Chapter Text
It’s a crisp, sunny morning. The perfect day for a road trip. Aziraphale is grateful for the company on the drive, he really is. He’s normally fine spending time on his own; he’s comfortable in his own skin, but lately he's been a bit lonely. It’ll be nice to start this new, hopefully exciting, chapter of his life with someone to talk to, even if that person is a stranger. After eighteen hours in the car together, they won’t be strangers anymore, will they? Perhaps they’ll even be friends.
When he parks the car where his friend told him to meet her, she’s kissing her boyfriend, which is fine. If Aziraphale had anyone to kiss goodbye before traveling from Chicago to New York, he would certainly do so. It would be fair to say he’s the tiniest bit envious, but of course he’d never admit it. In Aziraphale’s opinion, nothing of much note has happened to him so far, which is why he’s moving to the East Coast.
He’s got it all planned out: where they’ll stop for gas, for food, to take turns driving, where he’ll live and work when he gets to the city, how he’ll meet someone and fall in love once he’s there. Well, that last one may be only a rough outline, not quite fleshed out.
Happy to wait for the couple to stop kissing on their own, Aziraphale turns off his 1976 Toyota Corona station wagon and politely pretends not to see. His eyes dart from the steering wheel to the mirror, and he tries to think, for a moment, about the car. It’s practical, a pretty shade of light yellow. Yes, Aziraphale is happy to wait patiently in his pretty car. The only issue, however, is that his friend and her latest boyfriend show no sign of stopping, and, well, there is the matter of making good time on the road.
After a while, Aziraphale clears his throat, not quite as subtly as he intended.
“Oh, hi, Aziraphale,” his friend, Jennifer Furguson, says. She’s Ferfur to her friends, of which, Aziraphale is currently her best. “Aziraphale, this is Anthony Crowley. Crowley, this is Aziraphale Fell.”
“Charmed,” Crowley says, and smiles. Aziraphale is decidedly not charmed. Aziraphale refuses to be charmed, despite the man’s roguish good looks.
Ferfur has tousled his fiery red hair, yet it still seems purposely styled. Crowley is dressed like an absolute slob in his black hooded sweatshirt and dark sunglasses, and he’s sporting long, ridiculous sideburns that, although popular, don’t look good on anyone. Well, almost anyone. Perhaps Aziraphale is the smallest bit charmed. What he's not is attracted to Crowley. It’s simply not acceptable to be attracted to his best friend’s beau. So he isn’t.
“Do you want to take the first shift?” he asks, deliberately not saying it’s lovely to meet Crowley or anything of the sort. The man is simply rude, and it’s not nice to meet him at all. Neither of them have even apologized.
“Nah, you’re there already. You can start,” Crowley responds and goes to toss his few possessions in the back. There’s not much: a duffle bag, a verdant plant, and a box of records. It’s good Crowley doesn’t have a lot, because Aziraphale had greatly underestimated his collection of books and has been worried the whole short drive here that there wouldn’t be enough room for the other man’s belongings.
After Crowley slams the door, he lingers on the sidewalk with Ferfur. While the couple volleys “I love you” back and forth to each other, apparently happy to whisper sweet nothings until the end of the world, Aziraphale wonders what he’s gotten himself into. He catches a few endearments and kisses. Still, they haven’t moved. Aziraphale gets impatient, feels awkward, like he shouldn’t be witnessing this private moment. Still, they continue to inflict their inappropriate behavior on him.
It’s not his fault, really, that his hand, completely of its own accord, lays on the horn. The two part at last, Crowley takes his place in the passenger seat, and Aziraphale drives away slowly, carefully. They’re not even on the interstate when Crowley begins asking inane questions.
“Do you know this car doesn’t even generate 100 horsepower? This is going to be a long, slow trip. When I get a car, it’ll be something fast, something classic. Not that I’ll need a car in the city. Want one, though.”
“There’s nothing wrong with my car,” Aziraphale snaps. He doesn’t mean to, but Crowley won’t stop fidgeting in his seat. And he hasn’t put on his seatbelt. “No one is forcing you to ride with me, you know.”
