Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Nothing in the universe stays the same forever. Crowley, having spent what amounts to eternity in human terms, knows this better than most. As a demon, he’s rather fond of change—thrives on it, even. He’s more in tune with the ebb and flow of human trends than many actual humans, especially the ones who mutter things like, “Back in my day…”
Sure, he sometimes wonders if things are changing too fast—particularly the day he realised Queen had fallen out of fashion. (In his opinion, they ought to be immortal.)

Still, on one particular corner of Whick Street, time seems to have stood still.

Crowley parked the Bentley and sauntered towards the red-fronted bookshop, pastry box in hand. Along the way, he caught Maggie’s eye—Maggie of the record shop—who waved at him cheerily. Honestly, he sometimes suspected the department responsible for building the human brain must’ve cut a few corners. How else could no one have noticed how… peculiar this place was?
Maggie had inherited the record store from her grandmother, and she’d been running around this neighbourhood since she was a child. How had she never clocked the uncanny resemblance between her current landlady, Ms Fell, and her grandmother’s landlady? They looked uncannily alike—far beyond what you'd expect from distant family members.

And let’s not even start on the fact that Aziraphale hadn’t changed her outfit in centuries.

Crowley pushed open the door and strode in, casually removing his sunglasses and hanging them on the little table by the entrance—a table whose decorative stand had long since been repurposed into his personal eyewear perch. He didn’t care whether there were customers in the shop, or if anyone might glimpse his decidedly un-human, slit-pupilled eyes.

This was Aziraphale’s place. And in here, he did as he pleased.

He glanced to the left, and sure enough, there she was—seated behind her desk, a beam of sunlight pouring through the front window and catching in her long, fluffy, platinum-gold curls, forming what could only be described (in human terms) as a literal halo.
Not that she couldn’t produce an actual halo. She was an angel, after all.

Of course, she was an angel—she could radiate actual divine light, if she chose. But there was something about the way the sunlight caught her hair that felt more... poetic. Less heaven-sent, more heartbreakingly human.

Time didn’t just slow in this bookshop—it curled up in the corner and took a nap.
Even though they’d been mid-quarrel at the time, Crowley was quite certain that in 1941, as Aziraphale sat at this very desk, sorting through her books in preparation for that fateful church rendezvous, the scene would have looked exactly the same as it did now.

She was wearing her glasses—a sure sign she was deeply absorbed in whatever she was scribbling. When the glasses were on, Aziraphale was firmly in “do not disturb” mode, and would remain so for the foreseeable future.
Crowley hesitated.
He was briefly torn between two equally tempting options:
—Creep up behind her and give her a bit of a fright, purely for the pleasure of watching her faux-indignant scolding.
—Or settle in and wait, then enjoy the sweets he’d brought with her (mostly watching her eat them).

He chose the latter, albeit with a dramatic sigh, and flung himself into his usual spot on the sofa.

Just as Crowley’s demon-grade patience was wearing perilously thin, Aziraphale finally looked up—turning as if she’d somehow sensed him.
Her face, that perfect blend of every Renaissance master’s depiction of the Madonna, lit up the moment she saw him.

“Crowley! When did you get here? I didn’t notice you at all!”

Crowley would never, under any circumstances, admit how much he liked hearing his name spoken in that voice, laced with delight and framed by those wide, baby-blue eyes.
If Nina from the café across the road had been present, she would undoubtedly have told him to "rein in that look before someone calls it a proposal." But Nina wasn’t here.
And Aziraphale, bless her, never noticed. After all, that was just the way Crowley had always looked at her.

“I’ve been waiting quite a while,” he drawled, making a deliberate show of not sounding too much like he was whining. “No joke, you were so focused that my side could have launched three invasions, popped across the road for a coffee in between, and you still wouldn’t have noticed.”
“Oh, you do say the silliest things,” Aziraphale replied, utterly oblivious to the sarcasm. She stepped over to him with serene confidence and perched on the sofa’s edge, right between his outstretched legs and the armrest. “But no demon could break into this shop. You know that.”
“I did just break in,” he pointed out.
“You’re different.”

“How exactly am I ‘different’?” The words slipped out before he could stop them, and the moment they left his lips, he regretted not miracle-ing them into silence.

“Because you were invited, of course,” Aziraphale replied, tilting her head with innocent logic. “Although, I’m not quite sure which invitation counts as the start. But I do recall writing in that letter back in 1783, when I told you I planned to open a bookshop—I’m fairly certain I ended with ‘You’re always welcome.’ So, even if the shop didn’t technically exist yet, the invitation’s been valid ever since.”
There were many things in the world that could be measured. Celestial permissions, unfortunately, were not among them.

Crowley didn’t know what sort of answer he’d expected, or why he’d even asked. But whatever it was, his previously good mood had dimmed by a shade.

“So,” she asked brightly, “what brings you here today?”

It was an odd question. Crowley rarely needed a reason to visit the bookshop, and Aziraphale had never asked for one.
But then he noticed her gaze flitting—not quite subtly—towards the pastry box he’d placed on the table.
The demon from hell decided to pretend he hadn’t noticed.

“What? Can’t I just drop by?” he said, feigning offence. “Are you telling me that the ‘Welcome’ all the way back in 1783 came with conditions? How very unangelic of you.”
“I didn’t mean—oh,” Aziraphale began flustered, only to break off when she caught the devilish grin tugging at his mouth. Despite herself, she laughed. “Fine, tell me what’s in the box. Is it what I think it is? Is it... for today’s tea?”

A confirming nod was all it took. She sprang up from the sofa like champagne from a shaken bottle.

“You lay the table, I’ll make the tea! Don’t forget to flip the ‘Closed’ sign!” Her platinum curls bounced like sunlight as she swept off towards the kitchen.
Crowley rose to carry out his assigned task. His expression barely changed, but his mood was unmistakably buoyant.

“You’ll want wine, won’t you, Crowley?” Aziraphale called from the kitchen. “I happened upon a bottle of Romanée-Conti—though not the finest vintage, I’m afraid.”
“Doesn’t matter,” he said, half-smiling. “Anything you give me, I’ll take.”
That earned him a smile wide enough to light all of Soho.

