Chapter Text
Soho, Present Day
Headlights blind him as he walks down London pavement in the starkness of night. Aziraphale doesn’t stay up past midnight–he’d always been an early riser. But it’s three years to the day that he’d made the worst decision of his life. He thinks it was a different man who did it, with a hand resembling his signing divorce papers with a signature that perfectly imitated his own. It must be that he holds a different man’s memories. In them, he looked at Crowley's eyes obscured behind dark sunglasses in the presence of a judge. The sunglasses could only hide the beginnings of a trail of tears but did nothing to protect his cheeks.
The man didn’t speak a word to Crowley after the business was finished. Crowley waited for a moment, grunting under his breath as if to start a conversation. And the man, cruel thing he was, walked away from the room and that life. And why? Aziraphale can’t reason why anyone with a sane mind would have left Crowley.
But it wasn’t an imposter acting in his place. Otherwise, he would still be with Crowley today. Three years wouldn’t have passed since he let dust grow in the apartment they once shared above his bookshop. Aziraphale would still be holding Crowley at night. He misses the apple scent of his hair that once stained their pillows, and faded long ago.
It should be easier after so much time, Aziraphale thinks. Love should fade. Regret should pass. Acceptance should roll in and smooth over mistakes. He should be able to move on, but he aches for Crowley.
There’s too much wine in his system. A bottle had turned into two and then three, and when the bartender cut him off Aziraphale sobbed that it hadn’t been enough. He could still remember the way Crowley’s hand felt on his arm when they walked side by side. Even though wine could never take that away from him, he had to try. The bartender poured him one last glass, out of pity more than anything else.
The last time he drank so much was on the second night of their honeymoon in Edinburgh. They were piss-drunk, but he wasn’t nearly as drunk as Crowley. Crowley swayed through cobblestone streets, hollering madness as Aziraphale held him up straight. And Aziraphale fell in love with him more when he broke free and frolicked through an empty cemetery singing Flower of Scotland.
They married the first chance they had when gay marriage was legalized in 2014. On New Year’s Eve. Right–the night everyone else in the world eagerly awaits the New Year. A happy time. Aziraphale wants to laugh at that. It’s another year without Crowley. He pushed a man away at the bar who tried to kiss him at the strike of midnight. Another pair of lips hadn’t touched him, not since the divorce.
And he’s fine with it if he never kisses again. Another pair of lips would feel foreign and wrong. No one can replace Crowley.
Everyone around him is drunk and shouting on the street. And now, forty minutes into the New Year he’s alone on the street with cars whizzing by. The headlights remind him of the color in Crowley’s eyes, yellow and bright like stars illuminating the night sky.
He returns to the bookshop and falls into the chair at his desk. It’s the wine, he says to himself, as his hand reaches for the phone. There’s no reason why it should work, Aziraphale believes as his fingers dial a number they dialed hundreds of times. Not recently, no, but some numbers never leave you.
“Yeah?” a voice greets on the other end. It’s gravelly and a bit deeper than he remembers, but it’s Crowley.
“Crowley?” Aziraphale’s voice breaks.
Crowley is silent on the other end, but the sound of a party is loud behind him. This was a mistake. He should never have called. Crowley should have changed it. It would be like him to change it. But Aziraphale never called, so really, why would he have?
“Are you busy?” Aziraphale asks. It’s pathetic. He is busy. Aziraphale can hear the roar of laughter through the phone.
But Crowley surprises him. “Not really, no.”
“Can you come over?” He begs.
“I’ll be there in an hour.” The line goes dead, and Aziraphale hangs his head in shame.
Wine is the source of humanity’s worst ideas. While true, Aziraphale thinks it’s also the source of quite a few good ones as well. Crowley would argue it might be the source of humanity’s best ideas too, but Crowley’s not here. Aziraphale talks to the imaginary version of him in his head.
Soho, February 2005
Aziraphale had hosted only one book signing before, and it had been an absolute disaster. Well, the book signing had gone swimmingly. The issue was that the patrons had taken an interest in his collection outside of the books being signed and that was absolutely, frighteningly too much for Aziraphale to accept. He shooed away each and every curious, grubby hand that reached toward pristinely restored spines and vowed to never host a book signing again.
Until today.
And it’s not really a book signing, though it would appear to be one. The table is set with a stack of books. A red-haired man sits at it with a pen in hand. He wears a black turtleneck with a leather vest and black jeans that should be too tight for anyone over the age of eighteen to wear. Nevertheless, he’d somehow shimmied into them. He must be twenty-five or twenty-six years old, but he appears a bit older. It’s all that black, Aziraphale muses to himself.
He can’t take his eyes off of him–but that’s not the reason why Aziraphale agreed to this book signing in the first place. Though, and he’s not ashamed to admit it, the fact that the author is devilishly handsome certainly helped. Not that that would imply anything about Aziraphale liking men–he doesn’t. But it doesn’t hurt to look or admire. It’s a matter of aesthetics.
