you fly-“

“Tomorrow afternoon, I’m afraid,” Aziraphale said with a sigh, all the good humor at the situation gone at the realization that he wasn’t going to see Crowley as he’d planned. Like this whole weekend trip across the country had been for. “We’ll miss each other again. I suppose I could tell Gabriel I’m unwell? Sneak over to see you?”

“No, please, don’t. I’m not gonna be much company anyway. I’m tired, I keep falling asleep. I purposely set this alarm so I could call you so you wouldn’t wait around for me.”

“That’s very kind of you,” Aziraphale said without much feeling, though he still managed a bit of a smile. “I wonder when we’ll manage to be in the same area again?”

“I don’t know, we’re supposed to be popping up to Canada for a few cities after tomorrow night,” Crowley said dispassionately. He went to rub at his face and hissed, looking at his hand like it had offended him, then turned back to the camera. “I should… I should probably let you go, get ready and all that.”

“If you must,” Aziraphale said. “Until… when?”

“Call me whenever. Send me pictures of today, if you’d like.”

“Right, might do, then,” Aziraphale said. They gave a pair of solemn farewells, and then the call was done.

Aziraphale collapsed on the guest bed in Gabriel’s home and looked at his phone despite the screen being blank.

It hadn’t escaped his notice that in the eight months since he’d met Crowley, he’d only been in the man’s physical presence twice. They may talk nearly every single day, and speak on video as often as possible, but it seemed like a rather cruel twist of fate that their paths never seemed to cross. It had been easily the dozenth time since April their plans fell through, or had to change. Lunches, dinners, simple outings, all of it was held up for one reason or another. A schedule change, an unexpected cold, meetings that went on longer than expected. It was as though some higher power didn’t want them together. Fate put them together on the plane, reuniting them in St James Park, and ensuring that they would remain out of reach from one another.

He couldn’t keep doing this to himself. Aziraphale knew that if this kept going on for too long he would regret it. Being hopelessly attached to someone you couldn’t have never ended well. One more chance. Three at a stretch, and then he would call the whole possibility of anything more than friendship with Crowley a wash.

With one last wistful sigh, he got up from the bed to seek out Gabriel and infor

October

September had brought with it a busy time for both. Aziraphale frankly couldn’t tell anyone what Crowley was up to for they barely did much more than send the occasional message.

Gabriel had decided that it would be absolutely imperative that Aziraphale have a book ready for release when it was announced there would be a film based on his work, and another one ready to go around the time the movie was released. Which would have been something Aziraphale would have readily agreed with had he any idea, any clue whatsoever what was supposed to come next.

It was bad enough trying to figure out a plot or three, trying to twist his current draft into something that allowed for another few storylines. But trying to focus became worse when he discovered he’d missed Crowley in the shop not once, not twice, but three times in September.

“I would almost think you’re avoiding me,” Crowley said over the phone. Not even a video call because Aziraphale had wanted to work while he conversed.

“Hardly,” Aziraphale replied. “Though I could say the same. What is this now, two skipped lunches?”

“I have to meet with my manager. She’s lovely, I adore her, and normally she would be chomping at the bit to let me go out with someone I like, but with Ligur and Bea fighting so much… she wants these meetings more and more with her as a whole until whatever is going on blows over.”

“I understand, dear boy. Hardly like I haven’t had to reschedule because of my agent.”

“I know,” Crowley said mournfully, and Aziraphale tensed. “This… we haven’t… it’s been months.”

“I know,” it was Aziraphale’s turn to say, though it came out more of a whisper. He said it somewhere between acknowledgment and a plea. Understanding that this, whatever t was, wasn’t going anywhere. And a plea that despite his own quiet ponderings Crowley wouldn’t give in.

“So,” Crowley began, a bit of hope in his tone. “There’s this bloke who does a radio show here in London who has the best Halloween party ever. I have a thing I need to do around Canary Wharf earlier in the day. But, thought maybe you might wanna be my plus one. Have anything on the go?”

“No, not that I’m aware of. I can certainly make a point to take some time off. Will there be a costume require?”

