Chapter Text
[...] For several years, Adam Zacharias Fell has been one of the most renown rare book dealers in London. It's said that he has "a magic touch" regarding the chase of untraceable treasures, which is why every reasonable collector contacts him when they are looking for a particularly rare [...].
Adam?
Adam????
Crowley only barely resisted the urge to throw the damned magazine across the room. Well. Actually, he didn't resist the urge at all. He didn't even try. The magazine ended up hitting the wall and then falling to the floor, where it stayed until Crowley picked it up again, many minutes later. He carried it back to his desk and sat down, gingerly flipping through the pages to find the right one.
There. Adam Zacharias Fell.
Zacharias, fine. A name Aziraphale would even have chosen himself, maybe. But Adam? Couldn't the real Adam have been a tiny bit more creative?
Crowley tried to read the article a second time, and this time succeeded. It was a double page in a magazine for book dealers, and he had only bought it because he'd needed ideas for his next visit to Aziraphale's bookshop. He didn’t know a lot about books[1], and he wanted to avoid making a fool of himself. That there was an article about Aziraphale himself in this very magazine was a damned coincidence.
Ha.
Someone had wanted him to see this, probably.
There were two pictures. Three, really, but that third one just showed the bookshop from outside. The other two were of Aziraphale, so they were the important ones. In one of them, he was smiling right into the camera, eyes bright, face a little flushed. The other one showed him where he was most comfortable; buried in books while sitting at his desk. Reading glasses low on his nose, tongue peeking out at the side, a forgotten mug with what was most likely cocoa in his reach.
He forgot that we were there after some time, read the caption of the photo, for which he apologized thoroughly when we reminded him.
It was odd. All the times Crowley had seen the former angel since he was a former angel, he hadn't paid any sort of attention to Aziraphale's clothes. Only now he realized that there were different - just slightly, but still.
Overall, it was still the same style. If you could call it style, that is. The colours were certainly the same. But there was no knee-long overcoat and no bowtie, just a not quite white dress shirt beneath a very soft looking jumper, and slacks. Crowley didn't remember what Aziraphale had been wearing when he'd bought Vita Nova - he'd been too distracted talking to Aziraphale - so he didn't know whether Aziraphale still wore clothes from around 1900, now and then. Because the clothes on these photos were, while still unfashionable, not that outdated.
But that wasn't really important, was it? They did look like something Aziraphale would wear. Soft, comfortable, and, even though old, kept in “tip-top condition”. The look in his eyes was the same, too, and the smile - it was Aziraphale, no doubt.
Adam was right. Of course he was - he was always right when he wanted to be.
But, still.
What was Crowley supposed to do ?
*
He went back to the bookshop, naturally. He didn't have anywhere else to go, and Aziraphale was there, after all.
It had been almost three weeks since his first purchase and, when he opened the door, Crowley wondered if Aziraphale would remember him. Not him , coming to stand next to the angel on the wall of Eden, not him , saving him from the Guillotine, not him , giving him back some prophecy books. No, just him, buying an Aldine edition of Vita Nova. A part of Crowley was sure that Aziraphale would remember that - he’d remembered the first time they’d talked since the Apocalypse That Wasn’t, too, and that had only been the exchange of a few words in front of the bookshop.
The door fell closed behind Crowley, the tiny bell chiming, but Aziraphale was nowhere to be seen. Crowley quietly cleared his throat and went to inspect the nearest display of books. He blinked down at them, wondering since when Aziraphale also had recent bestsellers in supply. Softly drumming on the cover of a thriller with his fingers, Crowley recalled a few occasions when Aziraphale had proudly told him about a book that had just been published and which he’d gotten signed by the author, just to add another first edition to his collection. So, maybe Aziraphale had always had recent bestsellers in supply, but not quite like this. None of these books were signed.
After ten minutes, Aziraphale still hadn’t shown up.
Crowley knew where to find him, of course. He let the unsigned books be and made his way to the backroom, which looked entirely the same. A mess of books and shelves and boxes; the office of someone who had a lot of paperwork to do and kept putting it off. And there was Aziraphale, sitting at his desk, hunched over a book, absently scribbling notes on a pad as he read[2] .
Crowley chewed at the inside of his lower lip for a moment, then straightened a bit and knocked on the doorframe with his knuckles. Aziraphale jumped and nearly managed to knock over his mug with his elbow. He took hold of it in the very last second, preventing cocoa from being spilled all over the desk. He still got some of it onto his hand.