“You’re sure there’s going to be no one,” Aziraphale asks.
Crowley turns around in his chair. “I explained it to you already.”
“You did, but I’m only checking.”
“It’s a brilliant plan, don’t you think?” Crowley is proud of himself. Normally, cockiness would deter Aziraphale. It mars one’s soul, but Crowley wears pride effortlessly. It’s a sin only a demon could exude so nonchalantly. That doesn’t deter Aziraphale though it should.
The plan really was brilliant. Crowley was a new and struggling author with a book fresh off the press. He stumbled into Aziraphale’s Soho bookshop, which as far as Crowley could tell from his extensive online research had never had a customer since its founding in 1800. His friend Beez works for the largest paper in London. Knowing any press is good press, Crowley forged a woeful story of an author who pulled himself out of poverty by writing fluff pieces for papers and eventually by publishing his first book. It would be a heart-wrenching tale that Beez would fashion for the masses, where Crowley’s first book signing is attended by no one.
It wasn’t untrue, though perhaps exaggerated. He had grown up without money and did write for newspapers, but that didn’t last long. He quit after a month and holed himself up in Beez’s apartment until he finished and luckily published his first novel. And then, through that novel, he did make some (but not much) money. But he’s practically unknown and sales are verging on dismal. If he’s to ever hope he’ll publish again, he needs to push the readers somehow. If the article doesn’t work, it won’t change much anyhow.
Aziraphale shouldn’t have put himself in this position in the first place. It’s uncharacteristic for him to participate in deception, but Crowley approached him earnestly. He slid a hand through his wavy red hair as he described his situation, and promised little involvement on Aziraphale’s part. If people do buy and read the book after this, Aziraphale had thought, then success would sit on Crowley’s ability as a writer. He makes an uneasy peace with the matter.
“I hope it works out for you,” Aziraphale says.
The day passes without a customer in sight. Beez stops by to take a picture of a lonely table with Crowley sitting at it. A stack of ready-to-sign books is piled high next to his face. Aziraphale and Crowley chat a bit, and at five o’clock the day’s over.
Crowley signs one book that day. The message is simple: To Aziraphale . He pens his number underneath his signature and passes it to Aziraphale. The bookseller opens the cover and shuts it quickly with a blush.
“I’m not gay,” Aziraphale insists.
“And I’m the serpent of Eden.” Crowley smiles slyly. “Call, don’t call. Whatever you decide, angel.”
The first time Crowley calls him angel inspires a rogue streak in Aziraphale. He tells himself he’s calling out of spite. It’s not a date, but just a vehicle for conversation between two men interested in literature. The next morning, his breath is shaky when Crowley picks up the phone.
“I’m happy you called,” Crowley says.
Mayfair, Present Day
“You’re not spending another New Year’s Eve alone,” Beez announces, hauling three bags of groceries and another bag full of liquor.
“We’re not messing with tradition,” Crowley jokes, though not really.
He spent every New Year’s Eve alone since the divorce. Though, it hadn’t been New Year’s Eve for many years, not to them. It was an anniversary, the happiest day of their lives year after year. Until it wasn’t. And then it became something akin to celebrating death and loss. It transmuted into a day of grief and longing.
“Moping is not a tradition.”
“But brooding,” Crowley raises a finger. “Brooding is an art form worthy of tradition.”
The party forms around him without his consent. It’s not better than being alone. Crowley is resolute to be absolutely miserable at this party. However, Beez brought enough liquor to tranquilize an elephant. And that is something he can get on board with.
He sits on the couch alone with his glass of scotch. It’s not Talisker, but it’s good enough after half a bottle. And then his tongue and throat are too burned by the sting of alcohol to really taste anything at all.
“It’s Aziraphale’s fault, really,” he bemoans to Beez. They’d heard it all before. “He didn’t want to figure it out. So we got a fucking divorce.”
“It’s been three years, Crowley,” they tell him.
“Exactly. That’s my point,” he slurs. “Three years to the day that bastard decided to screw it all up. I didn’t think he’d actually sign the papers.”
Crowley feels suddenly hot and dizzy, anger bubbling within him. He’d never felt angry about it before. Sad, sure. Depressed even. Years of doing nothing. Years passed where he didn’t write a single word on a page. Books disgust him because they are the closest thing to being next to Aziraphale. It’s not their fault that Aziraphale smelled like the cozy comfort of a library. It’s not Crowley’s fault that at one point he called himself an author. But he can’t bring himself to create another book that would find itself on a shelf–a shelf at Aziraphale’s bookstore. He can’t bear the thought that Aziraphale might have another piece of him, but not him. Not really.