“Was just making conversation,” Crowley says. “If you don’t want to talk about cars, tell me something else. Tell me your life story.”
“Nothing to tell, really, not yet. I’m going into journalism. I hope going to New York will open up a whole new world of experiences for me, actually. What about you?”
“Law school, just graduated.” Crowley says as he picks his teeth. The man seems to have a lot of uncouth habits like that. He picks his teeth, he climbs halfway into the back of the car to dig through the cargo, not caring at all that his entire backside is in Aziraphale’s face. The absolute cheek, Aziraphale thinks, smiling at his own pun. It’s not a bad behind, actually, but he’d rather avoid the distraction while driving. And, boy, is Crowley a distraction. His slender fingers dance absent-mindedly along the dashboard so that Aziraphale can’t help but admire how lovely the man’s hands are. When they’re not on the dash, his hands are on top of his bouncing leg or rubbing the back of his long neck.
After the initial awkwardness, they find their common interests, and the conversation becomes quite stimulating. Thankfully, it makes the drive go rather quickly. Before he knows it, they’ve reached Aziraphale’s first planned stop on the journey. It’s a diner he’s heard has the best apple pie.
While discussing their favorite films, they somehow get on the topics of romance and sex. He’s not sure what he’s said exactly, but the next thing Aziraphale knows, Crowley accuses him of never having had good sex before. The absolute nerve of the man! Here, they’ve barely met, and Crowley brings up something that is both far too personal and painfully true.
Aziraphale's ex-boyfriend, Sheldon, had been both sweet and utterly hopeless in bed. But Crowley will never know that. Aziraphale never has to see this man again, but he doesn’t have to stand for such allegations, true or not.
“It just so happens I have had plenty of good sex!”
“With whom?” Crowley asks, quirking an eyebrow above his sunglasses, which he still has not taken off despite the fact that they are now indoors in a cozy booth and it’s nighttime. How ridiculous.
“I’m not going to tell you that.”
“Fine, don’t tell me,” Crowley says, and the fact that Crowley doesn’t believe him, rubs Aziraphale the wrong way. “Only, you brought it up. Kind of seems like you want to tell me.”
“Fine,” he blurts. “Sheldon Brown.”
“Nope, not possible. You did not have great sex with someone named Sheldon. He sounds like he runs a carpet store. I’ve never heard a more boring name.” Crowley sprawls dramatically, draping his arm over the back of the booth and spreading his legs out.
“I’m sorry?” Aziraphale physically pushes back from the table. Luckily, the waitress arrives to rescue him. He thanks God for the interruption, hoping Crowley will drop the subject.
When he orders dinner, Aziraphale makes a few alterations, and he's sure to specify any items he would prefer to have on the side, including his salad dressing. Places like this tend to drown an otherwise good salad.
Feeling entirely too peckish, he orders dessert at the same time as his meal. He has a tried and true combination of apple pie and strawberry ice cream that he prefers–if it’s available. Helpfully, he offers that if the restaurant doesn’t have strawberry, he’ll accept whipped cream, but only if it’s real, not from a can. Then, if they don’t have that he’ll still take the pie, only not heated. He only wishes to be helpful, to offer the kitchen options. When he’s finished ordering, Crowley is staring at him.
Although tempted to ask why, Aziraphale doesn't. Instead he changes the subject to his favorite books and his least favorite movie adaptations of those books. This conversation lasts through their meal, and Crowley has a lot of thoughts on the best movie adaptations of books for a man who claims he hasn't read the novels. It gives Aziraphale a good laugh, and he enjoys poking fun at the man for preferring movies to books.
When the check comes, Crowley is silent for a moment as Aziraphale begins splitting the bill evenly, including tip. Then, out of nowhere, Crowley brings back their original conversation. So much for avoiding the subject.
“Why didn’t it work with Sheldon?”
“How did you–?" Aziraphale starts, then shakes his head. "No, no, it’s none of your business why we broke up.”
“Good ol' sexy Shel had an objectively attractive man like you, and he let you get away? There must have been a reason.”