“Yeah, ‘course,” Crowley replied. “Nothing too fancy, though. You don’t need to go all out. Slap some wings, grab a halo, dress like you normally do, and call yourself an angel.”

“I think it would require a bit more than that.” Aziraphale pointed out with a smirk.

“I won’t complain if you show up in some sort of heavenly robe thing,” Crowley replied, sounding like he might be flirting a little.

“We’ll see what I come up with.” Aziraphale grinned. “But for now I must get back to work.”

“Right Angel. I’ll text you the details, alright?”

“Okay, my dear. Until next time.”

~C~

It took him ten minutes after putting the call through first to the insurance company and then to the towing company before Crowley could work up the nerve to call Aziraphale.

He would never admit to anyone that part of the reason it took that long was because his eyes stung and his throat felt like it would close up. He wouldn’t say that it took an impressive amount of lying to himself to make him find Aziraphale in his contacts and call.

It ran twice.

“Oh, are you already close? Or perhaps I simply didn’t get your text right away. I know Canary wharf isn’t terribly far, but-“

“I, no, I’m not…,” Crowley interrupted then paused to sigh, running his hands through his hair. “I don’t think I’ll be making it tonight. It would take a miracle, really.”

Aziraphale was silent for a few seconds too long. “What happened?” He asked calmly, a note of concern in his tone.

Crowley looked out the windshield at his beautiful Bentley’s hood, knowing that something inside had come loose to make him putter over to the side of the road. He didn’t want to look at the back again, even if he could have. Despite four-ways and clear car trouble the asshole behind him didn’t slow down and ended up clipping the back of Crowley’s car.

“My car,” Crowley started. “You know it’s vintage, which means special mechanic, and towing. Something… and then a guy…. Anyway, my point is… I’m not going to make it tonight. Not by the time, someone can come get me, and I do all the intake shit and whatnot for insurance.” He huffed. “I’m sorry.”

“No, it’s… it’s alright.” Aziraphale said despite the heavy disappointment in his voice.

“What did… what did you decide to go as?” Crowley asked tentatively.

“Oh, well, I suppose I won’t be um… but I had gone with a Victorian gentleman.”

Crowley smiled. “Cheater,” He teased. “Pretty much how you dress every day.”

“Oh, hush you.” Aziraphale teased back, but Crowley could tell his heart wasn’t in it.

After a rather long stretch of time, Aziraphale said very quietly, “This is never going to work, is it?”

Crowley immediately wanted to deny it. Assure Aziraphale that this was a fluke, that there would be other times. But the problem was, and he knew, that this wasn’t a fluke, and there had been other times, and it was like the same universe that threw them together on the flight was now doing everything it could to rip them apart. Like Crowley asking Aziraphale for his phone number had set in motion a chain of events where they could talk all they wanted but would never properly see one another again.

“I want it to,” Crowley said, knowing it likely wouldn’t make a difference but wanting to put it out there anyway. His voice croaked a bit with regret, feeling the farewell already being spoken between them.

“As do I, Crowley. But it seems… well, it seems we just can’t get it right, can we?”

Crowley swallowed, his eyes blurring a little.

“We could,” He tried, “We could… Guy Fawkes day. You must… shit, I’m actually in Scotland for the 5th, umm….”

“Crowley,” Aziraphale said gently. “I adore you,” the words held so much tenderness, but it was flavored too strongly with goodbye.”

“I adore you, too, angel.”

“And I think… well, much as I’m not one to believe in such things, the more we miss each other, the more I wonder if-“

“Please don’t say it,” Crowley interrupted. “I know what it feels like, I know, I thought the same thing.”

“Crowley,” Aziraphale said again. “You’re in Scotland than Ireland than France, and so on for the next month. You’re not sure what else is going to happen, you even said there was a strong possibility of needing to go back stateside.”

“You’re breaking up with me,” Crowley said flatly.

Aziraphale let out a watery laugh. “My dear, I think we would have actually have had to be together for there to be a break-up.” He sighed. “Perhaps, maybe, in the new year… maybe if you’re in town for more than a few days you could look me up, see if I’m available. And if I am, we will go have lunch again, and perhaps we can start this whole thing over.”

