Chapter Text
The shop was quiet in the soft light of early afternoon. Dust danced lazily in the sunbeams slicing through the windows, and Aziraphale, humming a hymn half out of tune, wandered to a back shelf to indulge in a bit of reorganizing.
He didn’t expect to find anything new. After all, he owned every book in the shop.
Which is precisely why he stopped short.
A thick volume, wedged between two encyclopedias on obscure history, stared back at him. The leather was smooth, unmarked by time, and along the spine in elegant gold script were the words:
“Ineffable Husbands.”
He blinked. Frowned. Checked over his shoulder like a child caught reaching for a biscuit before dinner.
“Ineffable,” he muttered, fingertips grazing the spine. “Rather fond of that word…”
He pulled the book free.
No publisher’s mark. No author. No dedication page. Just a title, and then—
Aziraphale's breath caught.
Before:
The other angel stood beaming beside him, hands on hips like a proud artist surveying his magnum opus. Aziraphale looked out at the pretty colors of dust and matter.
“Look at you! You’re gorgeous.” The angel said.
Aziraphale froze.
His heart, or whatever ineffable thing angels had in place of one, stumbled. No one had ever said something like that to him. He wasn’t even entirely sure it was permitted. He blinked, blushing in a way that shouldn’t have been physically possible.
But when he turned to meet the other angel’s gaze, he realized he wasn’t looking at him.
He was staring into the swirling mass of stardust and light, completely enraptured.
“Oh,” Aziraphale said, voice dropping half an octave in embarrassment.
................
He blushed, mortified at the memory. ‘What was this? A book filled with his memories?’ He quickly flipped to the next page.
The Garden of Eden :
“Best not to speculate,” he said, glancing sideways at the serpent eyes that were once beaming at the universe expanding. “It’s all part of the Great Plan. It’s not for us to understand. It’s ineffable.”
Crawley turned toward him, an eyebrow raised. “The Great Plan’s ineffable?”
“Exactly,” Aziraphale replied, with as much dignity as he could muster. “It is beyond understanding and incapable of being put into words.”
Crowley looked at him for a long moment, and then, with the subtlety of a sledgehammer: “Didn’t you have a flaming sword?”
Aziraphale looked away. “Uh…”
“You did,” Crowley said, narrowing his eyes. “It was flaming like anything. What happened to it?”
The angel’s mouth opened. Closed. Opened again. “I… gave it away.”
“You what?” Crowley smiled. He was shocked. An angel would never do something they weren't supposed to.
“I gave it away!” Aziraphale repeated, half-defiant, half-mortified. “There are vicious animals, it’s going to be cold out there, and she’s expecting already. I said, ‘Here you go, flaming sword. Don’t thank me. And don’t let the sun go down on you here.’” He shifted uneasily. “I do hope I didn’t do the wrong thing.”
Crowley was silent for a beat. ‘This angel was different. He has his own thoughts. His own opinions.’
Still, he seemed bent out of shape about the whole thing so Crowley threw him a bone. “Oh, you’re an angel. I don’t think you can do the wrong thing.”
Aziraphale smiled like a weight had been lifted off his shoulders. “Oh! Oh, thank you. It’s been bothering me.” ‘Maybe this demon wasn’t so bad after all.’
................
Aziraphale smiled at the memory. He didn’t know where this book came from, but he figured there wouldn’t be any harm in reliving some of these moments he’d shared with his friend. He skipped ahead to one of his favorite memories.
London 1941:
The world outside was ash and sirens, but inside the bookshop, Aziraphale was practically bouncing with delight.
“Now!” he announced, brighter than the gas lamps flickering above them. He plucked a pair of coins from his pocket with flourish, holding one up between his fingers. “I have here… a sixpence,” he said, placing it into his palm dramatically, “and a farthing.” He repeated his motion with the second coin.
His whole body radiated eagerness. “But!” he continued, dramatically closing his fingers, “if I close my hand thusly… for but a blink of an eye…”
A deep inhale. A dainty little puff.
“And…” he opened his hand, eyes round with anticipation, “the farthing… has vanished!”
He beamed, glowing with pride, and looked immediately to Crowley, seeking that crooked praise that meant more than he’d ever admit. ‘ Did you see that? Wasn’t it marvelous? I’ve been practicing! Did you like it?’
“Right…” Leaning forward he pulled his glasses down to get a better look. He blinked once and launched into a spectacularly terrible American accent. “What you just did is re-markable, I don’t have the foggiest notion how it’s done!” He slapped his knee with a laugh so over-the-top it nearly echoed, then returned to his usual voice. Velvety and a bit dangerous. “But that’s a trick for close quarters, yeah? What you do tonight needs to be… bigger .”
Aziraphale flushed, just a touch. “Oh. Yes. Right. Of course.”
“We need something new, something… dramatic. Isn’t there somewhere we can…I don’t know, buy tricks?”
Aziraphale blinked. “Oh—well, there’s Will Goldstone’s magic shop. But that’s only for professional conjurers.”
“You,” He said, rising to his feet and sliding his sunglasses up his nose with one finger, slow and smug. “My Nefertiti-fooling fellow, are about to perform on the West End Stage.”
Aziraphale’s ears turned pink. Crowley was absolutely breathtaking.
The black suit.
The crisp white shirt.
The slim red tie that, surely, had no business being that flattering.
‘Good gracious,’ Aziraphale thought, suddenly too warm in his waistcoat. ‘That’s…well. That’s not very fair, is it?’
