Chapter Text
INT. HOTEL - NIGHT
Aziraphale hunches over the counter of the hotel suite kitchenette, drumming his fingers on the marbled granite where his mobile phone lays face-down. He flips it over, not for the first time this evening, and taps the screen awake. There are no new notifications; just the lock screen taunting him with blinding white letters: 20:43.
He puts the phone back down with a huff, pacing to and fro, second guessing everything — his outfit, the style (or lack thereof) of his hair, his decision to be here in the first place; hell, every decision he’s ever made in his entire life leading up to this moment. He straightens the tartan bow tie at his neck. Is a bow tie too formal? he wonders. Is that weird? Probably. Should he take it off?
He nudges a bottle of champagne chilling in an ice bucket on a small bar-like island. He grimaces, considering the gesture; too much? No, not at all. Wait, is it? He places an index finger on the rounded cork and pushes the bottle around in the ice bath, considering he might just drink the whole thing himself to steel his nerves.
A shrill ping emits from his phone, startling him out of his skin. He rushes over to the counter, flips the phone over, and reads the notification on the lock screen.
HEAVENLY HOSTS now
Your Host is on their way! Visit the in-app tracking page to check their progress and for more details.📷
Aziraphale slams his thumb onto the notification, which dissolves into a splash page. Bold letters at the top read “HEAVENLY HOSTS” while a smaller italic print below it says “it’s like Uber, but for call services!” A small buffering wheel circles below it, reminiscent of the ouroboros as it eats its own tail. When the app loads, a map appears — one pin indicating Aziraphale’s location, and another icon (a pair of angel wings inside of a halo) glows several streets away. A gold line connects the two points on the map, and a small text circle in the top corner reads: “ETA 8 min.”📷📷
The phone drops to the counter with a soft plunk as Aziraphale wrings the nerves out of his hands. “Oh, dear,” he mutters to himself, pacing again, feeling the reality of his situation burrow into his chest like a meteor. He looks down at the map, seeing the little angel wings icon puttering along its route, closer and closer to Aziraphale’s pin.
He yanks the champagne from its ice bucket, pops the cork, and drops the bottle back in with a satisfied nod. From beneath the table, he retrieves two champagne glasses and places them next to the bucket. Then, he hurries into the kitchenette and careens over the sink.
Slamming the faucet to cold, he collects a hefty amount of the water in his hands and splashes it up over his face. He shuts off the stream, grabbing a hand towel hanging nearby to pat his face dry.
He fretfully surveys the room for anything amiss. Or a far more accurate description would be that he looks for anything to get through the molasses that is the passage of time. He fluffs the pillows on the bed. He straightens chairs that don’t need straightening and adjusts rugs that don’t need adjusting. His eyes fall over the light switch at the front door, and he maneuvers over to experiment with the dimmer, testing the various brightness options of the overhead lights. Is all the way up too bright? He dims them lower. But is that too far into mood lighting territory? Is it too romantic? Is ‘romantic’ even a bad thing?
What’s a good, happy medium?
Aziraphale collapses back against the door, summoning a moment of peace to mollify the burgeoning apprehension in his chest. Just as a modicum of serenity begins to settle in, a sudden knock rips through him like an electric shock, sending his heart into frenzied palpitations. He briefly closes his eyes and claps his hand to his chest, feeling the heart hammering beneath it.
“You can do this,” he murmurs to himself. He huffs into a cupped hand and decides his breath is stage-ready. He tugs at the hem of his waistcoat to ensure its crispness, pulls his sleeves down to his wrists, and takes a deep breath to collect himself. He opens the door to find waiting for him in the hallway a devilishly handsome man with deep red-orange hair and a constellation of freckles on his face.
“Mr. Crowley, I presume?” Aziraphale asks, a bit too formally, he realizes, the moment it becomes too late to take it back. He makes a conscious effort to stop the instinct to bow.
“That’s me,” the man confirms.
“Do come in,” Aziraphale offers, gesturing into the hotel room. As the man passes him, he drops a black messenger bag from his shoulder onto the floor. Aziraphale pulls the overcoat from his shoulders to hang it from the hook on the door.
