Chapter Text
The human could see him.
Even hours later, Aziraphale’s cheeks felt flushed and the heart he no longer required hammered in his chest. The door he entered looked different for everyone, but Aziraphale had no idea if the skeleton waiting behind it did. He somehow doubted it, considering the fellow was clad only in simple furs more woven than stitched and only covering what would have been his groin. It may still have counted as such, but Aziraphale had never figured out an appropriate way to ask. He still removed his coat and exchanged it for a simple housecoat the skeletal remains wordlessly handed him. Aziraphale smiled politely, but hurried on his way.
The home he entered was one with all the accoutrements one might expect from a Victorian one, something Aziraphale had quietly aspired to yet had never reached in his life. A fallen candle and his own inattentiveness had seen to that on a cold winter’s night in 1899. He didn’t sigh over it. There was really no point as it had been more than a century since that fateful evening. He’d watched the millenium turn at the bedside of a lovely old woman who’d only wished to watch the fireworks one last time. An easy wish to grant, despite it putting him behind schedule.
That had been an easy one, and he did so appreciate them when they were easy. This current one did not feel at all easy. No one, not a single person in one hundred twenty-six years, had seen him before he was ready to be seen. So he had to do something he so rarely saw fit to do: speak with his employer.
Not that his employment was typical, by any means. Monetary currency meant nothing, but a job well done - and consistently - meant more time. Hours, days, weeks - if one worked hard and well, time where they were allowed to ignore the veil and deliberately be seen by any and everyone who still had a pulse steadily added up. Aziraphale had yet to request a single minute of that time, the living world rushing headlong into a baffling world of technology that he simply didn’t know how to relate to. He didn’t know how some of the longest employed tolerated it as well as they did, the previous year’s winter solstice celebration filled with tales of exploits amongst the living.
Aziraphale saw no reason to do something as reckless as- as skydive as the Athenian had, but he supposed a woman who still regularly wore her armour would be one who sought the occasional wild thrill. Aziraphale had access to everything he wanted right on the same cosy corner of Soho where he’d spent the majority of his life on, so saw no reason to change that.
“Which is why,” he eventually said to his employer, “I’ve come. I wanted to know if, ah, if there was some sort of new policy wherein one has to use accumulated time.”
The being which cocked its head and gave a considering hum looked as different to each person as the building itself. One of the American fellows in blue who’d been employed just thirty years before Aziraphale had once told him the building he saw was like a tent in the middle of a battlefield, but there was no screams or rifles or cannons outside. Only a peace he’d yearned for but not lived to see. He’d also claimed that the being appeared as a woman to him, dressed in a nurse’s uniform and always offering him a small sweet from her apron pocket.
Aziraphale had, at one time, seen a fine gentleman dressed in a suit of mourning and quite the thick mustache. That vision had faded rather quickly upon learning who he was looking at. He didn’t know if the black-hooded skeleton was the being’s true visage or yet another reflection of expectation, but that was what he saw nowadays. That was what opened its mouth and spoke, voice low and oddly soothing. “NO, AZIRAPHALE, THERE'S BEEN NO SUCH THING.”
But it was, apparently, a rare phenomenon. Rare enough that his employer had asked if Aziraphale wanted him to take it over and… and… No. No, he didn’t want it taken over. He’d never once not completed a collection, and he wasn’t going to fail now.
Even though the trip to the office had taken a full day of the nine Aziraphale had left after the shock of being noticed. He generally had two weeks to prepare for the sudden, unexpected ends. Those people were unfortunately so much more prone to panic than the ones who had seen the end coming long before Aziraphale offered a smile and a travel sweet, so it was vital to get to know them a little better to know what approach might work best. The five days he’d been watching his latest person, however…
Well, even without being seen, Aziraphale had been feeling rather lost. He didn’t seem to have any friends. Nor did he have any living family. The career he had - solicitor for a large firm - seemed to bring him no joy, and his coworkers were all rather crass boors. The only thing the poor dear seemed to have was a coffee shop that served him six espresso shots in one large mug each and every morning without fail, and the car Aziraphale had been studying when he’d been spotted.
The stunning 1933 Bentley was comprised of sleek, classic lines and soft, buttery seats. It played the exact same music every time Aziraphale was in earshot, and it went very fast. When it pulled up to the kerb at Give Me Coffee or Give Me Death, Aziraphale watched the tall, lanky ginger uncoil from the driver’s seat. He wore a very nice jumper the colour of midnight, his excessively tight trousers the same shade and the thin blazer atop it all just as dark. A skinny little scarf and the shiny belt he wore were the only changes in colour pallette, though Aziraphale did notice a slash of red beneath his jacket collar as he folded it down and he knew the bottoms of snakeskin boots were the same bold colour.
