Name Your Price

by xsynhvx

Summary:

"If, and only if I were to accept this trade... where would we make the exchange?" he asked, grabbing some pen and paper he always kept around near the phone.

"My place, naturally. We could grab something to eat first, what about the Ritz?"

"What about the... Crowley, I'm sorry, but anyone would think you're asking me out on a date."

"They'd be correct. Pick you up at eight, the reservations have been made already. Bring the book!"

Crowley hanged up after that.

Chapter 1: Bidder Thirty-Three

"Sold! To bidder number thirty-three!"

Aziraphale stood up from his seat and decided it was time to go, he had no business there anymore. The book he wanted for his precious collection had been sold to bidder thirty-three, whose appearance he couldn't catch a glimpse of while heading out. Either way, from now on, they would be remembered as the one that made his life as a collectionist miserable. The Nice and Accurate Prophecies of Agnes Nutter was one of a kind, quite literally, since there was only one copy in the entire world, now gone to bidder thirty-three. What were they to do with it anyways? Save the world? He chuckled briefly on his way out, pretending like he wasn't experiencing a great sense of loss and grief just as a dream was stolen away right in front of him, never to be seen again.

So, Aziraphale decided it was best to go back to his affairs: running his bookshop, the same place in where he kept his precious collection, hidden and far from the products that could be sold. Hours passed since the auction took place, but he was still feeling rather defeated, sighing while leaning on the counter and holding his head with his hand while staring at the people passing by.

"Oh, don't be so gloomy Mr. Fell! I'm aware of how much you wanted that book, but I'm sure another one will come soon enough!" said Muriel, his employee.

The white-haired man gazed over at the shelf from where the young lady was comforting him while simultaneously rearrenging a batch of new additions that came earlier that day during the auction.

Aziraphale smiled softly, staring down at the wooden furniture and tracing some circles with his index. "No book will ever come close to this one, I'm afraid. Care to listen to a story?" he asked, Muriel's head suddenly becoming visible from the corner of the shelf, nodding her head rapidly with a smile, leaving everything she was doing to approach her boss by taking long strides, sitting on a chair near the counter like a toddler ready to be blown away with a tale from ancient times. 

Aziraphale began narrating to Muriel how Agnes Nutter could be compared to Nostradamus or Baba Vanga, and that her writings foretold the future ahead, only that everyone, including himself, was unaware of which events her book predicted. Everyone, but bidder thirty-three.

He repeated the story to the bartender at the local pub that very night while drinking his second glass of wine, and not just any wine, a Châteauneuf-du-Pape. He had actually bought a 1921 bottle beforehand, since he thought he would actually win, a lot of money had been saved for that book after all, this moment was supposed to be a celebration. Instead, tears were almost ready to come out at any given moment, one more cup and Aziraphale would be weeping like a baby. 

"Ah, the prophecies of Agnes Nutter, sounds like quite the book to own," voiced a stranger sitting right next to him.

Aziraphale frowned at the sudden meddling the weird lad around his age if not younger supposed, surprising him by wearing sunglasses at night, styling a very striking shade of red and somewhat long wavy hair. 

"It doesn't just sound like it, it is quite the book to own. There's only one copy of it, as I'm sure you've heard..." Aziraphale replied, gazing furtively at him while drinking from the glass, pretending like he didn't find the gentleman attractive. 

The guy nodded at that, a certain aura of nonchalance exuding out every pore in his body. He sat comfortably, with a petulant grin on his face, drinking some whiskey on the rocks.

"Whoever has it must be the luckiest being alive," he added, crossing his slim, long legs.

Aziraphale had already chugged two cups of wine savoring a third one. He had to admit that his drinking neighbor caught his attention by being really handsome aside from nosey, something he could and would never confess aloud since his sexuality was a very private and delicate matter, one he wasn't very comfortable sharing, even recognising some level of attraction to his own self and no one else took two-and-a-half glasses of red.

"You have no idea..." he said, pair of crystal-blue eyes staring at the dozens of bottles behind the bartender, yet viewing nothing in particular, lost in thought. His vision was blurring slightly already. "I... uhm, I apologise, I'm afraid I didn't introduce myself. How rude of me. Aziraphale. Z. Fell."

He raised his glass as he revealed his interesting sounding name, and the stranger did the same. "Anthony. J. Crowley, but you can call me Crowley. Charmed," he said, staring with that tiny smile that couldn't be erased from his lips, getting just a little bit closer. He took the liberty to join both glasses, as if making a toast, catching Aziraphale off guard, but he was already too drunk to care. "Quite an interesting name you have..."