“Or we could just keep going,” Crowley argued.

“I adore you,” Aziraphale repeated. “So much. But I strive for honesty, and I honestly am not sure I can continue the way things are.”

Crowley nodded before realizing he would need to speak. “Right. Right, yeah, I … yeah.”

“I’m so sorry,” Aziraphale replied, his voice cracking.

“Yeah, me too.” Crowley huffed, resting his head on the seat. “But this isn’t goodbye, right? It’s just… bye for a bit. To give you space, to see if maybe….”

“Yes,” Aziraphale agreed. “Yes, just for a bit. A few months, maybe….”

Crowley heard the “maybe longer” that almost slipped out and was glad Aziraphale had never given it voice.

“Can I still text? Once in a while to keep in touch?”

“Oh, oh my dear, of course. Yes, absolutely I… I just… I want to keep you as my friend at the very least.”

“Me too,” Crowley said softly, voice barely loud enough to carry. “Anyway, I won’t keep you. And I’m sorry.”

“Me too,” Aziraphale replied. “Mind how you go.”

December

“I hate to think of you alone,” Said as she followed Aziraphale around the shop’s back room. “You should come over! Newt’s coming, so’s my neighbor, Tracy. You’d love her.”

“Anathema, my dear, I really appreciate the offer. Truly. But I’m afraid I really just want to take some time to myself. I have finished two drafts to the point that I’m willing to let Gabriel look at. I plan to sit with a bottle of wine and a good book and enjoy that special sort of quiet Christmas always seems to bring.”

Anathema blinked. “Did you say bottle?”

“Yes, you’re right, of course, I think it’s more likely that there will be two, perhaps a third.”

“Lush,” She grumbled with a half-hearted smile. “As long as you’re sure. The invitation to come is open.”

“I’m positive,” Aziraphale assured.

It wasn’t actually what was likely to happen.

After Halloween and the break-up with a man he wasn’t even really dating, Aziraphale poured himself into his work. Any moment he wasn’t writing he was either sleeping, eating something too delicious to be given half a mind to, or in the shop assisting until more staff came in.

And he only really just finished the work the night before, feeling as though he was finally finished and ready to move on to the more rigorous editing stages. The shop was in its last few minutes of business before they closed for Christmas eve, so when all was settled there would be nothing left to distract Aziraphale from the fact that a man who was rather perfect had slipped through his fingers.

He and Crowley still texted, of course. Their communication was spottier than it had been, far more random, but still very much them. The only thing they didn’t talk about was the man Crowley had been photographed with many times. Not that Aziraphale had been purposely looking for them, but he might have had a glance through the social media thing Anathema used, and he may have searched a few things. Which led to the images of Crowley with some bloke.

He supposed he could have asked, but how does one say “oh, I’ve seen you’ve moved on” without sounding rather like a stalker.

So Aziraphale did plan to read, to drink, but more he planned to allow himself a few moments to grieve while doing the drinking. To mourn the love that could have been with a man who was wonderful, and curse the stars for not aligning.

And, maybe, he might watch a film or two. There were some delightfully predictable holiday movies that would either lead to wistful sighing or mild raging.

Anathema probably suspected all of this, though she would say come the twenty-seventh that she predicted it. It’s probably why she kept staring at him while he bustled about pretending to look busy.

“Fine,” She said with a smile. “We’ll see you in a few days, okay? And call if you need to.”

“Will do, my dear girl. Mind how you go.” He said with a forced smile, giving a little wave to her as she turned and headed out the door. Once he was sure she was gone, he let out a sigh and flopped down in his office chair. A tiny bit of bookkeeping, then it’s up to his flat for some leftover lasagna and a bottle or two of wine.

~C~

“Absolutely fucking not,” Crowley said pointedly as he checked on the very tiny turkey he had in his oven. Actually, it was labeled as a turkey breast roast, but he didn’t give a toss as long as it fell somewhere in the range of traditional.