Within the shuttered bookshop, a small round table had been laid with a tablecloth. On one side, ruby wine glinted in its glass. On the other, steam curled invitingly from a freshly brewed pot of tea.
Aziraphale, humming contentedly, opened the box.
Crowley took a slow sip of wine, hiding his anticipation behind the rim of his glass—and resisting the urge to comment on the fact that she was, in his presence, humming “God Rest You Merry, Gentlemen.”

He had expected surprise. Delight. Maybe even effusive praise.
What he got was: “...Cupcakes? But they look a bit... odd?”
“This, my dear angel, is a Cruffin. From Richoux,” he said, with pointed emphasis on the name. No self-respecting demon goes unrecognised for effort.
“Cruffin?” Aziraphale blinked. Clear confusion. A total blank.
“You live in Soho,” he said, scandalised.

It was unbelievable. The newest darling of the pastry world had just moved into the neighbourhood. Even typing ‘Soho’ into a search bar would bring up ‘Cruffin’ before you hit the ‘o’. Crowley had only gotten this box because someone with a reservation had a "last-minute emergency."
Aziraphale’s wide-eyed innocence was almost... painful.

“Never mind,” he sighed. “Just try it. I think you’ll like it.”

The first bite offered crisp, buttery layers—croissant-light. Then came the soft richness of whipped cream, warm vanilla custard following in its wake. Just when the decadence threatened to become too much, a sharp, bright fruit jam cut through, balancing sweetness with tang. And at the end, a sip of fragrant Earl Grey brought everything together in one perfect sigh.

Aziraphale leaned back and gave a small, blissful groan. It was moments like this—utterly human, inexplicably wonderful—that made her love the world.
Across the table, Crowley sipped his wine and didn’t take his eyes off her.
She was doing something she loved. And so was he.

“Oh, Crowley, that was simply divine,” Aziraphale said, still glowing from pastry-induced ecstasy. “You always bring the most marvellous experiences.”
Crowley snorted quietly into his glass. No way in hell was he going to say, “I’d rather hear that in a different context.”
Impure thoughts lead people to hell during the Last Judgment, but that is where he came from.

“How do you always manage to find these strange and wonderful things?” she asked, studying the Cruffin like a newly discovered species.
“For someone who loves sweets as much as you do, your lack of dessert knowledge is criminal,” Crowley muttered. “What do you even eat most days?”
“I had a mince pie yesterday. Nina recommended it.”
Crowley stared. “A mince pie? Are we back in the 18th century? Am I taking tea with the dowager countess at her country estate?”
Aziraphale puffed up slightly in protest. That was needlessly rude.

“The countess bit I’ll accept,” she said huffily, “but why a widow?”

That’s what she’s offended by? Crowley wisely chose not to follow that line of inquiry, but somehow got a feeling that he should pursue.

“Honestly, angel, it’s time you embraced the modern world—phones, internet, all of it,” he said, downing the last of his wine, throat rasping slightly. “Most people can’t just call a demon. But I never know where you are, so my phone is more open than King’s bloody Cross. Hell, thanks—” He passed his glass over for a refill. “What I’m saying is: get a phone. Trust me, London’s entire cold-call industry will thank you.”
Crowley always ensures that unsolicited marketers who dared to phone a demon paid and never make the same mistake twice.

“Well, I don’t really need a phone,” Aziraphale said, not quite convincingly. “You’re the only one I need to be in touch with regularly.” without noticing the way Crowley’s lips curled upward at that.

“Fine, not a phone. But the internet can do so much more,” he gestured at the pastries. “You wouldn’t want to miss out on this sort of thing, would you? These places don’t put ads in newspapers anymore, angel. And the posters you used to clip for your little scrapbook? Half those shops are Instagram-only now.”

Aziraphale hesitated. She could imagine how lovely it would be to discover treats like this on her own. But part of her didn’t want to be persuaded so easily.
And perhaps… if she had a phone, Crowley might not stop by as often. And that idea—unsettlingly—she didn’t quite like.

A decent demon will never miss a vacillation.
“How about this,” he said, pulling out an iPad from seemingly nowhere (don’t ask—demons have their ways). “If you’re not ready for a phone, try this instead. Doesn’t make calls, but it’ll help you find whatever you like.”

Crowley doesn't see himself as a hardcore Apple fan. He never queued outside an I Store for the latest model—“Please. I invented overnight queues to harvest human misery,” he would scoff. Still, he was a loyal enough user. And when he found out the company’s founder had gone to Hell instead of Heaven, he had secretly felt a bit sorry about it.
The iPad, for its part, had been something of a misguided purchase. He’d intended to use it for “online engagement”—part of Hell’s initiative to increase infernal influence via social media. But it turned out his phone was more than sufficient. Most of the job could be done with a few taps, a sarcastic emoji, and the occasional thumbs-down.
Frankly, Crowley didn’t see the appeal of one-on-one temptation anymore. Why corrupt a soul in person when you could ruin someone's day in bulk with one well-placed comment on a viral post?
It had been collecting dust—until today, when it suddenly found its higher (or lower) purpose.

“I suppose… I’ll give it a try.”Aziraphale accepted it with the air of someone accepting a magical artefact rather than a consumer device.

Crowley leaned in, smirking as he began to show her the basics. Aziraphale listened intently, lips pursed, eyes focused.

The temptation had worked. Demonic persuasion, after all, always starts with the smallest things.

Chapter Text

Aziraphale thought life was positively radiant.

All it took was a few keywords—barely even complete sentences—typed into the search bar, and she could get access to culinary treasures from across London. No, not just London. The entire United Kingdom, really—complete with elegant photos and actual user experiences.

No more relying on chance discoveries at street corners; she could scarcely believe how much she’d been missing. Of course, this wasn’t her first time using the internet. The bookshop’s ancient desktop computer, miraculously still functional, did have access to such things. But—if she may be excused the opinion—the experience was hardly comparable.
Brimming with the same enthusiasm she once had for cutting out food advertisements from newspapers, Aziraphale eagerly noted down every place she found and fancied trying. Thanks to online reviews, she could now even annotate each with useful remarks like “highly recommended dish” or “the soufflé was particularly good”—though she’d undoubtedly end up asking the staff in person anyway.