“Oh, goodness,” he uttered, fishing a handkerchief out of his pocket to clean his hand. “I’m so sorry, I didn’t even hear you come in. I was so absorbed in -” He had stood up and turned to look at Crowley, who was still standing in the doorframe. “Oh! Hello there. Mr. Crowley, wasn’t it?”
“Yes,” Crowley managed. “Hi.”
“Hello,” Aziraphale said again, walking over to him. “I’d, erm, give you my hand, but it’s a bit sticky now, so - ah.” He cleared his throat, face turning a little red. “Well. Can I help you with something?”
"Uh. Er, yeah, I -" Crowley forgot the book he'd wanted to ask about. Shit. "I'm looking for Shakespeare."
Aziraphale's smile became a little less awkward. "The man himself?"
"Yeah," Crowley said, grinning. "You don't happen to know him, do you?"
Aziraphale laughed. "No, I'm afraid not. I'd have loved to, though." He nodded his head and went back to the main room, Crowley following behind him.
"I've heard he was a bit annoying to be around."
"Shakespeare?"
"Yes. He kept giving the audience stage directions."
"Ah, well." Aziraphale stopped in front of a shelf. "We all have our quirks, I suppose. Would you mind having a look without me, first? I'd like to wash my hands."
"Yeah, go ahead."
Aziraphale rushed off, and Crowley stared at the books and wondered what for somebody's sake he was doing here.
It didn't take long until Aziraphale came back, asking what exactly Crowley was looking for. Which led to them having a friendly discussion about which of Shakespeare's works was the best. They had had that discussion a million times before, and Crowley changed his opinion each time, just to get a rise out of the angel.
Aziraphale didn't remember that, of course.
Crowley left the shop with a rather lovely edition of Much Ado About Nothing .
*
The next time, he bought something by Oscar Wilde. Aziraphale didn't mention that he had some signed first editions, and Crowley couldn’t help but wonder if this Aziraphale had them at all. He didn’t ask, because he knew that he’d be ridiculously upset should the answer be no .
*
It was almost eleven when Crowley entered the bookshop. He was perfectly aware of the time, and also of the fact that it would probably earn him a glare.
And there it was, the glare, coming from Aziraphale who was standing close by and rearranging some books. It was mild, though, and fairly brief; Aziraphale softened his expression as soon as he looked at Crowley properly.
"Ah, hello," he said, beginning to smile. "I was just preparing to close."
"Yeah, I know."
Aziraphale raised a brow.
Crowley shrugged and pointed at the door. "Saw the opening hours. Erm. It's early, isn't it?"
"I'm sorry?'
"Eleven. It's early for lunch."
"Well, I - I like to have enough time to eat."
That sounded like Aziraphale, yes.
Crowley cleared his throat and pretended to look at the nearest books, tapping on one or two covers. "You've got five minutes left, I know, but - er. I mean, if you'd be willing to close the shop early, we could… have lunch."
"Oh," Aziraphale made, staring at him. "Lunch?"
"Yes."
Aziraphale blinked slowly. He still had a book in his hands, but now he set it down. "Lunch," he said again. "Yes, I…" A quiet, awkward laugh, disguised as an even more awkward cough. "I mean, I don't see why not. Let me just grab my coat and close up, then -"
Crowley was already nodding. "I'll wait outside," he managed, and they both hurried in opposite directions.
Fuck, this was weird.
They'd had lunch together so many, many times before. Also breakfast, brunch, tea, dinner - they'd tried about everything there was to try. But all those days since the Not Actually Doomsday, Crowley had eaten alone. Before, he hadn't ever eaten anything without Aziraphale being there to force gently convince him to.
Aziraphale left the bookshop not much later, and he gave Crowley a slightly peevish smile as he locked the door. He'd pulled on a wheat-coloured coat that looked a little worn, but only because it had been outdated for several decades. Crowley thought that he'd seen it on Aziraphale before - Before, actually.
"So," Aziraphale said, still fidgeting around with the keys.
'So," Crowley echoed, trying his very best to act nonchalant. He wasn't sure if it was working. "Where did you wanna go? For lunch?"
"Well, it was you who asked me , so I think - I mean -" Aziraphale lifted the keys in some kind of vague gesture and almost managed to drop them. He slid them into the inside pocket of his coat, then. He even pressed his lips together to keep from babbling, which he'd done a lot in the six thousand years Crowley had known him.
Briefly, for just a fleeting second, Crowley wanted to hug him. Very much.