The bartender added some more whiskey to Crowley's glass as a requested second round, seeing the ice cubes crack as their temperature increased. Aziraphale felt himself blushing slightly due to the alcohol and the sudden attention given by the handsome man. He wasn't used to it, not many were interested in him whatsoever, so his focus was now given to the marvelous wood that made the bar. "Yes. I had very religious parents, bless their souls..."

Crowley nodded in understanding. "That explains it. Aziraphale... wasn't that one the cherub that guarded the Tree of Life?" he inquired, taking him once more by surprise, since he didn't expect Crowley to know anything related to religion. He turned to face him immediately, eyes wide opened in astonishment. As a bookseller, Aziraphale thought he should really start respecting the not judging a book by its cover saying.

"I must say I'm impressed. That's the one."

Crowley's smile widened a bit. "No flaming sword?" mocked the man in black.

Aziraphale was starting to feel tingles he promised himself to never feel again. "I'm afraid I lost it," he joked back, smiling as well. "You seem to know your religious trivia quite well..."

Crowley did a gesture with his hand while drinking, Aziraphale could only describe his posture as uninhibited, loose, relaxed. Contrary to him, who always remained tense, with his back straight as a line. "Religious household, but they threw me out. It's fascinating how my surname matches one of a satanist, while your name is one of an angel. Do you believe in destiny, Aziraphale?" Crowley asked, causing Aziraphale to simply gaze at him, now feeling very hot all of a sudden. His head was all over the place at the moment, discussing these interesting philosophical matters was complicated when fine wine was running through his bloodstream, so he sighed, heavily so, opening his eyes as big as he could before closing and opening them again. Blurry vision was certainly getting worse. 

"Sometimes. Other times, I hope it doesn't. Exist, I mean. God, these stools are repulsively small..." he complained that last bit in a murmur, glaring down at the uncomfortable seat.

Crowley frowned and erased his grin for the first time since interacting. "And why would that be?"

Aziraphale decided to look at him once more, not that he was really complaining about having to look at him, the man was devine, and made for an interesting conversation, yet that date in particular was stormy, and no matter how captivating the topic was, losing that book was everything he cared about.

"Well, given the fact that I've lost the book of my dreams today, if destiny does exist, that would mean my dream was destined to fail," he explained, indignation flowing through his words as he set them free, battling and trying to find a comfortable position in those little stools designed for people like Crowley. Skinny.

Crowley seemed to understand Aziraphale's motives to doubt destiny, yet chose to remain silent for a bit. Giving up on the stool completely, his eyes were now set to wander secretly, admiring the figure sitting next to him, inspecting from bottom to top, the turtleneck being the cherry on top that was driving him absolutely mad. Aziraphale loved turtlenecks, not on himself, but on other men, men like Crowley, who just happened to be his type, sadly. No matter how much he prayed his inclinations remained adamant and strong. 

"Tough luck," he finally spoke after drinking some more whiskey, that raspy voice of his sending shivers down his spine. 

Aziraphale exhaled a deeply contained sigh coming from the core of his being. Usually, he was reserved, and didn't enjoy speaking of private business, but after some cups, he was ready to discuss his entire life if necessary. "Can you believe I almost had it? Then that cursed bidder took it from me, and now my head is killing me..." he confessed, feeling rather shy on how sincere and talkative he became all of a sudden, moving his mouth a bit as it was beginning to go numb. "I apologise for, uhm... well, all of that."

Crowley shook his head while chuckling slightly, Aziraphale didn't realise the guy was even closer, pretty damn close. Their arms were touching now. "No need, I would be furious too if that were to ever happen to me!" Crowley exclaimed, but his expression remained calm, aside from that residual grin.

Aziraphale smiled back, but his feelings weren't there. "It was rather devastating, I must say. But c'est la vie." 

Crowley's cologne could be appreciated from his place, intoxicating his brain on how oddly sweet he smelled. Furtively checking him out became a habit for that night, drinking while side-eyeing, praying he wouldn't notice. The guy, however, decided to put his hand on top of the bar, near Aziraphale's hand, skin almost touching. Most unbearable almost. 

"Here's my number, in case you ever need to talk about how devastating that was, or, you know, anything else," he whispered loud enough so Aziraphale could hear, and loud enough so he could melt with desire right there on his tiny stool. His face was burning, he could feel his pulse on his ears, yet his body was light as a feather.