One fine sunny afternoon, Aziraphale had just finished reviewing the contents of a newly acquired batch of old books. She stood up from a chair she couldn’t recall sitting in for quite that long and stretched contentedly.

“This is a perfect day for a lovely meal out,” she murmured to herself, in a splendid mood, humming a random tune as she flipped open her notebook (paper, of course) to choose today’s destination.
Although not much time had passed since she began this new hobby, the notebook had already amassed a fair collection of entries—some marked with notes, others stamped with a “Visited” label.

Richoux. The Cruffin Crowley brought her that day had been unbelievably delicious. She’d looked up the place straightaway, and visited the next day, only to discover—to her delight—that they sold far more than just pastries.
“The breakfast bread set was quite good, too,” she had written at the bottom of that page, and placed a sticker in the upper-left corner to indicate “Would Visit Again.”

Blacklock, which had popped up during a serendipitous search under “Soho,” was another unexpected delight. She had been astonished to learn that such a place—regularly listed among “London’s Must-Visit Steakhouses”—was right in Soho all along, and she’d never once heard of it.
Her verdict: “The beef ribs were excellent.”
(A side note: Not the best ribs she’d ever had, of course. That title belonged to a dish long gone, never surpassed. And never to be tasted again.)

Not every experience, however, had been quite so moving.

After inputting far too many combinations of “Soho” and “London” as keywords, the ever-present algorithm—though Aziraphale had no idea what that actually was—suggested to her a restaurant with what the website described as “dramatic” décor.
Given her previous visits to several “must-try” venues, each nearly perfect in execution, Aziraphale had placed her trust in the list. She did only minimal research—just skimmed a few reviews—and set off at once, particularly pleased to have miraculously secured a reservation.
In hindsight, all of the shared posts focused on the interior design rather than the food. So she wasn’t precisely disappointed—no, she chalked it up as a lapse in judgement.

“The food was rather nice,” she wrote. “Not quite as astonishing as I had hoped, but I suppose that’s on me.”

Though this “splendid life” had only just begun, Aziraphale had already marked several restaurants as “visited” in her notebook. Naturally, she was still Heaven’s official representative on Earth, and there were many important matters to attend to. She didn’t exactly have the leisure to go gallivanting across the city day after day.
(That said, she had recently run into Maggie, and during their small talk, Maggie had commented, “You’ve been out and about a bit more often lately, haven’t you?”)

Whenever Crowley visited the bookshop, he’d often bring a little pastry or snack—an old habit of his.
But curiously, those pastries had begun to shift. They were no longer just “things Aziraphale has always loved,” but rather “things Aziraphale had recently wanted to try.”
And when Aziraphale exclaimed, “Oh! I’ve been thinking about trying this lately!” Crowley would usually respond with nothing more than a casual, “What a coincidence,” or, “Looks like I’ve got excellent taste today.”

She turned to a brand-new, unmarked page.

The Ritz afternoon tea—or more precisely, their seasonal, limited-edition themed afternoon tea.

What could be more enticing than a well-established, consistently excellent venue introducing a brand new menu?
For someone unfamiliar with the workings of the internet or algorithms, someone who didn’t even have a social media account, it seemed perfectly natural for such a renowned and beloved institution—nearly a landmark of London in its own right—to appear frequently on “trending” or “recommended” lists.

Aziraphale saw nothing odd about it. Of course a restaurant like that would be widely discussed. It was only proper.

As eager and enchanted as she was, this wouldn’t be today’s destination.
It wasn’t that she couldn’t dine alone—her past culinary outings had proven otherwise. But some places… well, they simply felt wrong to experience alone. As if going solo would somehow miss the point.

She’d wait until Crowley came by next.
They could go together. That felt right.

With that settled, she flipped back a few pages and decided to revisit one of the restaurants she’d already tried—something safe and familiar, but with the intention of ordering what she’d skipped last time.

Still, her heart lingered.

That Ritz afternoon tea kept floating in her mind, tempting her like a well-placed display of fondant fancies.
Unable to help herself, she picked up the iPad Crowley had given her and typed in “Ritz Hotel afternoon tea” once again.

Her eyes drifted to the page, noting the date beside "Offer ends on..."

She glanced out the window. The familiar Bentley wasn’t parked across the street.

She and Crowley didn’t keep in close contact, not really.
Over the centuries, most of their meetings had been incidental—assignments from Heaven that happened to overlap with Crowley’s work on Earth, or odd discoveries that required coordination.
(Like that one time they’d gone to Scotland to inspect a suspiciously lifelike statue of Gabriel.)

It wasn’t until Aziraphale had opened the bookshop that their meetings had become more frequent—because Crowley started dropping by.
Even so, they rarely arranged to meet on purpose.

She vaguely remembered that the last time they spoke, Crowley had mentioned going to Scotland.
Had he returned yet?
If he had, and he dropped by, then she’d invite him to the Ritz for tea.

I do hope we make it before the seasonal set ends, Aziraphale thought.

Chapter Text

Crowley thought life was pretty damn good.

He was currently speeding down the motorway from Scotland back to London, engine roaring in harmony with a Queen medley blasting through the speakers. On the passenger seat sat a small, elegant paper box, the kind with overly whimsical typography that read: The Fudge House of Edinburgh. Every so often, a faint, buttery sweetness would drift out. As it happened, Aziraphale had that very shop noted down in her notebook—with a handwritten comment beside it: “Scottish fudge shop—should plan a work trip.”
Naturally, Crowley had never seen the notebook. He only knew it existed. And even a demon couldn’t actually read an angel’s mind.
But the fact that he always managed to bring Aziraphale exactly the treat she’d been thinking about lately?
Well. If coincidences happened too many times, then clearly... it wasn’t a coincidence.

What Crowley hadn’t told Aziraphale, during their little iPad tutorial session, was that the device was logged in with his Apple ID. And his Google account.

Which meant—technically speaking—Crowley could see Aziraphale’s search history. All he had to do was check the most frequently repeated entries, and voilà: he’d know what she was craving.
By human standards, this was perhaps a touch unethical.
But he was a demon. Human standards didn’t apply to him, and frankly, he couldn’t care less.