Crowley stepped toward him, his voice like molasses and sin. “If that doesn’t make you a professional conjurer,” Crowley murmured, “I don’t know what does.”
Aziraphale’s heart somersaulted.
He opened his mouth. Closed it. Then smiled, wide, utterly and hopelessly in love. Though he’d never admit it.
..............
Aziraphale made a strangled noise in the back of his throat. His face flushed hot as he snapped the book shut. “Absolutely not,” he whispered, scandalized.
He paced, adjusting other books that didn’t need adjusting. All the while glancing back at the ominous, tempting leather book.
“Oh good heavens.” He grabbed the book and opened it again, flipping to the most recent entry.
Soho, 2019:
The storm had passed, leaving the world washed and golden. Inside The Ritz, chandeliers gleamed overhead and silverware clinked delicately on porcelain. Aziraphale sat at their usual table by the window, napkin in lap, scanning the menu he already knew by heart.
Aziraphale smiled as Crowley approached, folding his napkin with a little extra flair. “You’re late,” he said, with the tone of someone who’d waited gladly.
Crowley slid into the chair opposite. “Fashionably. It's part of my charm.”
Aziraphale opened his mouth for a reply, but paused, distracted. ‘ He looks good today. ’
The thought surprised him with its clarity. The usual black suit, yes, but the way it caught the light… and the way the line of his jaw looked sharper somehow.
“Tourists outside,” he grumbled. “One of them asked me if I was part of a street performance. Can you believe that?”
“You do have a certain...theatrical flair,” Aziraphale said, gesturing with his hands.
Crowley lifted a brow. “I’m not the one in a waistcoat the color of sponge cake.”
Aziraphale grinned, unbothered. “Sponge cake is delightful.”
He rolled his eyes behind his glasses and opened the menu in front of him. “So. Are we pretending to choose, or are you getting the shepherd’s pie again?”
Aziraphale blushed. “I like the shepherd’s pie.”
“You like cutting the shepherd’s pie into geometric quarters like you’re offering it to four invisible friends.”
“It’s tidy,” Aziraphale huffed, but his smile remained. “And traditional.”
Crowley gave a quiet snort of amusement and ordered a whisky, neat. No food. He never ordered food.
He preferred to watch.
Aziraphale picked up his fork delicately as his meal arrived. Crowley swirled his glass, the amber liquid catching the light like fire in a bottle.
His gaze lingered on Aziraphale. How he cradled the silverware, how his eyes lit up with each bite like he was tasting joy, not gravy.
‘He doesn’t know …’ Crowley thought, watching the angel lick a smudge of butter from his thumb. ‘ He doesn’t know that I’d sit through a thousand meals just to see that again.’
They talked, as they always did, about nothing and everything. About the state of humanity, the unreliability of pigeons, and whether or not the stars were forming constellations just to be smug.
At one point, Aziraphale blew gently on a spoonful of blackberry cobbler and caught Crowley staring. “What?” he asked, cheeks tinged pink.
Crowley blinked. “Nothing. Just...”
‘I want to lean across this table and lick that cobbler off your lips.’ He cleared his throat and took another drink. ‘ No way I’m saying that.’
Aziraphale watched him for another moment, unaware of the way the demon was unraveling in front of him, before finishing off the rest of his cobbler in bliss.
...............
Aziraphale stared at the words, heart thudding. ‘ Did he really think all those things? Even the licking?’
His cheeks burned. Hell knows he thought things like that from time to time, but Crowley would never…Would he?
And then, on the following page, a fresh line began to write itself:
Soho 2019:
Crowley stood outside A.Z. Fell and Co, shifting his feet nervously. He looked through the window seeing his angel engrossed in one of his books. No surprise there.
‘What am I doing here? Should’ve just gone straight home, but here I am. I’ll tell him I left my sunglasses. Lie. Eh that’s what I do.
He always gets soft around this time of day, like sunlight through old curtains. Makes me want to sit and bask.
Don’t know what I’ll say. Just wanted to see him.’
He grabbed the door and—
................
Aziraphale yelped.
He slammed the book shut and fumbled to hide it behind a stack of Prophetic Laundry Methods of the 13th Century just as the door creaked open.
Ding-a-ling.
“Angel?” Crowley’s voice slinked in like it owned the place. “You left the door unlocked again.”
Aziraphale spun, nearly knocking over the table of pamphlets on religiously blessed lemon curds. “Crowley! How… good to see you!”
Crowley raised a brow beneath his sunglasses. “You alright? You look like you’ve just swallowed a particularly sharp paperclip.”
“What? No! I—just reorganizing. Must be done.” Aziraphale waved vaguely at the shelves, nowhere near where he’d just hidden the book.
Crowley took a step closer, peering at him curiously. “You sure?”
“Quite!” Aziraphale squeaked, then cleared his throat and tried again. “Quite. Thank you.”
Crowley paused. For a moment, he looked like he might push. But then he shrugged, sauntered toward the armchair, and flopped into it with a groan.
“If you say so. Shall I tempt you to a glass of wine?” He smirked, his glasses dropping slightly down his nose. “Or three?”
Aziraphale chuckled weakly, casting one last glance at the book now silently tucked beneath ancient recipes. He really should tell Crowley about his discovery...Although what he doesn't know...
He could still feel the words pulsing in his memory. ‘ Just wanted to see him.’