He couldn't react properly as Crowley got up, heading out like he owned the place as soon as he did. Only a trace of his scent and a written piece of napkin was left behind, something Aziraphale quickly yet discreetly grabbed, peeking over as he drank from the glass. His head began to hurt even more as disbelief took over.

"You've got to be kidding me."

Bidder #33

Soho 2743

Chapter 2: Two Things Only

"...Fell! Mr Fell! Oh Lord, are you alright?" Muriel questioned, but her voice rumbled like Notre Dame's Emmanuel.

Aziraphale made the effort to move once awakened, yet painful punctures soon stabbed his brain, not even mentioning how every muscle, joint or maybe both were aching from falling asleep on the floor, apparently and to his surprise. At least he landed on the carpet.

"I'm perfectly splendid my dear, tickety-boo," he assured, obviously lying, transparently so, since even saying that sent cutting needles through his mind. Having a hangover was certainly the last thing he needed.

Muriel helped the man stand on his two feet, a thing he wouldn't be able to do alone in such a state. How embarrasing, having an employee attend to him, seeing him like this. "I'm sorry you have to see me this way Muriel..." he apologised sincerely, yet she laughed it off.

"Oh Mr. Fell, there's nothing to apologise for, that book was very special wasn't it? Don't you worry, I understand. Fancy a cuppa?" she asked without any judgement like the angel she was, nodding slowly at the offer with a gentle smile since his mouth was so dry it was feeling doughy, which was very unpleasant and disgusting. Aside from that, there was also gratitude towards Muriel.

"I'd like that, thank you..." he said, his eyes adjusting to the light coming from the large windows, watching people passing by. Thankfully, the shop was still closed. 

Aziraphale didn't really remember how he got there, the only thing he knew for certain is that there was wine all over the wooden floor, and pieces of broken glass scattered throughout the place. Well, that solved the mystery of what happened to the very expensive bottle of Châteauneuf-du-Pape he had reserved at the pub. A shame and a waste, really.

"I'll take care of that in a minute Mr. Fell! Just seat down, I'll handle it!" she exclaimed from the kitchenette like a mind-reader.

Aziraphale decided it was best if he obliged, sitting down behind the counter, throbbing his temples with closed eyes. The headache and muscle pain were absolutely killing him, and his stomach was demanding, nay, craving food. Breakfast was very much needed.

"Here you go Mr. Fell, an English breakfast with tea, milk, sugar... no black pudding, I'm afraid. Sorry," Muriel said appearing like a ghost beside him carrying a platter and putting it on top of the counter. Aziraphale looked at her for a moment, then back at the food in front of him, moments like these reminded him of how fast Muriel was at everything. A generous raise would be deserved after that.

"Oh, this is just what I needed. Thank you. Feeling much better already," he commented, and she smiled like a kid that had just been praised.

"Well, while you do that, I'll clean this mess. Seriously Mr. Fell, you'll have to be more careful next time! What if something happened to you? What if someone took advantage or something? I'm talking from personal experience! You know, I think I'm too innocent or oblivious sometimes, I trust people way too easily. One time..." 

Aziraphale stopped listening, not because he wasn't genuinely interested. Normally, he would be, even when he knew Muriel could talk for hours, he'd listen because he genuinely enjoyed her company and anecdotes, but for the time being, while drinking his tea and eating slowly, he began remembering certain events that took place at the pub, mostly relating to Crowley, also known as bidder thirty-three. 

He nearly choked on the infusion after his breath suddenly became heavy at the memory of Crowley's long intertwined thighs, his slim hands gesturing, gripping the tumbler or resting near his own, that irritaring yet seductive grin, that sweet scent, that hair, that outfit, that face, that body, that everything. It was driving him insane, talking abnormal levels of crazy for Aziraphale. No one, and he meant it when he said it, no one had ever caused such an impression to the point of having so many disgustingly intrusive thoughts related to erotic things, sodomy of all things. He felt filthy for merely thinking about it, yet Crowley was certainly fighting to conquer that guilt, picturing himself in a more than questionable position reserved to intimacy only.

"Mr. Fell? Are you feeling okay? Your face is red."

Aziraphale became startled at the interruption and looked at Muriel, picking up the cup and nodding while sipping tea. "Ah. Yes, it's probably this weather, still using last night's clothes when it was way colder, I'll go change in a bit."