Besides, he loved the way she’d bounce with surprise and delight whenever he turned up with the exact pastry she’d just been daydreaming about.

Still, fudge alone didn’t feel quite right for tea. Not elegant enough. Not… shareable.
Been a while since we went out for a proper meal together, Crowley mused, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel.

“Hey, Siri,” he said aloud, not taking his eyes off the road, “show me the last three Google search keywords.”

A soft chime, and then the flat, emotionless voice of his least favourite artificial entity replied:

“Here are your three most recent Google search keywords:
‘Ritz Hotel afternoon tea,’
‘Ritz Hotel afternoon tea times,’
‘Scottish desserts.’”

Crowley snorted. “Ritz? What on earth does she still need to search for? She knows more about that place than the staff do.”

He skipped over the last entry—Scottish desserts—assuming it meant Aziraphale had intended to ask him to bring something back but had abandoned the idea halfway, unsure where he actually was.

Siri, unbothered by demonic sarcasm, cheerfully added:
“Sorry, I didn’t quite get that.”
“Tch.” Crowley rolled his eyes. “Sometimes I wish Hell’s systems were half this responsive—though they’d still find a way to make it hell.”

If only Hell could apply Siri. But no—when Hell needed to send him updates, it just dumped information directly into his brain, sensory override and all. He hated that.
Especially when it happened while he was driving.
And to make it worse, Dagon had once asked him, during a mission debrief: “What’s a mobile phone?”
Crowley still hadn’t emotionally recovered from that.

“Right, Siri. Search social media for ‘Ritz Hotel afternoon tea.’ Read me the top three trending post titles.”
He figured something about the Ritz must’ve recently gone viral—that’s probably why it kept showing up in Aziraphale’s searches. Must’ve been some marketing campaign or whatever it is humans call those things.

“Searching ‘Ritz Hotel afternoon tea’,” Siri intoned.
A brief pause. Then:
“Top three trending post titles related to ‘Ritz Hotel afternoon tea’ are:
‘A Limited-Time Afternoon Tea That Celebrates Love,’
‘Take Your Special Someone—The Perfect Romantic Date Spot,’
‘Top 100% Guaranteed Proposal Locations.’”

“…WHAT?!”

The Bentley swerved just a bit. Not dangerously—just enough to startle a nearby family in a Ford Fiesta as Crowley’s grip slipped for half a second and he corrected the wheel with a flourish.

“Proposal? Proposal?!” Crowley hissed at the windshield, as if it had personally betrayed him.
He had expected something along the lines of “Seasonal offer”—yes. But this? This was not on his bingo card.

“I’ve also searched ‘Ritz Hotel afternoon tea proposal’ and ‘Ritz Hotel afternoon tea romantic date,’” Siri added helpfully.

“I didn’t ask—ugh. Never mind. Thanks, Siri,” Crowley muttered through gritted teeth.

“You’re very welcome,” she replied cheerfully.

Of course she was.
For some reason, Crowley felt like he had just undergone the most violent emotional rollercoaster he’d experienced in the last hundred years.

Was Aziraphale really searching the Ritz because of that sort of content?
Love-themed tea? Romantic dates? Proposals?

No, impossible. No way. Absolutely not.

…Right?

But if not those… then what?
And if it was those…

Did she want to go with him?

His mind spun like the Bentley’s tyres on a wet corner. The star-cloud of overthinking had begun forming with alarming speed.

Should he still offer to take her?
What if she was expecting something he wasn’t expecting her to be expecting?!

With a growl of frustration and a foot slammed firmly on the accelerator, the Bentley surged forward, engine howling in demonic delight.
They tore down the motorway at speeds no vintage car had any business achieving, while Crowley ignored the shocked stares of passing drivers and focused on just one thing:

Getting back to London.
Fast.

Chapter Text

Night had fallen, and every streetlamp on Whickber Street was aglow. But Soho, as ever, refused to sleep just because the sun had gone down.

Inside the pitch-black Bentley, Crowley sat motionless—his silence a sharp contrast to the laughter and nightlife outside. Through the shop’s red-framed windows, warm light spilt out. At the desk by the front window, he could see that familiar silhouette.

Strange how getting out of the car and walking across the street had never felt like such an insurmountable task.

He’d had several hours on the road to sort out his thoughts, but no matter how many times he’d turned them over, he’d come to no conclusion.

Should he just ask her directly?
But that would mean admitting he’d been peeking at her digital footprint—which, while efficient, was rather hard to explain without raising a thousand more questions.

And what if he was wrong?
What if the angel had just searched for those things on a whim? What if she never even read those posts, never planned to go to that afternoon tea?
In that case, wouldn’t he be making things unnecessarily complicated for himself?

Still… “romance” and “date.”
He couldn’t ignore those words. Wouldn’t. Shouldn’t.

“Proposal” was another matter entirely. That he chose to pretend it had never happened.

Maybe I should just go home. Crowley—who had taken orders he didn’t particularly care for, and fought in the literal war in Heaven—was, at this moment, contemplating the heroic act of turning around and fleeing the scene.

Fate, unfortunately, had other ideas.

Just as he made to finally tear his eyes away from the window, Aziraphale looked up—like she always did—and spotted him. Their eyes met.
She beamed, waving at him, blue eyes bright with delight.

Well. That was that, then.

I’m just here to deliver the fudge, Crowley told himself.
Just delivering fudge. That’s it. No questions, no implications, no heart palpitations. Absolutely nothing else.

His thoughts were in such chaos that the short walk across the street felt like a mere three steps.

And, naturally, before he even reached the door, it swung open from the inside.

There she stood—the cause of all this madness—smiling like the sun in June.
“Crowley! I didn’t expect you at this hour! Have you just got back from Scotland?”It was late, and Aziraphale was clearly dressed for bed: a flowing, slightly old-fashioned nightgown in silk with lace trim, a pale beige dressing robe over it, and her platinum curls—usually half-pinned—now loose, with a few strands falling gently over her chest.

Abort mission. Abort mission.
Every internal alarm in Crowley’s head went off at once. This was… not ideal.