“A gentleman,” Crowley remarks, impressed. He turns somewhat expectantly to Aziraphale, finding a nervous smile on his angelic face.
“I, er...” he begins awkwardly, “I was going to order room service, but I wasn’t quite sure what you might like. Didn’t know if you had any dietary restrictions or allergies or anything like that.”
“That’s all right,” Crowley says, dismissing the gesture with a wave of his hand. “You don’t have to go to any trouble, darling.”
Aziraphale blushes slightly at that. “Yes, er… jolly good.” He looks around, as if he might spot something clever to say somewhere in the room. Which actually works because he clocks the ice bucket on the table. “Can I at least offer you something to drink?” he asks, gesturing towards the bottle. “I’m not much of a wine connoisseur, but this came very highly recommended by the gentleman at the front desk.”
“Works for me,” Crowley says, taking a seat at one of the bar stools. Aziraphale pours a glass and slides it over, pours a second for himself, and takes the bar stool next to him.
“So, erm... how does this work?” he entreats. “Admittedly, I’ve never done anything like this before.”
Crowley smiles, leaning in flirtatiously. “Well, we start with this incredible sparkling wine,” he says, raising his glass to Aziraphale accordingly. They toast, and Crowley takes a small sip before continuing. “Then you can tell me a little about yourself,” he continues. ”What you like, what you don’t like, that sort of thing.”
Aziraphale drinks nearly half the glass in one go. “I’m not sure,” he admits. “What... what are my options?” He hastily chases his question with more champagne.
Crowley sets his glass down on the countertop, turning properly towards Aziraphale. “Why don't you tell me what you’ve enjoyed in the past,” he suggests, gently placing his hand on Aziraphale’s thigh, “and we can take it from there.”
Aziraphale swallows, the foreign touch summoning immediate heat to his cheeks. “Ah, that’s the tricky bit, isn’t it,” he says, looking away from Crowley’s eyes. His gaze falls down on Crowley’s hand as it finds its way closer to his hip. “You see, I haven’t... ever done any... enjoying?”
Aziraphale watches Crowley’s hand stop. The moment of silence that follows causes Aziraphale’s overactive, anxious imagination to flood with the hundred-and-one assumptions the man could be making about him right now. Unable to handle the uncertainty of it, he chances a look back up into Crowley’s eyes. They’re an unusual color, he notices; not quite brown, but rather a honey-warm sort of amber, flecked with specks of gold and far too captivating to look away now. Crowley’s long eyelashes blink over them.
“Oh,” he finally says, taking his hand back. “You’re a career type, then, eh?” he jokes, an earnest effort to ease Aziraphale’s obvious discomfort. “Well, that’s all right, love.” He steals a quick sip from his glass. “So, you don’t know what you’re into yet. I can work with that. S’pose we can thank the Hosts’ matchmaking algorithm that you ended up with me for your first go, eh?”
Aziraphale hesitates. “No,” he says, “actually, I used the directory.”
Crowley stops mid-sip of his champagne, swallows thoughtfully. “You requested me?” he asks, his eyebrows tenting with curiosity. “Why? I mean, why choose anyone? You don’t even know if I’m… you know, like, your type.”
“I’m not sure why,” he responds. “There was just something about you. Something nice, I don’t know. Familiar.”
Crowley nods, even though he doesn’t entirely understand.
“Oh, dear me,” Aziraphale frets. “I’m afraid I’ve no idea what I’m doing.” He places the glass down and slides off the bar stool, taking up pacing once more, wringing his hands. “It sort of feels like, erm… there’s a thousand bees in my chest?”
Crowley leaps up and follows him. “Hey, listen,” he offers, hands raised as if trying not to spook a skittish animal. “We don’t have to do anything you’re not comfortable with. Hell, if you just want me to sit in that armchair and wax poetic about this bottle of wine all night, I’m perfectly happy to do that.”
Aziraphale’s pacing slows as he looks up at him with eyes that look as though they may burst with tears. “Really?”
“Wwellll,” Crowley lilts, “I mean, I’m rubbish at all that fancy wine nonsense, but I could give it a go.”