He had to put an end to those sinful and lustful deviations, ought not to forget that the guy was the one that took Agnes' prophecies away from him. That's right, the number. He had to have kept it somewhere inside his...

"There you are."

Waistcoat. Bidder thirty-three, dialing code Soho, no need for that, four digits. He didn't want to waste the food that had been prepared by Muriel, so after finishing his tea, he devoured that breakfast as if it was the last meal he would ever have, not that he was complaining, but it tasted as such. Muriel wasn't the best cook, yet hangover starvation had him skipping through details. 

Cleaning his lips with a napkin placed on the trail, Aziraphale got up and headed right towards his Western Electric 1500 to call the number Crowley had given him. 2743. His fingers pressed the buttons, and he waited. 

"Hey. This is Anthony Crowley. You know what to do. Do it with style," answered a very unique and distinguishable voice, yet clearly recorded. 

Aziraphale couldn't help but smile a little at that. So silly, silliest thing he had ever heard.

"Am I doing this style thing correctly?" Aziraphale inquired playfully, all that nervousness he was feeling for calling vanishing as soon as he heard Crowley's answering machine's message. Then, someone spoke.

"Hello angel, took you a while to call, I was getting worried," Crowley said, and the nervousness returned. He was feeling nauseous all of a sudden, wanting to puke everything he had ingested for breakfast less than seven minutes ago. That nickname, angel. It made Aziraphale feel tingles all over his body, especially his stomach. Butterflies, books would call them. Not him. He was in denial.

"I see no reason why you'd get worried, knowing that you're the main cause I drank so much yesterday."

And there he was again, telling things he shouldn't. He heard Crowley laugh a little at that, those tingles returning once again. "And why would that be, exactly?"

The audacity to ask him that question was unprecedented. Aziraphale had to inhale deeply to mantain his composure, clearing his throat and making sure his clothes showed no signs of wrinkles, not because someone was watching, but because he'd know the wrinkles were there. Either way, he was well aware of the fact that he had to take a bath and change. "You stole the book of my dreams yesterday! Not only that, but you laughed at my face knowing you had it, and you made me..." feel attracted to you. He decided to leave that part out. Instead, he changed the original idea for one that wouldn't compromise more of his dignity, whatever was left of it. "Angry. You made me angry."

Now that buried the rest of his remaining dignity right next to his deceased parents. Excellent!

Aziraphale felt Crowley breathe out a brief chuckle, one that made the man feel both his blood boil and his heart accelerate. "I didn't steal anything angel, I bought an item that was being auctioned off, that's all. Now, given that you haven't been questioning yourself much. Don't you find this a bit odd?" 

Again with that nickname that made his pulse run like crazy. It had been some minutes since he could feel some heat on his cheeks, meaning he was blushing. How embarassing, at his age to be blushing at a man's nickname for him. How inappropiate, incorrect, improper, and all the different synonyms that would describe how awful Aziraphale felt about this whole ordeal, because he couldn't really say he hated it, if anything he felt guilty for liking such a thing.

"What is odd?" Aziraphale inquired, not really following, frowning in disgust at his solid argument. He was right, and it was terribly enraging.

"Come on Aziraphale! You're a bright man, think harder!" Crowley exclaimed, now making it a challenge he was willing to take.

Aziraphale decided to obey. He thought properly, about everything. He went to the auction, lost the book of his dreams to this insufferable handsome demon of a man, went to the pub and said insufferable handsome demon of a man was there. Why was he there?

"Why were you there? At the pub. You were there. Why did you give me your number revealing you were bidder thirty-three? What is happening?" he began asking non-stop, anxiously so, since it was starting to paint a pretty creepy image.

"There you go! Knew you could do it angel. Now, don't panic, before you call the bobby on me, hear me out."

Aziraphale did panic, hangover was certainly far from it. His head started to feel heavy and his brain suffered once again, all thanks to this psychopath.

"Why should I? Oh God, why am I still talking to you? What can you possibly want from me?! I only sell books! I also collect them, but those aren't for sale. Lord, why am I saying this? What is happening?!" 

Yes, he was panicking a great deal. 

"Calm down, shush. Now listen. I don't want much, in fact, I only wanted one thing and one thing only. Problem is I didn't think you'd be this cute so this actually complicates things a bit. Change of plans, now I want two things: one, to fuck you and two, a book, whichever order is fine," Crowley explained, leaving Aziraphale at a loss for words.