“Yes,” he said aloud, clinging to his one remaining coherent thought.
“I brought you something—from The Fudge House of Edinburgh. Figured you wanted to try it.” Which, of course, gave the game away immediately.

“Oh, you did?! Crowley, thank you so much!” Mercifully, Aziraphale didn’t notice the slip. “Come in, come in!”

Before Crowley knew it, he was inside.

Aziraphale had already popped a piece of fudge into her mouth and was now glowing with sugary satisfaction, humming and pottering about the shop in that distracted, cozy way she always did when she was happy. She was talking—probably thanking him and commenting on the flavour—but Crowley didn’t catch a single word.

He was too busy staring at her.

“…Angel,” he blurted suddenly, “how about we go out for dinner sometime? Say, this Saturday? It’s been a while since we’ve had a proper meal together.” His mouth had apparently gone rogue. Nothing else in his body was under his control anymore.

“Like—uh—the Ritz, maybe?”

“Oh, yes! I was just about to ask you that,” Aziraphale replied with such perfect enthusiasm it might have been rehearsed. “They’ve got a seasonal-themed menu I’ve been eager to try.”

“You know about this afternoon tea theme?”

“I do! I happened to, erm, stumble across it online, and thought—I must invite Crowley next time we see each other. And today, well—I’d just been thinking about it again!”

Crowley had absolutely no idea how he got from the bookshop back to his flat.

Aziraphale knew about the afternoon tea theme.

And she wanted to go… with him.

What on earth did that mean?

Crowley twisted himself into increasingly unnatural positions—leaning against walls, hanging upside-down from the back of the sofa—in a desperate attempt to force sleep to overtake his racing mind.

No luck.

Something had shifted. He could feel it. Things had gone from mildly confusing to utterly incomprehensible the moment he’d stepped through that bookshop door.

----

Elsewhere in London, Aziraphale, too, was unable to sleep—but for entirely different reasons.

She simply couldn’t wait. It wasn’t as if this would be her first visit to the Ritz. But for some reason, her head was absolutely filled with thoughts of Saturday, and of Crowley, and of tea.

It was as though… they’d never gone together before. Not like this.

Perhaps it was simply that they hadn’t done anything together in quite some time?

But then again—Crowley had seemed a bit… strange earlier, hadn’t he?

After thousands of years, Aziraphale knew him well enough to notice these things. He hadn’t been his usual sardonic, slouching self. He’d been oddly stiff. Nervous, even.

Could there be something about the Ritz she wasn’t aware of? She had to admit—when it came to information-gathering, she was nowhere near as adept as Crowley.

Had she missed something?

Well, since sleep wasn’t coming, she reached for the iPad.

No harm in checking the menu again, she told herself. After all, we’re definitely going now. The anticipation just hits differently.

She typed “Ritz Hotel afternoon tea” into the search bar.

Instead of the usual suggestions like “menu” or “times,” two new entries appeared:
“Ritz Hotel afternoon tea date” and
“Ritz Hotel afternoon tea proposal.”

(Naturally, Aziraphale did not notice that the icons next to these new entries were slightly different- a clock instead of a magnifier. Crowley had once told her that the suggestions below the search bar were simply “frequently searched phrases.”)

“‘Date’ I can understand,” she murmured.
A fancy place offering refined food—of course it would be suitable for couples.

“But this ‘proposal’ thing… what’s that about?”
Surely Londoners weren’t all suddenly rushing to get married; what could possibly link proposals to the Ritz?
Out of sheer curiosity, Aziraphale clicked on “Ritz Hotel afternoon tea proposal.”

She assumed it would be the usual fare—perhaps a few personal stories, someone sharing their experience of being proposed to over tea.
She wasn’t entirely unfamiliar with the modern trend of public proposals, someone had once inquired about renting the bookshop for one, after all.

But the search results that appeared were far beyond what she’d expected.

Titles like:
“We Found Love: How the Ritz Became London’s Most Romantic Proposal Spot,”
“Afternoon Tea Proposal Success Rates at the Ritz Smash Industry KPIs,” and
“I Should’ve Known—He Proposed at the Ritz!”

Each headline is more unhinged than the last.
Most were accompanied by red and pink graphics, melodramatic background music, and overly emotional videos of elaborate proposals—shot in the very same Palm Court Aziraphale knew like the back of her hand.

The most alarming article bore the title:
“There’s Only One Reason He Invites You to Afternoon Tea at the Ritz: He’s Going to Propose.”

Hundreds of comments below gleefully affirmed the same idea:
If he takes you to the Ritz for afternoon tea right now, it’s absolutely not “just” tea.

In her previous searches, she’d never gone beyond the Ritz’s official website, which had always appeared at the top of the results, and given her unwavering faith in the place, she’d never thought to look elsewhere.

Of course, “Love” as a theme had seemed commonplace, almost expected.
She hadn’t thought much of it when she saw it on the site.

So she had been completely unaware of what social media had turned this particular afternoon tea into.

Could that be what Crowley meant?
Is that why he seemed so nervous earlier?

He—he wouldn’t—
No, no, of course not.
…Right?

Though, to be fair, the other trending phrase was “date.”
So maybe—just maybe—it wasn’t that serious.

But then again… they weren’t even that sort of relationship. Were they?

They were… friends.

She’d always hesitated when calling Crowley a friend—because of the “opposing sides” issue.
But lately, that hesitation felt different.
Something else entirely.

Aziraphale felt as though something had cracked inside her understanding of the world.
Something unfamiliar was beginning to take root.

What on earth did Crowley mean?

Tonight was destined to be sleepless.

But then again, in London, there were always those who stayed up through the night.
And at least they had the nightingales of Berkeley Square to keep them company.

Chapter Text

Saturday. The appointed day.
What a “lovely” day it was.

Crowley slid on his sunglasses, took a deep breath, and stepped out of the Bentley.
In the pocket of his well-fitted black blazer was a small, square object. With every step he took, it knocked gently against his side—a silent, rhythmic accusation.
To Crowley, it felt like a lump of burning coal. Proof of his momentary lapse in sanity.

The usually self-assured demon had no idea what had come over him.