An appreciative laugh slips out of Aziraphale’s quirked lips. “What, you don’t moonlight as a sommelier?” he jokes.
“Haven’t the foggiest what that even is, tell the truth.”
He smiles; his face, his shoulders, hell, his whole body relaxes as he looks at Crowley, considering the gentle smile and kind eyes. Aziraphale can’t say he ever envisioned himself being in a situation like this. He certainly didn’t come into it with any expectations. If he had, they would have been more along the lines of a dispassionate Host with a carnal appetite and no interest in small talk, perhaps. But not this. This feels… comfortable. Safe.
Aziraphale’s shaky fingers twist around each other, giving air to the slight dampness of sweat under his little gold pinky ring. “Would you mind terribly,” he begins. He bites his lower lip. “That is, erm… do you think you could just… hold me?”
Crowley takes a step closer. “Hold you?”
“You know,” Aziraphale murmurs, pantomiming a hug around his body with his own arms. “Just there?” He gestures towards the bed.
Crowley smiles. “Yeah, of course,” he says. “Whatever you want, angel.”
Aziraphale flushes at the endearment. Usually the one who offers them, he’s not used to being on the receiving end of them, and he’s certainly never been called anything like this before. Angel. He can’t quite pinpoint exactly how it makes him feel. But he knows that, for some reason, it feels right.
Crowley breezes past him to approach the bed. Along the way, he removes his necktie and tosses it on the bedside table. He then starts to unbutton his shirt. Aziraphale stands a few paces away, watching with rapt attention but unable to move.
“You want to get more comfortable?” Crowley asks, nodding toward him to do likewise.
“I er… I think I’m all right like this, actually,” he stammers, suddenly finding it hard to make eye contact. One look back into those amber eyes and he’d be unable to look anywhere else.
“Well, at least lose the shoes, yeah?” Crowley teases gently as he kicks his own off. Aziraphale hums a small laugh, a shy nod of agreement. His laces take a bit more work than Crowley’s loafers, during which time Crowley unbuckles and unthreads his belt.
“D’you want me to stay dressed as well?” he asks before unbuttoning anything else.
Aziraphale shrugs bashfully, sliding the first shoe off. “Oh. Er, up to you.”
Crowley places the belt next to his necktie on the side table but he leaves his trousers and socks on, his shirt only unbuttoned at the collar. Aziraphale silently appreciates Crowley’s innate instinct that he would be more comfortable this way.
Crowley rounds the bed and sits on top of the duvet next to Aziraphale as his second shoe comes free. They’re not too close, but certainly closer than Aziraphale has been to anyone in a long time. He loosens the knot of his bow tie and pulls it out, leaving it neatly folded on the bedside table. Almost as if they’ve practiced it, Aziraphale lays down and Crowley follows suit in perfect synchronicity, curling up at his back. He siphons some of the nervous energy out of Aziraphale as he presses his chest into Aziraphale’s back. Crowley begins brushing the tips of his fingers up and down Aziraphale’s arm.
“Is this all right?” he asks, a murmur at Aziraphale’s ear.
“Fine,” Aziraphale breathes. “I mean, more than fine,” he quickly corrects. “It’s quite nice, actually.” His eyelids drift closed as Crowley continues his light ministrations. “I’m sorry,” he says suddenly, “I’m sure this must be a rather strange request.”
“I’ve been asked to do stranger,” Crowley laughs, “trust me.”
Aziraphale smiles, basking in the pleasant sensation of the touch. The warmth of Crowley’s fingers through his cotton shirt melts away the rest of the anxiety he’s been holding in his chest all night.
“Speaking of strangers, your profile didn’t have a name,” Crowley says after a moment.
“Oh, yes,” Aziraphale says. “Erm, I believe I’m ‘user’ and then a sequence of numbers,” he laughs.
“Yeah, something like that,” Crowley says. “So, what shall I call you, then?”
Aziraphale’s eyes blink open as he swallows down a lump in his throat. He does like his name, truly. No one else in the world has it, and introducing himself always leads to questions about where it comes from or the story behind it.