His face turned as red as it could become, leading his empty hand to one of his cheeks to feel the burning temperature of his body rising at the announcement, not even caring for the book thingy he had mentioned. He swallowed dryly, his breathing becoming irregular.

"Angel? You there?" 

"Yes Crowley! God. To say such things... don't you have any decency?" Aziraphale questioned, arranging his bow-tie and looking for Muriel discreetly. She wasn't around, which was a good thing, he didn't want her to listen to the conversation he was having. 

"What's that? Sounds boring. Anyways, you see, I have a client who wants a book you own. One of a kind, not that I would know since the last time I've read... God, when was it?" Crowley kept talking, but Aziraphale wasn't following.

"A client?" he asked, now starting to feel dizzy.

"Yeah, I considered it might be messy to explain, I'll try to keep things simple. You see, I do some favours here and there, people pay me money to get them stuff that are hard to get, I get them, I deliver them, they thank me, blah blah, everyone's happy. This client of mine wanted a book, so I did some research and turns out, surprise, you bought that same book they really, really want a few years ago at an auction. So, long story short, I bought Agnes to make an exchange, maybe more than one."

Now it wasn't creepy, it was ridiculous, and very convoluted. Silly, one might say. Ignoring the sexual innuendo made at the end, Aziraphale felt like he panicked over nothing.

"So you're telling me you spent a fortune on The Nice and Accurate Prophecies of Agnes Nutter, Witch not because you wanted it, but because a client of yours wanted a book I happen to have? Well, Crowley, I must say, that sounds like a beautiful story. I'm certain some publishing house will be very pleased with the plot."

"Angel, my client is a descendant of this witch-lady. She was the one that submitted the book at the auction."

Now that was the silliest thing he had ever heard.

"Why on Earth would anyone submit The Nice and Accurate Prophecies of Agnes Nutter if Agnes was their ancestor?"

Crowley sighed at the other end of the line. He actually had just sighed. Unbelievable. "Don't know, don't care. All I know is I was paid money to bring this book to my client, who lives overseas, mind you, and the only way I could do that was if I got something you really wanted first," he explained, which made Aziraphale frown even more, because that was absolutely accurate for someone that never met him before.

"And how would you know that, exactly?" 

Another sigh could be heard, more exasperation in the execution. Crowley was clearly starting to get frustrated. "Let's just say I forgot to mention I own the pub you frequent, and that you never noticed my presence while I got to listen to every single thing you had to say to the barkeeper as you got drunk, would you believe me?"

He wanted to die right there. He closed his eyes, massaging his lids and nose's bridge for a moment before asking the question. "Which book?"

"Theory of Moral Sentiments. First... no, sorry, second edition, 1761."

No. Not his Adam Smith collection.

"Is that really the book? Don't you want, How to Trade in Stocks by Livermore, perhaps? It's first edition! No equal..."

"Theory of Moral Sentiments. Second edition, 17–"

"Yes, I've heard you already! Look. I'll... I'll think about it..." Aziraphale whispered while looking down at his shoes, absolutely defeated. He adored his Theory of Moral Sentiments copy, but he also wanted Agnes.

"What's there to think about? That book has plenty of other copies, this one only has one! Wasn't it the book of your dreams?"

Yes. Yes it was. He had been dreaming with that item since he began collecting. Some thought it didn't really exist, but Aziraphale remained hopeful after all these years. 

"If, and only if I were to accept this trade... where would we make the exchange?" he asked, grabbing some pen and paper he always kept around near the phone.

"My place, naturally. We could grab something to eat first, what about the Ritz?"

"What about the... Crowley, I'm sorry, but anyone would think you're asking me out on a date."

"They'd be correct. Pick you up at eight, the reservations have been made already. Bring the book!"

Crowley hanged up after that.

Chapter 3: I'd Like That

Aziraphale was waiting outside the shop by the entrance, holding the antique doctor's bag his father left him with in his hands. Normally, the bag would contain at the very least some medical equipment, yet in Aziraphale's case, he was no doctor, in fact he considered himself a very simple man who ran a Bookshop in Soho quite modestly, so instead he filled the bag with books and took it for a ride wherever he needed to carry some of his collection with him, rare opportunities that didn't happen often since the value of the items brought rhymed with extensive, only one letter differentiating both words. 

Aziraphale had come prepared, packing a bunch of different options that could potentially open the door for negotiation. He wouldn't lose Theory of Moral Sentiments without putting on a fight, and if he did lose that book, he wanted to know he lost it while trying his hardest not to.