Lenses even darker than the clothes flashed in the sun when he turned his head, and Aziraphale swallowed. Above the ginger’s head were the numbers 00:00:00:08. Zero years, zero months, zero weeks, eight days. And he was looking right at Aziraphale. Oh, dear.
Crowley didn’t know if he was being followed or if he was being haunted by some sort of apparition, not that he believed in such things. The oddly stuffy looking Victorian gentleman that seemed to be following him didn’t look nefarious. In fact, he looked like an Oxford English professor or someone going to a historical reenactment. The old looking clothes and the way the man would simply disappear between one look and the next was the only reason hauntings had even crossed Crowley’s mind and he was absolutely, definitely not being haunted. And he was going to prove it. “She’s not for sale.”
There were people on the crowded street who looked at the ginger as if he were a little mad, so Aziraphale swallowed again. “I- I’ve no intention of making an offer. I wouldn’t even know where to begin…” Oh, what was the word? For the death of him, he couldn’t recall. “Ah… Making it go.”
A dark eyebrow lifted over even darker glasses. Crowley couldn’t tell if the man was a beta or using scent blockers or just masking it. He was cute, though. Even with the stalking. “Just admiring, then?”
Oh, goodness, the poor dear looked as if he was talking to nothing. Aziraphale stepped back to be closer to the building. He had sixty-eight years of accumulated corporeal time, so he could spare an hour or two if this was indeed happening. He didn’t want anyone thinking Crowley was mad, after all, even with such a small number hanging over him. “Well, it- It certainly is unlike anything else on these old streets,” he said and, as far as the people passing by were concerned, he had been there all along.
Crowley blinked and found himself momentarily tongue-tied. His Victorian stalker smelled like heaven. Maybe he really had just been masking his scent because Crowley was suddenly almost overwhelmed by smokey vanilla bourbon and omega. “I- ah. Yes. Yes, I suppose she is.”
Aziraphale’s smile shifted shyly, cheeks dusting pink. It had been a very long time since he’d spoken to someone socially - someone living, especially. That speaking so openly with an alpha when he’d been one of those living had been utterly scandalous wasn’t helping. “I apologise. I don’t mean any offence. I rather appreciate things which are different.”
“Y-you… You didn’t,” Crowley assured him, feeling more than a little out of sorts. He wasn’t unused to omegas or their scent but something about this one captured his attention.
“Oh, good.” He tugged at his waistcoat, gaze falling to the pavement. When the scent of warm cinnamon and sweet apples grew stronger, he peeked up and his colour deepened. Crowley had come closer. “I seem to have interrupted your day, my dear. I'm sure you were off to somewhere important.”
Crowley made a complicated noise in his throat and wagged his head back and forth. “I mean, I wouldn’t call my job important. Not like it’s life or death or anything.”
A little giggle escaped. He'd heard nonsense sounds from Crowley before, but never so close. “I suppose not. Ah… Do you enjoy it?”
“God, no,” he said immediately then flushed a little and rubbed the back of his head self-consciously. “I mean, it’s easy, mostly, but it’s not what I thought it was when I started and my employer is a bit of a pill.” And he didn’t know why he was suddenly spilling his guts to someone who was mostly a stranger. A nice smelling stranger, but a stranger nonetheless.
Well, fiddlesticks. Aziraphale couldn't use that as a calming thing to think of when Crowley's number ran to zero. “Sometimes… sometimes dreams don't always turn out how we imagined. Unfortunately.” The smoke in his scent seemed to deepen before Aziraphale shook his head and focused again. He may not have been a fan of all the modern technologies, but he did appreciate the social advancements omegas had made. No one would be looking at him, instantly believing he was sinful for communicating with an alpha out in the open. He could probably even reach out and pat Crowley right on the arm if he so chose!
He was not that brave. “Well. Um. I hope to see you again, Mister…”
“Oh! Er, Crowley.” And Crowley had been single too long to not at least turn on a little charm. “Though now you have me at a disadvantage.”
Aziraphale blinked at him. He wasn't used to introducing himself. Those he collected tended to assume who he was, and it was simpler to avoid a full explanation each and every time he helped a person move on from this mortal realm. In his own life, his family had always done the introductions and once he'd escaped their roof, no one had really cared to know who the eccentric bookseller on the corner was. “Gosh. It-” People gave their first names nowadays, didn't they? “Aziraphale Eastgate. You may call me Aziraphale.”