“Oh come on,” Hastur egged him.

“No,” Crowley repeated. “Not going to any fucking parties, mate. I’m tired. It’s been a long-ass two months with Ligur and Bea always at each other’s throats. And if Eric’s going to be there? Look, he’s a great bloke, great on a keyboard, but it was low of Ligur to hire someone else when we’ve had Dagon doing this with us for years. All because he doesn’t want the fact that Bea and Dagon are a couple overshadowing him in the media.”

“Eric won’t be there, he’s with his partner in Edinburgh for the holidays. No drama.”

“Bullshit,” Crowley said, turning off the oven light and then checking on the rest of his little feast for one. “I have plans anyway.”

“You don’t have plans,” Hastur accused.

“I do,” Crowley retorted.

He wouldn’t say that those plans involved his little turkey roast, the potatoes that were premade and just had to be popped in the oven, the bag of frozen vegetables in the freezer, and the jar of gravy waiting on the counter. He didn’t mention he intended to watch the Muppet version of a Christmas Carol, and depending on how he was feeling, perhaps some other festive-

Wait. Turkey, potatoes, vegetables, gravy….

“Oh fuck sakes!” Crowley cursed.

“What?” Hastur asked.

“Nothing,” Crowley replied, glancing at the time, seeing now he would have to go a bit further than a simple walk to get what he needed. “Look, you guys enjoy your drunken merriment. I’m going to remember we’re in our forties and stay the fuck home.”

“Right,” Haster sighed, apparently giving up. “Enjoy your Christmas, loser.”

“Yeah, happy Christmas to you, too.” He grumbled before getting on his boots and coat and heading down to the parking garage to get his Bentley.

A blood loose fuel hose had been the cause of her stuttering to a stop nearly two months ago. The mechanic was good, though. Better apparently than the one who had serviced the Bentley just a month before the accident. He’d gotten the hose fixed, the dent properly taken out, and refinished the car just in time for Crowley to get her the day before.

As he drove to the shop, he wondered how different things would be now if he’d only taken his car to be serviced by a decent mechanic. One who probably had hoped to make a little extra money off a semi-celebrity when the fuel hose inevitably needed fixing.

Would Aziraphale be his by the end of the night, or would they continue in this sort of cat and mouse over video they had been doing? Would the universe have deemed them ready to actually have what they both wanted?

Probably not. Not with the way every other aspect of Crowley’s life had been going.

He wasn’t even sure there would be a band to be in for his minor celebrity come the new year.

Most everyone was home, even in this area of London, and so Crowley was able to find parking on the side of the road in front of the little shop. He got out, noting the first signs of new snow fluttering down around him, then went inside.

The little bell tinkled, and the man at the counter glanced up at him with a smile before continuing to serve the line of customers getting their last-minute wares.

Crowley weaved his way around the aisles, heading for the canned goods and spotting the missing piece to his sad little dinner: jellied cranberry sauce.

Prize obtained, he spun on his heel and headed for the cue, prepared to spend the next fifteen to twenty minutes waiting to make his purchase.

The bell chimed over the door, and Crowley looked up from the can as the man in front of him looked over his shoulder to the door, and their eyes met.

“Aziraphale?”

“Crowley,” Aziraphale clutched his bottle of wine a little tighter, unsure how to handle this unexpected encounter.

He hadn’t had anything more than a bottle of wine in his flat, which was rather suspect as he recalled Anathema leaving his flat while holding her bag rather more steady than normal. Likely out of concern for him since it was the cheaper bottle that had gone missing.

The cork in the good one had been stubborn, and Aziraphale had jerked just enough, just near enough to the counter, that he hit the bottle on the edge and smashed it. He got the cork out, at least.

Once the mess and himself were cleaned up, he put on his winter gear and headed out on the longer than he’d like to have walk to the nearest shop still open. The wine selection was poor, no surprise there. But cheap was better than none, and while he was rather particular he wasn’t going to spend all of Christmas eve night tromping around London looking for a place still open that had a bottle of wine at least a decade old.