Trusting his pocket watch wholeheartedly, the old-fashioned man checked and confirmed that it was eight o'clock, sharp. Muriel had left already, the Bookshop was closed, and if honesty was at stake, Aziraphale was an absolute mess. Last time he had been on a date he ended up in a relationship with an absolute moron, it was normal that his palms were sweating, feeling moisture all over his body except his forsaken mouth, which remained dry as coal, legs trembling a little, feeling rather weak at the reminder that he was about to go out with a man he was heavily attracted to, and one he also resented very much.

The point was, aside the convoluted and contradictory feelings he reserved for Crowley, he feared his own rustiness. It had been a while since he was on the pull, a long time, years, a decade if not more. He found himself remembering such a stage in his life while following a Bentley with his eyes as it parked right beside A.Z. Fell and Co.

It was a very nice vehicle. Slender, shiny black, elegant, overall beautiful. Queen could be heard from the spot he was standing meaning the driver enjoyed loud music, or was partially deaf. Nonetheless, he was back to his own internal dilemma when the window rolled down, and Aziraphale felt the air leaving his lungs at lightspeed. 

"Waiting for someone?" Crowley voiced while leaning over with a smile on his face, one that made his heart flutter rapidly.

"A foul fiend, it seems. Luckily, I didn't have to wait for long," he replied proudly as he walked towards the car, opening the door leading to the passenger seat and entering without saying a thing. God, the Bentley's smell was amazing, surprisingly. 

"Foul fiend... it isn't the worst thing I've been called. Well, night is young, I'm sure you'll come up with better insults as we spend some more quality time together."

Aziraphale rolled his eyes and looked outside the window, his chubby hands on top of the very round kit, which rested on his lap. 

"You don't happen to have an aspirin in there, do you?" Crowley mocked with that grin of his formed on his lips. 

Aziraphale gazed at him, no emotion shown on his face whatsoever. "No. Just valuable possessions. Many, many books."

Crowley returned the stare, gazing at his date behind those sunglasses while holding that grin of his. "Thinking on moving in already?"

Now Aziraphale did show emotion, blush returning to his cheeks, deviating his attention to the briefcase, not being able to hold the stare for much longer.

"Oh, quit that. No. I just spent some time picking some books in my collection that could interest you. For the exchange, I mean."

Crowley, who hadn't stopped the car's engine, kept one of his slim hands on top of the wheel, that bloody grin still on his face. "It's not up for negotiation angel, but who knows, try some more and maybe I'll give in to your temptation."

Temptation? How very dare he. 

"It's not...!" he paused as he was fixated on him almost automatically, Crowley patiently waiting for whatever was coming next. Aziraphale decided to stop there, breathing in, calming down. He fixed his more-than-fine bow-tie and swallowed his pointless explanation. "Very well then. Let's go."

And without any further ado, off they went.

---

Dining at the Ritz has always been one of his favourite leisure activities. The fine wine, the exquisite dishes, the music, the place itself was magical, that was when he was alone. Now, he wasn't.

"Hello, what can I do for you?" asked the Maître D' once they entered the establishment.

"I made reservations, a table for two, at nine," Crowley answered as Aziraphale watched standing right next to him, quietly observing him. He was silently asking for forgiveness to God for considering Crowley very handsome, extremely.

"Perfect, under what name was this reservation made?" he asked, gently, taking a look at the list.

"Anthony. J. Crowley, speaking."

Speaking. Aziraphale couldn't help but smile a little at that silly unimportant remark. The Maître D' rapidly scanned the list, his index helping him find the name and nodded after a few seconds. "Right this way please."

They were guided to their table, sitting comfortably after one hell of a ride. The way Crowley drove that Bentley was reckless, but if he had to be honest with himself, something that, again, he wasn't very at peace with, he found that oddly endearing and dare he say, arousing. 

"Well, Crowley, I must say, it's nice that you invited me to such a place just so we could exchange books..." Aziraphale threw the first stone, since he was confused about his intentions. Yes, Crowley did say it was a date, but Crowley was a sarcastic being, so that could as well have been a lie. If anything, Aziraphale was making sure this went nowhere. Well, in reality, he just didn't want to get his hopes up.