“Aziraphale,” Crowley repeated softly. What an odd name. “Named for an angel, weren’t you?”
He gasped, a hand landing on Crowley's arm after all. “Yes! Goodness, so few people have ever known that. He isn't very well-known. I'm fairly certain the name only appears in a handful of Biblical misprints.”
His touch was soft, almost tentative, as if he wasn’t used to doing so. “Heh, I had a bit of an interest in angel and demonology when I was in secondary.”
“That must've been fascinating.” He could not recall how old children were when they began secondary. School had only become compulsory in the years before Aziraphale had died, children still more likely to be in factories than a classroom when he had. “Did people believe you were involved in some sort of witchcraft?”
Crowley chuckled. “More like my teachers were very concerned I'd gotten myself mixed up in some satanic cult.”
Blue eyes rounded. “Gosh.”
His surprise was adorable. “Unfortunately it was just a passing curiosity. A cult would've been more fun, honestly.”
“Oh, but cults are so dangerous.” Aziraphale frowned up at him, as baffled as he was intrigued by this charming alpha. “And the people in them seldom seem truly happy.”
“Ah… that was meant to be a joke, angel, no need to take things so seriously.”
“Oh.” Face bright red, Aziraphale’s hands flew to his cheeks as if he could rub the embarrassment right out of them. “I apologise. I'm… I've always been rather poor at telling the difference.” Death hadn't changed that, unfortunately.
Damn, he was really fucking cute. Crowley glanced at the coffee shop and then down at the large watch on his wrist. If he didn't leave now, he'd be late… but that didn't seem nearly so important now. “‘S alright. Say, you… Do you wanna get a coffee? With me.”
“I don't like coffee,” he replied immediately, nose wrinkling, but something about Crowley's expression and scent shifted, tensed. “But… but, um, if they- I do like tea. If they have tea. Or I could watch you drink coffee? I suppose?”
Maybe he'd been out of the dating game for too long. “They have tea. But it's less about the drink and more-” He waved a hand between them awkwardly. “You know, time.”
Aziraphale glanced at his numbers again, softening. “What a precious commodity that is. I would love to spend a bit of time with you, my dear.”
Crowley still wasn't sure if his meaning had gotten across but maybe it didn't need to. It'd been too long since he'd done anything other than work, sleep, and yell at his plants. “Fantastic. I've heard this place has a great chai.”
Aziraphale decided not to mention that he'd seen Crowley drink six espresso shots a day from this very place for the last five days. Especially when he realised that he hadn't actually drunk real chai since he'd visited the Indian Tea Store on Oxford Street in 1888. He brightened like a child on Christmas morning, taking Crowley's arm with a cheerful wiggle. “I’d love to try.”
Yep, he was cute as hell and it was frying Crowley's brain a little. “Oh, ah, good.” Crowley led him inside and pretended not to notice the raised eyebrows of the barista when she saw Aziraphale on his arm. It wasn't any of her business anyway even though he was sure she'd be gossiping with her employees in the back later. “Get whatever you like, my treat.”
“Oh, my.” There was so much written across the board hanging on the wall behind the counter, even more signs filled with Today's Specials on counters or floor signs. There seemed to be folded paper menus others looked at and, gosh, Aziraphale hadn't needed to pay attention to how people actually ordered drinks. There were so many options, it was a touch overwhelming. “Just, ah, just that chai would be more than fine.”
Crowley eyed him momentarily from behind his glasses and decided that wasn't enough. He ordered his usual, a chai for Aziraphale and then, “And one of those Raspberry and Vanilla tarts, too.”
“Oh, that sounds scrummy,” Aziraphale cooed.
“Sure thing.” Aziraphale watched the woman tap on a flat white screen, curious how she’d managed to get so many braids in her hair. “That all, Crowley?”
“You know me, I'd surely perish without my morning caffeine.”
That wasn't what would kill him, Aziraphale’s gaze falling. “Does it… does it even taste good?”
“Huh? Of course it does!” Crowley said, grinning at the way Nina, the cafe owner, wrinkled her nose. “Though I suppose it's an acquired taste.”
Aziraphale patted his arm. “I think - and do feel free to dismiss my opinions - that you ought to only do and have the things you enjoy.” He didn't have long left to do so, after all, and Aziraphale really didn't have any control over the places persons went after death. He just had to get them across the threshold. So he had no idea how much freedom Crowley's afterlife would entail.