He wasn’t sure why he looked up when the bell chimed a moment ago. Maybe to silently warn the patron that they would be in for a long wait, maybe just because he was curious. He hadn’t expected to see Crowley behind him seemingly completely unaware of his being there.

“H-hi.” Crowley stuttered, jaw still dropped and eyes still wide. “H-happy Christmas.”

“You as well,” Aziraphale replied warmly. He looked down to see the loan can of cranberry sauce in Crowley’s hand. “Forgot something?” He mused.

“Ah, yeah,” Crowley said, looking down at the can in his hands momentarily like he forgot he even had it. “Umm… was… well the turkey was almost done. Turkey roast, actually. And, umm… cranberries. Mum was always big on having them and…. Well, you know, I told you the whole thing. Just thought I would do right by her, you know?”

“You volunteered, I take it? Letting that fellow you’ve been seeing stay home, relax?” Aziraphale asked, moving ahead.

Crowley frowned as he followed. “Not seeing anyone.” He replied.

Aziraphale frowned. “But the photos. On the, umm, insta-thing. And in the news. Well, no news, I suppose, but you know what I mean.”

“Oh!” Crowley’s face lit up, a smile curling his lips. “No, not seeing him. That’s Eric. Sorta’ve a war thing going on in the band right now. ‘S a long story.”

“Oh,” Aziraphale said, trying not to let the rush of relief overwhelm him as he found himself next in line. He paid for his bottle, then stepped aside, waiting for Crowley who glanced his way every couple of seconds.

Once Crowley had paid for his item, they headed out of the shop together.

Aziraphale found himself standing on the sidewalk a few feet away from the door, looking at Crowley who shuffled from one foot to the other.

“Well-“

“Do you want to have dinner with me?” Crowley cut Aziraphale off, the words rushing out rather quickly as he suddenly went still. “You can come to my place, if you’d like. I, umm… it’s just me. And it’s nothing really fancy but it’s, you know, traditional, sorta.”

A whole year of wanting exactly this. A dinner with this man whom he’d gotten to know so very well, who he still loved rather dearly despite never having had a date with him.

He would never have been out had it not been for that silly cork in the bottle. He wouldn’t have had to work so hard for the cork to come loose if Anathema hadn’t presumably stolen the other.

He could say no, let Crowley walk away, say he wasn’t ready to try this all over again. But after all those lost moments they could have had, that they planned, only to find himself in the same shop as Crowley on Christmas eve? Well, it felt like part of some grand, ineffable plan that Aziraphale wasn’t about to question.

He smiled, “I’d be delighted.”

~C~

Christmas morning was bright and sunny, the light peeking through Crowley’s blinds and stirring him into awareness. He tightened his hold around Aziraphale and smiled against his shoulder, breathing in the scent of his skin and thinking it was by far the absolute best Christmas ever.

They shared the dinner Crowley made with the bottle of wine Aziraphale had purchased. Like the plane ride, like that one lunch, like all their many video calls the conversation flowed easily. It was like they hadn’t spent nearly two months barely speaking, trying to give one another space.

“You know,” Aziraphale had said as they finished up their meal, “Call me an old silly, but I rather think that maybe we were meant to meet around now. If you believe in such things as destiny and all that.” He had amended before taking a sip of his wine.

“I had thought that,” Crowley had admitted. “That maybe fate or the universe or whatever was purposely keeping us apart.”

“You know I happen to be finished with writing for a bit. I imagine I might have about two weeks before I really need to get back to it all. Holidays and all.”

“Yeah, me too.” Crowley had agreed. “Maybe we can spend them together?”

Aziraphale had merely blushed and smiled but didn’t agree. Which wasn’t what Crowley had been hoping for since the moment he had seen Aziraphale in the shop.

It had felt like all the stars aligned and he was being given the gift of the one thing he really wanted that year for Christmas, his angel. A chance to maybe try this all over again. He couldn’t let Aziraphale walk away without an invitation, and Crowley tried very hard to continue to act cool when Aziraphale had agreed.