Aziraphale wasn't the type of person that enjoyed one-night stands, in fact he've never been in such a situation before, but imagined Crowley living that sort of lifestyle freely and openly, no commitments whatsoever, the old-fashioned man was more than convinced that this charming, mysterious and seductive gentleman viewed him under that light. Crowley would prove him wrong once more, but Aziraphale didn't know that yet. 

"I already told you, the exchange will happen at my place, let's just say I'm in the mood for some fine wine and exquisite dishes first," he mentioned while leaning over carelessly, resting his head on his hand, arm on the table, staring at him.

"Curious. I have the exact same thoughts about this place, down to the adjectives and everything..." Aziraphale said, then it hit him. "How much have you heard at this pub of yours?"

Crowley stopped staring and changed positions, still holding that nonchalance that characterized him. It appeared as if nothing could pierce through him. "Enough for me to know you love the Ritz, Louis Armstrong since he released What a Wonderful World recently, that you've been in a relationship that ended badly, and that you are queer. That last bit you haven't said it, it's just a guess of mine," Crowley began enumerating, and Aziraphale wanted to get up and run.

"First of all, I'm no such thing. What is it with you, listening to other people's conversations? It's rude and none of your business," he inquired, rejecting his sexuality because saying it out loud helped with the denial and guilt a little. Only a little.

Crowley nodded while grabbing a piece of bread. "It wouldn't be. Sadly for you, now you know it was part of my job to get some intel, it just happened to be a coincidence that I was already interested before doing my fair share of research where I found out you were the one had the book my client wanted. Out of all the people in the world, you. Unbelievable, really, it's... don't know if there's a word for it," the man in black began explaining, taking a bite of the bread.

Aziraphale was a little embarassed at how open and sincere Crowley was, revealing like it was nothing that he was interested way before this client showed up. It was nice, even if it felt weird that he was being spied on, kind of. "Ineffable, I'd say. Some things are just too great to explain or understand. Ineffable is the word you're looking for, I believe..."

Crowley did look at him this time, but something was different. He wasn't grinning like he usually did. He chewed for a bit, swallowing and still maintaining the stare, long enough to make Aziraphale's cheeks feel like they were burning again, all the way up to his ears. "Ineffable it is," he said, and Aziraphale had already stopped caring about everything by this point.

Dinner was served a bit later, after ordering some wine. Aziraphale decided to have one glass and one glass only, after waking up the way he did he didn't want to get drunk, one cup was more than enough. Crowley, on the other hand, decided to order a bottle, hearing the sommelier's advice and going with it. 

"I think this deserves a toast, wouldn't you say?" Crowley asked, already holding his glass up, bringing it closer to Aziraphale's.

"To what, exactly?" 

Crowley shrugged slightly. "Don't know, us?"

Aziraphale chuckled briefly, shaking his head while looking at his cup. "This us that you mention is strictly professional, Crowley."

Crowley still held the glass close to his, looking at him. "Doesn't have to be." 

After questioning it for a few seconds, Aziraphale sighed briefly, an innocent laugh sneaking in while doing so, looking elsewhere. Heartbreak wasn't unknown. Truth be told, he had experienced it so many times it made him feel pathetic to even remember. However, no one like Crowley had done it, broken his heart, which made things appear new, refreshing, and tragic, since Aziraphale could anticipate the ending before the show even started. However, and against all odds, he was willing to suffer once more, if that last heartbreak was made by Crowley, the insufferable guy who owned the book of his dreams and was sitting right next to him staring with a pair of sunglasses on, at night. 

Aziraphale decided to give in, reciprocating the gesture, glasses clinking together, both taking a sip at the same time, looking at each other furtively while doing so. Again, those condemnable thoughts returned, but this time, Aziraphale allowed them. He allowed the thought of Crowley undressing him with those hands, kissing him with those lips, whispering to his ear with that voice. It was a difficult battle not to get hard when the protagonist of his most sinful fantasies was sitting next to him.

"May I ask you something?" Crowley voiced, and Aziraphale almost chocked with the wine he was drinking, nodding while swallowing. "Is this partner of yours still around in any way?" 

Aziraphale was surprised by that question. He cleaned his lips after finishing his plate, and shook his head. "No, I'm afraid we parted ways in a very horrible manner..." he answered truthfully, somewhat remembering the good and not so good times alongside Gabriel. 

Crowley grinned a little. "I'm sorry to hear that."

Aziraphale couldn't help but smile back at that. That demon. "Something tells me you are not."

Crowley laughed, sending shivers all over his body. "Well, you'd be correct once again. I'll pay, my treat this time, then we can go back to my place, what do you say?"