Crowley tapped his card against the chip reader with a humourless chuckle. “That’s a bit easier said than done.”
Aziraphale hummed, watching Crowley wave the receipt away before he guided him to a small table for two. “Does it… have to be difficult?” he tried, cheeks turning pink when Crowley pulled out a chair for him. He couldn't recall the last time he'd dined with a gentleman in any capacity. Never alone. “This wasn't. Although that may very well end up moot as I'm not particularly good company.”
“I think I'd like to be the judge of that myself,” Crowley announced and plopped into the chair opposite him. ”But… some things one might want aren't things you can achieve alone.”
“That is an unfortunate truth,” Aziraphale agreed with a sigh. He sat primly, back and shoulders straight, while Crowley sat as if someone had told him to guess how chairs worked and he'd guessed wrong. It would've appalled the society he'd been born into, but Aziraphale found it charming enough to smile. “You seem as if you're rather fond of… uncouth choices.”
“Ngh, yeah, I guess you could say that.” Crowley rubbed the back of his head. “Never really been one to just follow the crowd.”
“I find that charming. Fitting in has always been difficult for me.” Few had mourned him. His smile remained, however. He'd had a very long time to accept that. “So it's rather nice to meet someone who does as he likes.”
“Yeah? I think most people find my constant questioning of the status quo to be obnoxious.”
“Without curious dreamers, we would still be hunter-gatherers struggling to survive the elements,” Aziraphale tsked.
Crowley laughed and leaned a little close to him. “I think you might be the first person to call me a ‘curious dreamer’.”
“Oh.” Aziraphale blinked at him. He couldn't recall a time when anyone had given him so much attention before. “Is it… incorrect?”
“I think it’s the most correct,” Crowley said, still grinning at him. “I think I was especially a curious dreamer as a kid. Growing up might’ve dampened it a bit.”
“It does get more difficult once one is an adult,” Aziraphale sighed. “Your smile is very mischievous, you know.”
“Is that a bad thing?”
“No. I find it intriguing.”
The more they talked, the more more Crowley was finding him intriguing. “Is that you saying you like mischievousness?”
“I didn't say that,” he denied, but his answering smile was impish.
“Uh-huh. I think it is.” Crowley slid his foot across the wood floor, gently nudging Aziraphale’s foot with his own. “So far, when you’ve liked something, the vanilla in your scent’s gotten stronger.”
He instantly flushed, said scent flaring at that little touch. That flirtation would've been utterly scandalous in his lifetime, both the touch and the very mention of his scent. “Goodness.”
Crowley delighted in it. “Yes, just like that.”
“You are full of mischief.” Aziraphale rubbed his cheeks, then looked up when a server brought their drinks and the expected tart to them. She laid the small plate in the middle of their table with two forks, and Aziraphale could hardly believe how casually such a thing would be done. Courting had changed in ways he wouldn't have imagined. Not… not that he thought Crowley would be courting him, no. That wouldn't be appropriate. “Is… Do you mind my scent? I could lessen it.”
“No! I mean- Yes, that is-” Crowley barely resisted burying his head in his hands. When did he get so bloody awkward? “What I mean is - I like it. It’s nice.”
“Oh.” He lifted his smile to the server, thanking her before picking up his mug and letting the warmth seep into his palms. He hadn't realised how much he missed something so simple as that. “I… I also like yours. Cinnamon apples are such a classic combination.”
It was Crowley’s turn to feel a flush rise up on his cheeks and he sipped his espresso to hide it. “Ah, good. I was… hoping you’d like it.”
“Were you?”
“Yes,” Crowley said honestly. “These things are usually easier if we both like each other's scents.”
These things. Gosh. “Then… you'd like to see me again?”
Crowley nearly laughed. “I most definitely would. If you’d like to see me, that is.”
He didn't have much choice in the matter, but his heart skipped a beat and that vanilla thickened again. “I would. I'd like that very much, my dear.”
“Good,” Crowley purred and reached for his fork, slicing into the tart. “We’ll have to exchange numbers. Plan a more formal date.”
“Well…” A date. “I would, really, but I'm afraid I don't have a telephone,” Aziraphale admitted.
Crowley blinked. “You… don’t?”
“Mm-mm. I've never required one.” Which was very true. If his employer wanted to reach him, he could. Otherwise, Aziraphale was beholden to no one. And, since Crowley was staring at him as if he'd suddenly sprouted an extra head, he took a sip of tea. The warm spices burst over his tongue, steeped just right. The tea Aziraphale might conjure whilst reading was positively dull in comparison to this, his faded memories not nearly as wonderful as the real thing. The sound he made was pure pleasure, lashes fluttering down as if he could save this flavour on his tongue forever if he couldn't see anything.