"Yeah, sure, but I didn't actually mean to wreak havoc with your plans or anything, so if you had anything planned -"
"I do," Aziraphale said. "I mean, I had. That is -" A grin; not much more than the flicker of an awkward smile, really. "Well. Do you like Indian?"
"Sure," Crowley said.[3]
"Oh, wonderful. It's not far, we could walk. Unless -"
"No no, walking's fine."
"Alright," Aziraphale said, jittery fingers wandering up his side and over his lapel. A nervous habit he'd acquired over the years. "Well then - this way."
Much to Crowley's surprise, walking next to Aziraphale was as easy as it had always been - the former angel walked a tiny bit faster than he would have on his own, Crowley slowed down his sauntering a little. If he only considered that, this wasn't awkward at all. Crowley could almost pretend that nothing had changed, that he'd just dropped by at the bookshop to tempt his angel to lunch, and that Aziraphale was aware who they were - had been - and what they had done. It was nice, imagining that. It would have been so much easier.
He wondered what they would have done, sometimes. He remembered the bus ride[4] and falling asleep, but he didn't remember parting from Aziraphale. Maybe they would have… stayed together, if Adam hadn't decided to change the very way to world worked.
Maybe.
"So," Aziraphale said again, a little lighter this time. He was probably happy that he would have lunch at the restaurant he'd had in mind; he didn't like deviating from his plans. Especially not when they were about food. "Do you work in Soho, too?"
"Hmm?" Crowley made. "Work? Uh. No, not really."
"Oh. I could have sworn I've seen you around, now and then." Aziraphale considered for a moment, then added, "You certainly were in front of the bookshop a few times."
"Ah. Yes. I… take long walks, you know. Through Soho." Crowley didn't enjoy lying to Aziraphale. He'd never enjoyed that. "And I like your shop. It's…", he waved his hand, searching for the proper word, "cozy."
Aziraphale beamed. His hands stopped fidgeting, instead he clasped them at his lower back. "Thank you," he said. "I'm always happy when people are comfortable in my shop. Even though it's a bit, ah, untidy at times."
"Untidy?" Crowley raised his brows. "I've seen the backroom, you know - if you call that untidy , the augean stables were a cleanroom."
Just as planned, Aziraphale bristled. "You can't compare my backroom to the augean stables!" He huffed, sounding somewhere between affronted and guilty. "I admit that it could use some tidying up, but - none of it is rubbish ! And I do know where everything is."
"Oh, do you?"
"Yes," Aziraphale said decidedly. Then he made a face. "Well, at least I should hope so? I don't often… search for things, back there."
"Yeah, because you've no bloody idea what you'll find! It's like - like a giant surprise box, innit? The whole shop."
Aziraphale scowled at him. "You say that as if it's a bad thing -"
"Nah," Crowley interrupted before his not-yet-friend could finish his sentence. "Nah, it's - you know. Charming. Cozy."
Aziraphale seemed satisfied. "You have to say that, I suppose. Insulting my bookshop would be awfully rude, given that you just asked me to lunch."
"Not that I care much about being rude," Crowley said, "but I feel like insulting your shop or your books would have me eating lunch on my own."
"That feeling is correct."
"I'll try not to, then."
"How very kind of you." Aziraphale smiled at him, then looked forward. "Don't pretend that you were lying to get into my good graces, though. You do like my bookshop."
Crowley couldn't keep from smiling, either. "I do, yeah."
It was so easy, telling him that now. Crowley had never told him, Before.
*
When they sat down to lunch, Crowley noticed two things.
First, talking to Aziraphale was just as easy and complicated as it had always been.
Second, Aziraphale had lost weight.
Not much, no. But enough that Crowley noticed it - noticed that the line of the angel’s jaw was a little more defined, his belly not quite as pudgy as Crowley remembered. It bothered the not-anymore-demon more than it should, somehow. Especially when Aziraphale declined dessert.
“You sure?” Crowley asked, relaxing back into his chair, stretching. He himself hadn’t eaten a lot; he was still getting used to his stomach demanding food at all.[5]
“Oh, yes.” Aziraphale’s tone was firm, but his eyes flickered back to the dessert menu.
“C’mon, I’d have something, too. My treat.”
Aziraphale shook his head, eyes wide. “No, I couldn’t -”
“Nonsense,” Crowley interrupted and snatched the menu from beneath Aziraphale’s fingers. “I’m offering. So, let’s see - Mango Halva? Or, erm, here, that fudge thingy - that’s really good here.” He looked up again to find Aziraphale looking at him, smiling in both amusement and slight sheepishness. Crowley blinked. “What?”