Ever since that day, his digital life has been overrun by ads for engagement rings and proposal venues. Endless recommendations bombarded him with tips like “Top Ring Styles of the Year” and “101 Things to Know Before You Pop the Question.”

All because he’d made one search using Siri? The punishment hardly fit the crime.

Even when he tried to focus on his infernal duties—stirring up trouble on social media, for instance, with the occasional carefully curated incendiary comment—the ads still found him, like a blond hound.
Whether it was targeted posts, mysterious pop-ups, or uninvited map suggestions pointing out nearby jewellers, the message was consistent:

The universe—algorithmic and otherwise—had decided he was up to an event concerning a ring.
No, he is not using the word that starts with a "P".
Hell help him.

It was maddening enough trying to untangle Aziraphale’s possible intentions—was it all a misunderstanding? Was it mutual? Should he do something about it?—without the internet itself yelling “JUST PROPOSE ALREADY” in a thousand glittery fonts.
Eventually, yesterday, in a moment of complete and total loss of judgment (or perhaps the final straw of digital peer pressure), he had caved.

He bought a ring.

A princess-cut diamond. 0.666-He couldn’t not buy it, once he saw the number-carats.
And now that very box was sitting in his pocket, radiating awkward symbolism.

Humans really are terrifying, he thought. They made algorithms powerful enough to manipulate a demon’s behaviour. Mine.

Crowley pointedly avoided examining the deeper question:
Even if Aziraphale had meant something by inviting him… why had he taken it as a sign?

Why was he—a “friend,” allegedly—responding with this?

He forced himself to ignore the box as best he could and strode up to the bookshop. With a dramatic flourish, he flung the door open.

“Aziraphale!”

There she was, standing in the middle of the shop, arms full of books, bathed in light from the overhead skylight. The glow hit her blonde curls just so, making her eyes look impossibly bright.

I’m losing my mind, Crowley thought. She looked… radiant. Unreasonably so.
Even the box in his pocket felt lighter now.

Broadly speaking, Aziraphale had dressed up.
Her hair, usually half-up and casually tousled, had been meticulously brushed. No stray curls escaped the smooth waves, which gleamed with an almost unnatural gloss.
Aziraphale herself didn’t quite know what had gotten into her.

She kept telling herself the idea of that happening—of that sort of gesture—was absurd.
But the tiniest voice inside her whispered: What if?
That voice had only grown louder after reading one too many enthusiastic comments beneath the post: “Make sure you look your best! It could be your big moment!”

In truth, she’d noticed the Bentley parked outside long ago. Had even checked, discreetly, several times.
But she couldn’t quite bring herself to open the door like she usually did. Instead, when she heard him approaching, she’d hastily grabbed a stack of books to pretend she was mid-task.

“Act normal.”
Both the angel and the demon thought the exact same thing at the exact same time.

Crowley gestured vaguely at the books in her arms. “Bad timing?”

“Oh, not at all! These can wait.” (They had already been sorted twice.) “We can head out straightaway.” Aziraphale set the books aside and walked to the door. Crowley held it open for her with a practised ease, flipping the open/closed sign without a word.
“You’re rather late today, Crowley. Didn’t you once say Soho after noon on a Saturday becomes ‘an absolute nightmare of humanity where the cars have to queue in parallel dimensions’?”
“I stand by that. And you don’t want to know how I got through. Let’s just say the laws of physics were lightly encouraged to mind their own business.” He ignored the usual look of Aziraphale's disapproval of his driving, then explained what motivated him to show up in the afternoon, suffering the jam, “The Ritz serves afternoon tea all day, technically. But the set you wanted—the seasonal one—that’s only available during tea hours. And you need to book.”
He glanced sideways at her. “You really only use that iPad for basic search, don’t you?”
“You actually managed to book it? How on earth?” Aziraphale, blissfully ignoring the jab at her digital habits, gave the Bentley a friendly pat before getting in. “I had no idea the Ritz was so hard to book! Apparently, some people can only get reservations for ‘afternoon tea’ in the evening. Having an afternoon in the evening, isn’t that amusing?”

“Don’t tell me you’ve never made a table miraculously open up to avoid disappointment.”

“Well, I mean—yes.” It was too tragic to go all that way and be turned away. “Guilty.”

“Is this what judgment feels like?” Crowley muttered, amused. “Honestly, I think Heaven and Hell should swap jobs for a week. Just for the laughs.”
The absurdity made Aziraphale giggle.

“I do hope we get our usual table today.”

“It just happened to ‘free up’ a few minutes ago.”

Their conversation and mannerisms remained exactly as always. Familiar. Unbothered.

“'So I really have been overthinking things, haven’t I?'”
The feeling of relief and disappointment was shared by two.

Chapter Text

Their usual banter carried them all the way to the Ritz.

From the moment they stepped through the door, Crowley had the eerie sense that something was… off.

Not terribly wrong, just slightly tilted. Like a painting hung ever so slightly askew. The receptionist, the server who confirmed their order, even a few guests at neighbouring tables—they all cast sidelong glances. Not at them, precisely. At him.
The sort of look that said, “I know what this is.”

Crowley poured out the last of the wine into his glass—an excellent pairing, he grudgingly admitted—and watched Aziraphale browse the dessert menu, torn between ordering more scones or not.
They’d talked about everything. Laughed. Eaten well.

It was just like any other day.

No cryptic remarks. No secret signals.
Even when the waiter, with the air of a man in on something, said, “We hope this afternoon becomes a truly unforgettable memory for you both,” Aziraphale only nodded politely.

She hadn’t understood a thing.
(She really hadn’t.)

Right then, Crowley thought, it really was all a massive misfire.

The algorithm. The ads. The ring.
A cosmic comedy of errors.

He chuckled under his breath—part amusement, part disbelief. Three hours ago, he’d been a panicked mess trying to decode every nuance of angelic behaviour.
Now? He was fine. He was going to laugh about this.

In fact… he should laugh about it.
And he would.
Right now.

He reached into his pocket, hand brushing the cool square of the ring box. I’ll tell her. She’ll find it hilarious. She’ll probably scold me for being dramatic, and then we’ll both laugh, and that’ll be the end of it.