“Attractive?” Aziraphale is taken aback. An unspoken statement hangs in the air between them; it’s as though Crowley is saying, I never would have let you get away. Could Crowley be coming on to him? While dating his best friend? And–worse–is he actually flattered? Flustered, Aziraphale throws his carefully calculated share of the bill and tip down on the table and gets up to leave.
“Ferfur never said how attractive you are,” Crowley says, following. He still hasn’t taken those infernal sunglasses off, not even for a moment. Will the failures of etiquette never cease?! Who sits around asking strangers about their love lives, but won’t even do them the courtesy of showing them his face?
“Ferfur is my friend,” Aziraphale says, outraged on her behalf. “You’re coming on to me while dating my friend?”
“Am not!”
“It certainly seems like you are,” Aziraphale walks circles around the car and waves his hands about. The impropriety!
“For the sake of argument, say I was. Look I’m sorry, OK? I’m apologizing here. Work with me. Get in the car.”
“You can’t simply take it back . It’s already been said. It’s out in the universe.”
“Out in the--? You’ve got to be kidding me. OK, so you don’t want to sleep with me?” Crowley asks, gesturing to indicate them both. He’s grinning fiendishly, and although Aziraphale suspects he’s only kidding, it still has to be said.
“I think it goes without saying that I would never betray my friend like that.”
“Don’t think I haven’t noticed that you didn’t answer the question.”
“Good Lord. Would you let it go?” Aziraphale asks as he climbs into the car.
“All right. I’ll let it go. Perfectly capable of letting it go,” Crowley says. Then, after a beat, “Want to spend the night in a hotel?” There’s a distinct look of mischief in the man’s eyes.
“Crowley!” Aziraphale exclaims, desperately trying to hold back a smile.
“I know, I know,” Crowley responds quickly. “I said I would let it go, and I didn’t let it go. I had to try.”
There’s a moment of quiet while Aziraphale decides whether to keep performing his scandalized friend routine or let it lie for the sake of a pleasant ride. It’s harmless, really, since all Aziraphale has to do is say no. It’s not as though he can’t take care of himself. Besides, there’s a playfulness to it that gives them both an out. They’re not serious. It’s not a betrayal of his friend because there’s no way it will happen.
“I forgive you," Aziraphale says. "We can still be friends. But that’s all, just friends.”
Aziraphale drives away, leaving the bright lights of the diner behind them.
“Nononono. See, people who are attracted to each other can’t be friends. Doesn’t work. Sex always gets in the way.”
“I’m friends with a lot of good looking gay men. That doesn’t mean they want to sleep with me.”
“Yes they do,” Crowley says, and the tone of his voice leaves no room for any other possibility. Aziraphale considers an instance or two where he’s noticed one of his friends make an off-hand comment or lean in a little too closely. But none of that means anything.
“Even if they do, we can still be friends,” Aziraphale counters, lifting his chin decisively and straightening his back. It’s a habit of his from childhood, sitting up straighter when he wants to be taken seriously. It’s a feat, because Aziraphale already has excellent posture. All of his teachers have told him so.
“No, they’re always going to be thinking about having sex with you. They say they don’t want to kiss you, but in the back of their minds is this little voice adding: ‘unless?’ You can’t be friends with someone you’re attracted to. Not true, honest friends.”
"That's ridiculous. Are you saying that one can't be friends with one's partner, then?”
"One? Who actually says 'one' like that? Is this an essay?" Crowley asks. He doesn't leave room for response. "Anyway, no, that's different. You know, or at least hope, that your partner wants to sleep with you. That's not part of the agreement with friends. It's like they're saying they're fine not fucking you when they're really not. It's basically lying, and you can't base a friendship on a lie."
“Fine. Then I suppose we can’t be friends.” Aziraphale says it before he thinks about the implications. He’s told Crowley, in almost as many words, that he wants to sleep with him. Curse it. Aziraphale turns pink. It’s true, of course. If Crowley weren’t sleeping with Ferfur, he’d be all over someone that handsome, especially with how flirty the man has been. The best he can hope for is that Crowley hasn’t noticed. Aziraphale hurries to speak again in an attempt to cover his admission. “That’s a shame. You were the only person that I knew in New York.”
So much for having a friend in the city.