But something deep and unknowable stops him from saying it. For some reason, in this moment, in this situation completely foreign to his everyday life, with this completely new person, the intrigue to have an entirely fresh start is overwhelming. To be someone other than lonely, bookshop-owning Aziraphale.
A thrill shoots through him, leaping and bounding throughout his chest at the opportunity before him. “Actually,” he braves, “I rather liked it, earlier, when you called me ‘angel’?”
“Yeah?” Crowley hums. “All right. Angel it is, then.”
Crowley snakes his arm under Aziraphale’s elbow and around his waist, pressing closer into him. Something erupts in Aziraphale, a tingling fluttering like the wings of a thousand butterflies flapping furiously against his ribcage. He sighs, covering Crowley’s hand with his own, holding tight.
INT. BOOKSHOP - NEXT MORNING
Sundays are the quietest — and somehow also the busiest — days of the week at A. Z. Fell’s Bookshop in Soho. You see, the earlier hours are slow (most folks are either at church or sleeping in) while the rush after lunch is consistently heavy. Sunday is, of course, the best end-of-week, or start-of-week, day for customers to run their errands, such as buying books.
Aziraphale’s regular customers consist primarily of young teens who are looking for recommendations for their summer reading list, middle-aged and/or retired women who need a hobby beyond knitting and quilting, and teachers and professors looking to acquire books for their curriculum. One such regular is Maggie, a secondary school teacher in a nearby district. She’s been coming to Aziraphale’s bookshop since she was a little girl, and she’s been buying books here for her classroom for her entire educational tenure.
Aziraphale brightens at the sound of the bell ringing over the door and the sight of Maggie in the doorway.
“Ah, my favorite customer!” he says as she comes into the shop.
“Good morning, Mr. Fell,” she replies cheerfully.
“How lovely to see you, dear.” He begins digging around the shelves behind his register. “Let’s see. To Kill A Mockingbird, am I right?”
“That’s the one.”
“Here we are.” He pulls out two stacks of books, each bound up with hemp rope and hands them over the counter.
“Impeccable presentation as always,” she admires, accepting the stacks, one in each hand.
“One of my favorites. Your students are going to love it,” Aziraphale says as he rings her up. “Especially young Isabella. Right up her alley.” Maggie temporarily sets the books on the floor to hand over a fistful of quid. Aziraphale counts out her change from the register. “Anything you’d like for next week?” he asks.
“Yes,” she answers, retrieving her books, “we’ll be spending next month on Golding, so naturally I thought we should start with —”
“Lord of the Flies!” he exclaims, scribbling the order down on a spare bit of paper. “Excellent choice. A truly remarkable biblical allegory. Twenty copies per usual?”
“You got it.”
Aziraphale scribbles a note under the order. “Don’t be surprised if you find an extra few copies in there. No extra charge, of course,” he adds with a wink.
Maggie smirks. “You’re too kind, Mr. Fell.”
“Well,” he says, waving the compliment off, “I’m a big fan. Of the book, and of you, my dear.”
She watches him with an amused expression as he sets the purchase order aside, humming something quietly. “You’re awfully cheery today,” she notes.
“Am I?” Aziraphale smiles thoughtfully. “I hadn’t noticed.”
“Something… or someone special to blame for that?”
Aziraphale blushes slightly. “I’m quite sure I don’t know what you mean.”
Just then, as though God herself decided to sprinkle down a little comedic timing, his phone lights up on the counter and pings with a notification. He sees that it's from the app Heavenly Hosts and throws his hand over the screen to cover it from Maggie’s gleeful, prying eyes. Her grin gets wider as he hastily avoids eye contact, slipping the phone into his pocket where it won’t cause any more trouble.
Any comment she’s about to make is interrupted by the jingle of the front door as a gentleman walks in, holding a lavish bouquet of flowers. More comedic timing. Maggie erupts into giggles. “You’re not fooling me, Mr. Fell!” she says, curtseying to the delivery man as she excuses herself and her new books from the shop.
“Mr. A. Z. Fell?” the man asks as he approaches. “Nice place you got here, sir. Haven’t seen a bookshop like this since my primary years. That’s a long time ago, now.” He holds the bouquet up in one hand and offers a clipboard with a pen in the other. “Need you to sign for it.”