But pulling it out suddenly might cause exactly the misunderstanding he was trying to avoid. He toyed with the box absently, still thinking, when a waiter passed by and made eye contact.
The waiter gave him a subtle nod.
A meaningful nod.

Crowley, slightly puzzled but too polite to ignore it, returned the nod.

“Angel,” he said, still half-laughing, “I’ve got something particularly ridiculous to show you—”
“Crowley, do you think I should go for the classic scone or the special flavour?” Aziraphale interrupted, holding the menu indecisively. “I do want the original, but this seasonal one might not be available soon…”

She looked up at him with that expression—the one that always said, “You decide for me.”

Crowley blinked, thrown slightly off-track. “Perhaps, you can get one of each?” he suggested.

He was just about to flag the waiter when his hand knocked a pen off the table—the one they’d been using to mark dessert choices.

“I’ll get it,” he said quickly, stopping Aziraphale from rising.
He bent to retrieve it.

And that was when it all went wrong.

If this were a heist movie, this would be the moment the slow-motion starts.
A hundred details, previously unremarked, came into sharp focus—only far, far too late.

What Crowley had not noticed:
The Ritz website, down at the bottom, included a discreet message:
“To ensure an uninterrupted and meaningful experience for our guests during important moments, please signal our staff if assistance is needed. Photography and atmosphere management can be arranged.”

What Crowley had also not noticed:
Multiple social media posts mentioning that staff—and even other guests—would sometimes join in to help create a “memorable proposal moment.”

What Crowley had most devastatingly not noticed:
He was currently kneeling, one knee bent, holding out a small black velvet ring box in the general direction of Aziraphale.

Aziraphale, in turn, was frozen.
Eyes wide. Brain… blank.

And then, it happened.

A single voice called out:
“Say yes!”

The room erupted.
Cheering. Clapping. A wave of encouragement so sudden and unanimous it could have summoned a minor archangel.

Aziraphale’s brain exploded into static.

So Crowley really meant it?! He—he bought a ring?! It wasn’t just in my head??

Another part of her tried to process the next stage of this unfolding nightmare:
What do I do now?! What am I supposed to say?!
We’re a demon and an angel! We’re not even—what—we’re not allowed—!

Before she could sort any of these thoughts, her mouth betrayed her:

“No! How could you do this to me?! You know we’re impossible!”

That was, beyond question, the “Worst Response one can get to a Proposal,” in human history, and for many centuries to come.

Silence fell like a thunderclap. The clinking of cutlery stopped mid-air. Cheering died in people’s throats.
Everyone froze, unsure whether to pretend this had never happened or simply flee the scene.

Crowley was still kneeling.
Still holding the pen. And the ring.

He hadn’t even processed the words.
He’d been in the middle of explaining something funny, something harmless.

Now, something inside him cracked.

Without thinking, he stood and grabbed Aziraphale’s hand. His yellow serpent eyes—hidden behind his sunglasses—burned through her.

“Six thousand years, angel. Six. Bloody. Thousand.”

He knew what she meant.
He knew that “we’re impossible” meant “you’re a demon, I’m an angel.”
He knew all that.

But he also thought they were… more than that by now.
That they’d built something that couldn’t be defined by sides anymore.
They’d been through so much.
Back then, after the falling-out over the holy water and the long cold war that followed, they’d eventually made up. He had thought that, from that moment on, things between them had changed.
Was he the only one who saw it that way?
To Aziraphale, was he still just “the demon she happened to know”?

Surely, surely that had meant something to her.

“Crowley, I…” She regretted it the moment it left her lips. But she didn’t even know why she regretted it.

Wasn’t she right? Weren’t they impossible?
So why did it feel like she’d said something cruel, something untrue?

She’d hurt him. She knew it. Even without seeing his eyes, she could hear it. The tight, low voice he used when fighting to stay composed.
The same voice he’d used in St. James’s Park when they’d fought.
When he’d said, “I don’t need you.”

The last time they heard that voice, they hadn’t spoken for decades. She couldn’t bear to go through that again. But she didn’t know how to stop it, either.

Crowley saw the panic and confusion in her eyes.
The joy that usually lived there had been replaced by fear and uncertainty.

And just like that, the tidal wave of feeling that had almost drowned him a moment ago receded.

What am I doing? What even is this? This isn’t a proposal. This is a farce.

He took a deep breath.

“Let’s get out of here.”

Chapter Text

There was silence. Not just any ordinary silence, but one so profound that even the Bentley, usually ever-eager to serenade its owner with Queen at full blast, seemed to have dialled itself down to a discreet purr.
It remained like that, tension thick in the air, all the way to the bookshop.

“We’re here, Angel,” Crowley said coolly, the words clipped and sterile, like a formality exchanged at a diplomatic funeral.
Aziraphale hesitated. She couldn’t just leave it like this.
“Crowley, I—”
“That was nothing more than a ridiculous misunderstanding,” he cut in crisply. “I was picking up your pen, remember? And those humans—those utterly tactless creatures who really ought to have grasped the concept of ‘silence is golden’—just couldn’t help themselves.”
“But you had a ring,” she said softly. The image of the box had rooted itself firmly in her memory, dislodging all hope of calm.
Crowley sighed, as if being forced to admit to a secret sin. He pulled off his sunglasses and gave them an unnecessary polish, perhaps just to delay the confession. “That was... an accident. I mean, after being bombarded like that for days, I thought, ‘Fine. Would this make you lot happy?’ So I bought the ring.” For the joke, mind. I was going to show it to you for a laugh. Blame the humans.”

He casually fished out the ring box and handed it to her.

Aziraphale toyed with the ring box. When Crowley, ever the demon with a flair for tasteless symbolism, informed her that the carat was precisely 0.666, she gave a breath of laughter—followed promptly by a look of exasperation, as one might offer a cheeky child who’d drawn on the wallpaper.
The kind she always gave him when he said something cheeky.
Just like always.

The mood in the car began to lift, ever so slightly.

“But you were angry,” Aziraphale said suddenly, the laughter fading from her lips. “Why?”

Crowley blinked. “What?”

“You were angry, Crowley. If it really was just a joke, a performance with no meaning, why did you take the ‘rejection’ so hard?”