The anger sours in his throat and he bolts up, dropping his glass of truly half-assed scotch on the carpet. Beez follows him into the bathroom. They pat his back as he dry heaves into the toilet. No one at the party seems to notice they’re gone.
“The party was a bad idea,” Beez relents.
Crowley slides off the toilet, still warm but no longer so nauseous. He sits on the cool tiled floor, leaning against the bathroom sink. Being drunk on this day, it’s not so different from years prior. The party hadn’t changed much–it’s just that others are around to see the walking disaster that is Anthony J. Crowley. He’d like to think he’s a disaster with style, but he isn’t right now. Beez had just witnessed him try and fail to empty the contents of his stomach.
“How is it possible I still miss him?” Crowley asks.
“Damned if I know,” Beez squeezes his knee. “Have you thought about meeting with him? For closure?”
“I don’t think seeing him again would help,” Crowley sighs.
Of course, he’d thought about it. He spent eons conjuring up perfect scenarios where he would tell Aziraphale off. He’d explode and unload his hurt onto that silvery-blond-haired man with blue eyes too pretty to be truly angry with. He’d spit pure acid at him, at a man so soft Crowley was never really able to hold a grudge against him. In his head, all of these hypotheticals were deliciously satisfying until the prospect of going through with any of it became too real.
And then, he never did anything. He thought Aziraphale might call in that first year. He really did. Crowley stayed up a full forty-eight hours, on New Year's Eve and New Year's Day next to the phone. He didn’t change his number. A call didn’t come, and he assumed Aziraphale must have moved on.
How could they have spent sixteen years together, married for six of those years, and Aziraphale not think about him? Crowley’s forty-five years old, but it feels like a first heartbreak. Unbearable and impossible to overcome, and Crowley isn’t interested in overcoming it. It would mean truly ridding himself of Aziraphale–and that’s a step too far. That’s admitting they’d failed a love too great for failure. He says it’s Aziraphale’s fault, but what he means to say is they’d failed each other.
This year, Crowley’s given up hope that Aziraphale might ever call. He doesn’t think it’s a remote possibility when he heaves himself up off the bathroom floor and splashes water on his face. That it should ever happen is far from his mind, so when the phone rings Crowley believes he’s hallucinating. He spits mouthwash into the sink and jolts out of the bathroom.
Aziraphale speaks through the other end of the phone and it jostles a feeling from his core he’d buried so long ago. There’s an emotion he fears above all else, worried that it hasn’t died. Pain and heartbreak aren’t enough to choke it into oblivion. But Aziraphale’s voice is enough to make it return, as if it never left him, fluttering in his chest in the funeral-clad organ in mourning. Aziraphale's voice makes him remember that it's called his heart.
When Aziraphale asks him to come, he practically runs out of his apartment.
Mayfair, June 2005
They hold hands when nobody’s looking. Aziraphale, in a few short months, had become his very best friend. He’s sure as anything that they would be more than friends, but Aziraphale isn’t there yet and might never be ready for it.
“Friends hold hands, right?” Aziraphale asks him every time, including now.
“Friends can do whatever they like,” Crowley responds every time. “It’s society that puts pressure on people to act otherwise. Do what makes you happy, I say.”
Aziraphale laughs, relaxing on the couch as an episode of Golden Girls shifts into a commercial break. “I wish I could,” Aziraphale mutters under his breath.
He hasn’t forgotten that their friendship began with Crowley asking him out. In the beginning, it was easier to ignore. After their first outing together, Aziraphale outlined his intentions very clearly. Crowley accepted friendship, and they rarely ever spent more than two or three days without seeing each other.
It was after a few weeks that Aziraphale conceded to himself that he might think about Crowley as more than a friend–but only Crowley. It could be no other man. Or woman, for that matter, but that’s an aside. A lingering thought. So what, a pash on Crowley? It doesn’t mean much in the way of sexuality or love.
In mid-April, Crowley ran into his bookshop in the middle of a rainstorm because of a leak in the roof of the building. Aziraphale placed a bucket down to collect the rain, but he fretted over splatter and humidity and what that might mean for his collection. He didn’t know what to do other than to call Crowley. Crowley’s hair was dark and wet and stuck to his head. He was gasping for air–Crowley must have run over to help.
Aziraphale knew he was in love, but he hadn’t the faintest clue what to do with it. He’d been raised to believe that humans should act in a particular way. There is a right and a wrong in every matter, including how two people should love each other. Love was tainted by the dirty feeling in Aziraphale’s chest, but he hugged Crowley anyway when he stepped over the threshold of his bookshop. He held him close and fretted over him.
“You didn’t even put on a jacket. You’ll catch a cold!” Aziraphale scolded him.
“I’ll be right as rain,” Crowley quipped.