Dinner finished and they moved to the sofa. Another bottle of wine was open, and Crowley and Aziraphale lost themselves in conversation, drifting ever closer with one another with every lean forward to the coffee table.

“You could stay for the night if you’d like.” Crowley had said when the clock hit eleven and the pair realized how much time they had lost together. “I’m not anywhere near drunk but I’m feeling the wine a little and I don’t dare drive. It’s a bit back to your place from here for a walk, and the buses-“

“Crowley,” Aziraphale had interrupted, causing him to snap his mouth shut.

Aziraphale had seemed to debate with himself for a while, hands wringing and brow furrowing until he sat suddenly straighter. He slowly reached for Crowley, cupping his cheek before leaning in at the same speed. Crowley was very certain he knew what was about to happen, but he didn’t dare move at all until Aziraphale’s lips made contact with his.

And then he went absolutely mad.

At some point, they had stumbled down to Crowley’s bedroom.

“Happy Christmas,” Aziraphale mumbled sleepily, a smile to his voice.

“It is a happy Christmas indeed,” Crowley agreed, leaning away to allow Aziraphale to roll over and face him. He was given the gift of the first of what he hoped were many good morning kisses. “Have anywhere you need to be today?”

“No,” Aziraphale assured. “Anathema, Newton, and I all exchanged presents yesterday. And you, are you expecting anyone?”

“No, me and the band do something for the new year instead.”

“So I suppose, if we wanted to, we could stay here for the whole day,” Aziraphale observed as he ran a hand down Crowley’s back.

“Oh, I rather like the sound of that.” Crowley agreed, leaning in and kissing Aziraphale as if he would never see him again.

January

When Crowley got home from the studio, he felt absolutely wretched. Days of being cooped up, sleeping on the floor when he could, drinking far too much coffee, and eating the absolute worst food he just wanted to climb in the shower, drink a liter of water, and sleep for a week.

But when he opened the door to the flat the most wonderful aroma of Italian herbs and warm bread wafted toward him. He could hear the faint bubbling of something cooking on the stove, and soothing jazz from the 1920s was playing at just the right volume on his high-end sound system.

He didn’t feel quite so wretched anymore, nor tired, and he shut the door with a smile. Tossing his jacket on the rack, and toeing off his boots, he scooted his way into the kitchen to find Aziraphale at the stove with a gentle smile on his face.

“You weren’t supposed to be here until tomorrow,” Crowley said as he went up behind his boyfriend and wrapped his arms around him.

Aziraphale chuckled. “I bumped my flight up a day. There wasn’t anything I needed to do further, so I came home. Thought I would surprise you.”

“You did, I like it.” He said, kissing Aziraphale’s neck before going to get himself a glass of water. “So when I texted you that I was leaving the studio and would call when I got in?”

“I was already here. I came here right from the airport, actually. I caught a few hours of sleep, then simply worked until I heard from you.”

Crowley grinned, increasingly pleased with himself that he gave Aziraphale a key two days after Christmas. They had only just officially started to see each other, but it was hardly like they hadn’t already known more about each other than most couples do when officially moving in.

And since that day, they spent more time together than apart. It was almost like Aziraphale had moved in. There was a draw of his things and a spot in Crowley’s closet. He had a toothbrush by the bathroom sink and even had a few of his favorite books and records mingled in with Crowley’s collection.

“So, no charming ginger blokes on the flight then?” Crowley teased before taking a drink of his water.

“No, I actually was alone this time. No seat partner.”

“Good. ‘M not sharing.”

“Quite right,” Aziraphale chuckled. “Now, go wash up so we can have dinner together before you sleep.”

Crowley kissed his boyfriend quickly before heading off to do just that.

And after dinner, they did settle into bed. It was still quite early, so Aziraphale had brought a book, planning to read while Crowley caught up on some much-needed rest.

As he began to drift off to sleep, Crowley became quite determined that if they made it through the whole year with fewer video calls than physically being with one another in person then he would ask this man to marry him.

#Ineffable Husbands #Jukebox omens #crowley x aziraphale #Human AU #Christmas story

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