“Nothing,” Aziraphale said, now definitely sheepish. “You’ve been here before?”
“Oh. Er, yes. Ages ago.” With you. Before everything went pear-shaped.
Aziraphale nodded and looked away, fiddling around with his serviette for a moment before he remembered that that might be considered bad manners. “Well. If you insist…”
“I do.”
“- I shall try the Mysore Pak, then.”
“Ah, the fudge thingy.”
“Yes, the fudge thingy. What about you?”
“Er. I’ll take the mango thingy, then.”
Aziraphale actually rolled his eyes. He was also smiling, though.
*
Crowley ended up covering most of the bill, but only because he managed to fish his wallet out of his pocket faster than Aziraphale. Naturally, Aziraphale felt bad about that later, when they were walking back to the shop.
“I’d just like you to know that I didn’t agree to - this, I mean, to having lunch with you, just because I expected you to pay. Because I didn’t. Expect you to, I mean.”
“Yeah, I know,” Crowley said, then paddled back. “Oh wait, no. I don’t. Why did you agree, then?”
Aziraphale blushed and gave him a mild glare. “I didn’t want to be rude,” he said, in that flippant tone of voice Crowley had come to… like.
Crowley huffed a laugh. “Aha, sure, yes. Can’t have you losing one of your regulars, huh?”
“You bought three books, that hardly makes you a regular.”
“Oh, but maybe I want to be one.”
The glare was replaced with a smile; a smile that Aziraphale tried to hide by turning his face away and clearing his throat. “You’re not even a collector,” he said, somewhat primly.
“Me?” Crowley replied, wide-eyed. “Not a collector? Whatever do you mean by that?”
“I mean,” Aziraphale said firmly and turned to look at him again, “that you are not at all interested in my books.”
“Naww, come on! I told you that your shop’s cozy, I like it.”
“But you’re not a collector .”
“I do know some things about books, though. I liked Wilde. Dante was a bit annoying, but okay.”
“Shakespeare?”
“Not so much, no.”
“See, that’s what -”
“I liked talking about him, with you.”
Aziraphale faltered for a brief moment, his stern expression - which was a guise in the first place, of course - crumbling. “I enjoyed that, too,” he said, softer now. “You do know quite a lot about books, I’m not denying that. But you’re not -”
“Not a collector, no,” Crowley cut him off with a sigh. “I have about five books at home. So what? You don’t go out for lunch with not-collectors?”
“Oh, don’t be ridiculous,” Aziraphale said. They had reached his bookshop, and he stopped walking to look at Crowley properly. “No. In fact, I have to admit that I’m - rather charmed.”
Time came to a halt, for a moment. And in those very brief two seconds in which Crowley couldn’t possibly muster a reply, he thought about a thousand different things.
He thought about this: Get thee behind me, foul fiend .
He thought about this: I don’t even like you.
He thought about this: You go too fast for me, Crowley.
He thought about this: Go off together? Listen to yourself.
Of course, all those things were technically the same thing, and they all traced back to the angel - the man - standing directly in front of him, who had spent the last six thousand years feeling guilty about having lunch with a demon every now and then.
Time remembered that it should be running, and Crowley smiled. “Really? We could do it again, then. Sometime?”
“I’d love to,” Aziraphale replied.
It’ll work better this way , Adam had said.
1He knew more than most humans, of course, but compared to the angel, Crowley’s knowledge about books was a grocery list while Aziraphale’s was the freaking Holy Bible. Or Atlas Shrugged.[return to text]
2If Crowley wouldn’t have been so entirely distracted by the simple fact that he was in the same room as Aziraphale, he might have noticed that he was being confronted with exactly the same picture he’d seen in the magazine. He wouldn’t have found that odd at all.
[return to text]
3He'd never eaten Indian before, but he'd watched Aziraphale enjoy it many times, and Aziraphale usually had good taste in food.[return to text]
4"I'm so sorry about your car," Aziraphale told him quietly. "I know how… important it was to you."
"S'was just a car," Crowley mumbled and rested his head on Aziraphale's soft shoulder, closing his eyes. He was so incredibly tired. "Sorry about your books."
"They were just books," Aziraphale said softly.
He might have buried his nose in Crowley's hair, then. Crowley wasn't sure whether that was an actual memory or just… wishful thinking.
[return to text]
5One time he’d eaten too much and experienced retching again, and since then he was very, very careful. Eating was weird.[return to text]