If it had only been a joke—a not-at-all-serious proposal—then why had Crowley reacted so strongly to being “rejected”?
She had a sense this was something she needed to press for.

He stared straight ahead.

“Well. I suppose I understood that your ‘impossible’ meant ‘not possible, what with Heaven and Hell and all that bureaucracy,’ but I thought... I thought after all these years, at the very least...” His voice faltered. “Anyway. Doesn’t matter whether it’s real or not—getting hit with the word ‘impossible’ still stings, doesn’t it?”
He put his sunglasses back on, hiding the tell-tale shimmer of hurt behind two lenses of cold, dark denial.

“I really did think you were proposing,” Aziraphale murmured, oblivious to the jagged edge her words had become. “All I could think was, ‘Heaven and Hell will never approve of this!’ and then the words just... slipped out.”

She didn’t notice the clear gap in her sentence. But Crowley did.

He turned toward her, one eyebrow raised in perfect serpentine curiosity. She hadn’t realised what she’d said—what she’d accidentally admitted—and that was fine. He wasn’t going to point it out. Not yet.
And the ever-perceptive, ever-calculating demon allowed himself the faintest trace of a smile.
“Of course, our respective allegiances are a very serious matter,” he said smoothly. “Even if everything else is no longer a concern, that one alone deserves careful thought.”

After pulling up outside the bookshop, Crowley declined Aziraphale’s tentative, newly-cheerful invitation to “come in for a spot of tea.”

“No,” he said. “I think I need a bit of time to...” He paused, choosing his words with all the finesse of someone attempting a tax audit on their own soul. “...Figure a few things out.”

“I don’t quite understand, but I do hope it goes well.”

Crowley looked at her. Her eyes were still so infuriatingly pure.
“I’ll do my best,” he said. “And I reckon it will.”

“Oh—and the ring, you keep it. I did buy it for you, after all.”

With that, the demon, cloaked entirely in black, strode back to his beloved Bentley, glanced once more toward the shop window—where Aziraphale, catching sight of him, waved cheerfully—and returned the gesture with a lopsided grin.

To Aziraphale, this might always remain an elaborate joke he’d cooked up.
But Crowley knew otherwise.

Even if it had started from a place of impulsive madness, the purchase, the pacing, the sleepless nights—they were all painfully real. And in that moment of awkward, tangled conversation, it hit him like a bolt of divine irony: the feelings he’d been fumbling through, the irrational thoughts, the erratic behaviour—he knew exactly what it was now.

That farcical proposal might have been built on a misunderstanding, but it wasn’t “impossible.”

Not really.

The timing was off, that’s all. And demons? Demons don’t abandon their targets—especially not when said target is within arm’s reach and already halfway convinced.

He would need a plan.

Things might not change right away, but the incident at the Ritz was, for now, behind them.

Or so they thought.

It wasn’t until one day, when Nina from across the road and Maggie from the record shop arrived with coffee and documents from the Wicker Street Business Committee, that everything went sideways again.

They opened the bookshop door and froze.
The sight of Crowley lounging inside was apparently on par with spotting a tiger in a pub.

“What?” he snapped. “What’s with the faces?”

Nina elbowed Maggie, recovering first. “Nothing! Just didn’t expect to see you here, that’s all.”

“Since when is that a problem?”

“Well... I mean... We sort of assumed you and Ms. Fell had split up. Because of that video—ow!” Maggie’s comment was cut short by Nina’s swift jab.

But Crowley, ever the serpent, had already caught the scent.

“Video? What video?”

Nina sighed, pulled out her phone, and handed it over. “This one. It’s been making the rounds on social media.”
“Everyone thought you wouldn’t come back after that,” Maggie added helpfully.

Crowley looked at the screen—and froze.

There it was. The infamous scene at the Ritz, captured from some unknown angle and lovingly subtitled: “When you misjudge your relationship status.”
“Bloody hell,” he growled.

He would never admit how much the caption hit home, or how infuriatingly accurate it felt.

“Crowley, I’m ready—oh! Nina! Maggie!” Aziraphale entered the room with impeccable timing, cheerfully derailing the demon’s impending murder spree. “You’re here! Oh, thank you, Maggie, for bringing those—sorry, Nina, I forgot to tell you I was heading out. Lucky we ran into each other or I’d have missed the coffee entirely!” She took the documents and coffee from them, glancing curiously at Crowley’s phone. “What were you looking at?”

“Nothing,” they chorused in panic.

Crowley, meanwhile, was already plotting his revenge.

He would find the original source of that blasted video. He would trace every share, every repost, every like, every algorithmic breadcrumb. He would annihilate the account—and then decide what to do with the human behind it.
Later.
There is no such thing as getting away from demons.

Once Aziraphale had left to put the documents away, Nina leaned over and whispered, “Honestly? Before seeing that proposal video, I assumed you two were already married.”

Crowley’s expression was unreadable. Then—“Wait. Is that... what people on Wicker Street actually think?”

“Not everyone. It’s a bit of a split vote,” Nina admitted. “There was even a betting pool once. Someone had too much wine at a committee meeting.”
“So you’re not married?” she asked. “Are you together? Or not?”

Crowley shrugged. “Who knows.”

As Nina opened her mouth to protest the utter lack of clarity in that response, Aziraphale returned, and the two shopkeepers took their leave.

“No one answers a ‘yes or no’ question with ‘or,’” Nina grumbled.
But Maggie gave her a small tug on the sleeve. “I think... he actually did.”

Everyone on Wicker Street knew the owner of the old bookshop was Ms. Fell. But apart from her title and profession, they knew very little else.
Well—except that she had a rather striking “friend” who looked nothing like her and was, suspiciously, always around.

Some said they were “just friends.” Others said “special friends.”

Most people, however, were in agreement—no one spent that much time with someone unless they were absolutely, ineffably in love.
And after that one viral, shambolic, unforgettable “failed proposal at Liz Hotel,” though it sent the gossip circles into a frenzy, the prevailing conclusion among the neighbours was rather firm:

“They’re already married.”

"Not going to lie, I’m convinced the department responsible for building human brains cut corners. Slapped it together like an IKEA cabinet and called it a day.”
“How exactly does one fail a proposal and still end up married?”