It’s June, and Aziraphale hasn’t been able to shake love. He wakes with it in the morning and goes to sleep with it at night. And when Crowley’s next to him, he inhales it from the scent of him. It suffocates him so beautifully, that Aziraphale revels in the torment of it. Then, suddenly, it’s too much. Love fills every part of him till he’s ready to burst, but he closes his lips whenever it threatens to escape.
“Feeling peckish, angel?” Crowley asks, letting go of Aziraphale’s hand. Though their relationship hadn’t progressed, Crowley never dropped the term of endearment. “Let me get you something to nibble on. You get grumpy when you’re hungry”
“I’m never grumpy,” Aziraphale grumbles, but joins Crowley in the small kitchen of his apartment.
It’s really a fridge with a microwave and a hot plate, but it’s enough for snacks and tea. Aziraphale watches Crowley curiously as he puts a kettle on the hot plate and finds a tin of biscuits in the cupboard.
“It’s not much, but I’ll take you to dinner later,” he promises Aziraphale. “We can dine at the Ritz.”
Crowley turns to him, smiling wide and bright. No one’s ever looked at Aziraphale like this before, not like Crowley looks at him. He sees the halo of a galaxy in Crowley’s eyes, and it makes him feel like the most blessed person on Earth. Surely, this can’t be wrong. Loving someone so purely can’t be a sin. Aziraphale feeds himself these words as he closes the gap between them.
The kiss surprises Crowley, who nearly falls over backward from shock but Aziraphale’s arms hold him up. “Aziraphale wants this,” Crowley thinks to himself as he deepens the kiss. Aziraphale’s lips are soft and thick, and he tastes of white chocolate and strawberries and champagne. But Aziraphale breaks the kiss, his eyes wet with the beginnings of tears. He brings a hand up to his lips, fearing it isn’t real, but Crowley is here. The sear of the kiss is still hot on his mouth.
“Are you sure?” Crowley asks, doubting it all. Aziraphale could have changed his mind. He could run away and their friendship would crumble after this. In only a matter of seconds, Crowley could lose him. He feels dizzy at the thought.
“I love you,” Aziraphale tells him. “I can’t hold it in anymore, I don’t even know what any of it means but I love you.”
“I love you too,” Crowley replies and Aziraphale kisses him again. “God, I love you angel.”
Soho, Present Day
The bookshop hasn’t changed. It even smells the same, of old parchment and tobacco. It’s a capsule from another era. Upstairs, Crowley thinks, is the bedroom they once shared. He shouldn’t have come.
Aziraphale emerges from behind a pillar with a wobbly smile and red eyes. He’d been crying. Fireworks burst outside the shop window, and in years past Crowley would pretend it was to celebrate their love. Crowley checks his watch. It’s nearly two in the morning. If they were still married, they’d be in bed together, limb on limb. Aziraphale would be calling his name. Crowley would be praying to whatever deity brought them together.
Aziraphale made Crowley want to believe in the ineffability of a God that brought them together. Crowley made Aziraphale want to sacrifice his religion and worship their love instead. But that was then when love was enough to bring together two fools desperate to make it work.
“Why did you call, Aziraphale?”
“I needed you,” Aziraphale squeaks, on the verge of tears again. Not enough time has passed to bring the wine out of his system, but he’s sober enough to know that enough is enough. It’s ridiculous that they should have been apart in the first place. He doesn’t know how they’ll fix it or if they’re even repairable at this point.
“We’re divorced,” Crowley whispers. It’s a reminder neither needs, but he says it anyway to put up a boundary for himself.
“I made a mistake.” Aziraphale looks down to his feet. If he doesn’t say it now, he never will. It’s the truth and it should have come to him easier, before the divorce. “The worst mistake of my life.”
The boundary fails. Crowley always thought he’d be screaming now. If they had a chance encounter, in the middle of London or if he’d ever stumble into Aziraphale’s bookshop again. He was sure they would argue until their voices rumbled so loud it would bring down every brick in the building and the bookshop would be reduced to rubble.
And he does shout, but he shouts with his hands as they grasp onto the lapels of Aziraphale’s jacket. He screams with his lips as they crash onto Aziraphale’s. Both are out of practice from the three years they spent apart. It’s clumsy and violent, but it feeds them in the way that a starving man gains sustenance from his first meal. Aziraphale wraps his arms around Crowley, pulling him in closer. He’s desperate for this and in disbelief that it’s happening at all. Crowley becomes aware of what he’s doing, and he ends the kiss, tugging at Aziraphale’s lip with his teeth as they part.
“Do it again,” Aziraphale breathes.
“Aziraphale–” Crowley wants to protest.
“Do it again,” Aziraphale repeats. “Please.”
Crowley can’t refuse him, kissing him again but this time with intent. He’s not sure where this will lead, but it’s better than spending another New Year without Aziraphale.