Aziraphale hastily signs the delivery confirmation and then accepts the bouquet of flowers. “Have a nice day, sir,” the man nods and carries on his way out the door.
Aziraphale takes in the bouquet in his hands. A smile tweaks at the corner of his mouth for just a moment. Then the bright expression quickly falls from his face, like shutters snapping out the sun. The white lilies, the pink carnations, the baby’s breath, the beautiful orchids — it’s all wrong. Rather, it’s all wrong to be something joyful. Unfortunately, it’s all too familiar. He spies the small card tucked in between a few of the longer stems. He takes it out and reads it begrudgingly.
To the Fell family — please receive our heartfelt condolences on this most grievous loss. May God be with you during this time. Love, the Rossignol family.
Just as he expected. He sighs, gathering up the flowers and carrying them into the —
INT. BOOKSHOP/MUDROOM - MORNING - CONTINUOUS
Aziraphale carefully removes one flower of each variety from the bouquet and takes them over to the sink. He plucks a pair of pruning shears from the counter and, in a pail beneath the faucet, he dunks the stems under the water and snips off perfect forty-five degree angles. Satisfied with his handiwork, he rehomes the flowers in a much smaller, thin glass vase and places it onto a table that counts a few dozen other small vases with similarly simplified arrangements.
He tosses the remainder of the new bouquet into a green bin under the counter, on top of a pile of already-decaying flowers and eucalyptus.
INT. BOOKSHOP/SITTING ROOM - MORNING - MOMENTS LATER
Aziraphale drops into his large sitting chair, a faraway look in his eyes. He holds a small name plaque that reads “A. Z. FELL’S BOOKSHOP - EST 1906” and runs his fingers along the gold embossed letters, as though touching them could spark a bit of magic. He smiles with his lips, but his eyes express something else entirely.
Apropos of positively nothing, he suddenly remembers the phone in his pocket and the unread push notification. He sets the name plaque down and fishes the phone from his waistcoat pocket, fumbling with abrupt impatience. He reads:
We hope you enjoyed your time with A.J.CROWLEY. If you received outstanding service, don’t forget to leave a rating or comment! 📷
Aziraphale surprises himself with a small laugh. He claps his fingers to his lips as though embarrassed his books might hear this moment of weakness, a smudge on his otherwise solemn affect. He taps the notification with his thumb. The app’s splash screen flickers on before dissolving into a review UI. The top reads A.J.CROWLEY, and there are a few rows of stars — ranging from two thumbs-down emojis on the left to two thumbs up emojis on the right — and varying headings below: Punctuality, Attention to Service, Creativity, Follow-Through, and Overall.📷
“Technology,” Aziraphale marvels to himself. He marks the fifth star in all categories and scrolls down. Just before the submit button, there is a small text box (optional) to leave additional information. He pauses thoughtfully. Then with a smile, he pulls up the emoji bank. He swipes until he finds one with an angel face, taps that in, and submits his review.
An exit screen loads just as Aziraphale is about to swipe the app closed.
Thank you for submitting your review of A.J.CROWLEY.
Did you know? You can view your Call history and previously reviewed Hosts in your Account History.📷
The last two words are underlined in a sparkling gold hyperlink. Curious, Aziraphale clicks the text. His Account History loads, showing, as promised: Previous Calls, listing the profile of one A.J.CROWLEY, showing four-and-a-half stars with 4.78 next to it and a little right-pointed arrow to expand the full review. Aziraphale smirks, finding this whole thing entirely, ridiculously absurd.📷
Then, another button below the reviews catches his attention: CALL AGAIN. It doesn’t take up a ton of real estate on the screen, relatively, but it draws his attention in like a homing beacon. He hesitates, reflecting on the idea. He had downloaded the app on a whim off a very enticing social media ad (one he had seen more times than he could count). Going through the process of actually Calling someone was very spontaneous. A rare moment of vulnerability, an uncharacteristic, out-of-body decision. But certainly not something he planned to make a habit of.
He curses the accessibility of modern technology and presses the button.