The sound had Crowley almost choking on his espresso. That was… well… not the sort of sound he’d heard outside of pornos on the internet. Though he didn’t seem aware of it, more so just… enjoying the tea as if he hadn’t had any in ages. “Good?”
“Mm… yes. It's been so very long since I had a proper cuppa,” he purred, taking another happy sip. “I forgot how much I enjoy this.”
Crowley was beginning to wonder if this omega had escaped from somewhere and needed help. “How long?”
“Oh… A great many years.” Aziraphale smiled, thumb rubbing against the side of the simple ceramic mug.
“Not to turn your own advice against you, but I think you ought to do and have the things that bring you joy.”
“I try to, but… there are always restrictions. Something is always in the way, isn't it?”
“Yes… I suppose it is,” Crowley agreed softly. “Since you don’t have a phone, how can I contact you?”
“Ah… We'll have to agree where to meet beforehand, I suppose. What's something you would love to do locally yet haven't?” Aziraphale hummed around another mouthful, then cheerfully wiggled that same full-body silliness as when he'd first taken Crowley's arm. As if there was so much joy in him it couldn't be contained. “The sort of thing you've always told yourself you would do one day.”
Crowley frowned, thinking about it. There was a lot here in London he hadn’t done. First because he’d just been hired and was young and threw himself into his work, and now it was because doing those things just didn’t seem as fun or worthwhile by himself. “You know, I’ve never been to The Globe.”
Aziraphale gasped. “Never?!”
“Nope. Never.”
“Then we must go! We will. Tomorrow,” he implored, laying his hand on Crowley's arm. “Please.”
“Ngk-” Well, Crowley found he couldn't deny Aziraphale when he asked like that with his eyes all big and imploring. “Yes. Tomorrow.” What was one more day of skipping work, anyway?
“Lovely.” He'd find a way to get Crowley to pick something else as well. He'd never been seen before, and he decided he didn't want to let such a unique opportunity go to waste. “Are you fond of Shakespeare's works?” he asked and eagerly launched into a cheerful debate with him about the merits of tragedies versus comedies.
And unknowingly melted Crowley's brain when he moaned over the tart like a wanton whore. Twice.
It was the best date he'd ever had. The best two hours, even. Aziraphale was funny, charming, and a bit of a puzzle for Crowley’s melted brain to chew on. He didn't seem to know what historical reenactment was, so Crowley could rule that out for his odd clothing choices and manner of speech. He was also dodgy about giving away any personal details, which Crowley could understand; they didn't really know one another and one never knew if someone was actually a creep. So even though the lack of information was a frustration, it was also reasonable and it gave Crowley something to ponder for the rest of the day.
He didn't get much work done when he finally went in to the office, too busy thinking about smokey vanilla bourbon and how his scent might change when he was kissed.
Damn it, he wasn't a teenager anymore and yet the thoughts lingered even after he'd gone home for the evening, lingered through eating bad takeout and even through his daily therapy sessions with his home jungle.
Aziraphale was a pretty unique name, wasn't it? An obscure angel only named in rare misprints. Surely there couldn't be many people who shared it.
There wasn't.
He did what any sensible modern person would do when interested in someone new: he googled him. The results were… interesting, to say the least. It appeared the man had absolutely no social media presence. The only Facebook or Twitter hits were people discussing the actual angel and there was a lot of theological discussions on various religious websites debating on whether the angel should be considered biblical canon or some monk's silly joke.
The only… he didn't want to say promising, but the only hit was a newspaper from the 1800s. There was a fire which had started in a bookshop in Soho and taken almost the whole block with it. Not uncommon during the time period but, luckily, there'd only been the one casualty: the bookshop's owner.
According to Scotland Yard the fire was neither arson nor incendiary, but an accident. The owner had reportedly lit a candle that evening and, presumably on his way to bed, had knocked it over and not noticed. His remains had been found in said bed. He'd apparently come from a minor noble family, the only reason why an omega had been able to own and operate the shop himself at the time.
There was a photo at the end of the archived paper. Old and grainy and faded. It was unmistakable though. The Aziraphale Eastgate who'd owned A.Z.Fell and Co. was a spitting image of the Aziraphale whom Crowley had spent his morning with. Absolutely uncanny.
...Maybe he was being haunted.