This was it, a chance for Aziraphale to get out, Crowley was giving him an opportunity to reject him, since he knew Aziraphale was more than capable of doing it, yet didn't wish to, not really. Aziraphale joined his hands together and looked at Crowley for a brief moment before looking at the table, a beautiful crimson color painting over the paleness of his face. 

"I'd like that..." he answered, and glanced over at Crowley once more to see his reaction.

The man in black, with his Beatles' inspired haircut, silly sunglasses and cursed turtleneck smiled genuinely, stealing Aziraphale's breath and part of his heart with him.

Chapter 4: Try Again Tomorrow

Notes:

I took some liberty with Crowley's flat since it's 1967, it won't be an exact replica of the show's nor the book's flat. Maybe the same terrain but not the same decoration. I'm obsessed with the concept that Crowley was goth before goth was even invented or a thing, as Neil Gaiman said, so yes, he has his own 1960s gothic lair. Wanted to get that out of the way.

I also want to apologise beforehand because this is the first smut I've ever written in this language, so I'm rather shy putting this out there, but on the other hand I had a blast writing this chapter and wanted you to read it, cringe-inducing scenes included. It won't be the hottest Aziracrow story you've read, in fact I decided to keep things mild and sweet, but I still wanted these two to Make The Exchange™. And yes, long chapter ahead. That was all, hope you enjoy!

Crowley's flat was somehow fitting, Aziraphale considered. It was rather spacious, sombre, since most of the walls were painted black, only some corners illuminated creating a surprisingly cozy ambience, with lots of plants decorating the place. Like, a lot of plants.

"I'm guessing you're into botany then?" Aziraphale inquired as he gently touched one plant's leaf. 

Crowley roamed carelessly through the place, looking for something in particular. "You could say that, in a way," he answered vaguely as he kept on searching, almost cartoon-ish with how he turned exaggeratedly once he realised the object he desired wasn't where he thought it was.

The white-haired man, who still conserved some blonde patches revealing the shade that covered his head entirely in times of yore, stood in front of the indoor garden Crowley had going on, frowning as he gave that response some thought. It was a very complicated way of simply saying yes, Aziraphale, I'm into botany, I like plants. 

"There you are!" Crowley exclaimed, catching Aziraphale's attention. 

He stopped breathing immediately as soon as he turned to face the flat owner only to discover he was right there, scarce centimeters apart, pressing his chest against Aziraphale's back to grab a book that remained under a chest-shaped box. He was trapped in the middle of that jungle and Crowley, Aziraphale couldn't help but stare at his complexion due to the close proximity, holding his breath, eyes wide-opened but doing his best not to be so obvious, blushing and sweating a little at the sight of this beautiful creature. That was the first adjective that came to his mind, and the only one that remained. Crowley was indeed beautiful. 

He spent decades ignoring his carnal wishes, the slightest feeling of Crowley's body against his was enough to make his pulse race in a way a doctor would find preoccupating. Blame it on touch deprivation. Case was, apparently, that move was absolutely innocent, and Crowley's intentions behind that weren't to initiate anything specific, but to show him what people often considered a myth, a legend, or a mere fairytale. The Nice and Accurate Prophecies of Agnes Nutter, right in front of his eyes. Light struck his face once he read the title, word by word. Aziraphale swore an angel choir could be heard singing in the background.

"Lord, it is real, I can't... well, I can believe it, I've always believed it was, but I never thought I would live to see it, not after you took it from me at the auction. Oh God I'm talking excessively again, I apologise, I'm quite excited. May I?" Aziraphale talked forgetting he needed to breathe.

Crowley decided to move to a different place, this time somewhere Aziraphale could see him correctly instead of just feeling his chest against his back. He took two simple steps to lean against the wooden furniture where the book rested mere moments ago, next to the plants Aziraphale was pampering. He kept the book in his hand, arms crossed, staring at him, sunglasses still on. Ginger George Harrison handed it over, and Aziraphale took it as if he was touching the Holy Grail. It felt like that, at least. 

"You may. I mean, you already are, so..."

Aziraphale didn't care to listen to Crowley at the moment, his eyes were fixated on the magnificence on top of his hands. With long and quick strides he headed over to a nearby table, placing the book above it very carefully, quickly opening the bag he brought with him to take a pair of gloves and, of course, his glasses. After putting both on, he was ready to inspect Agnes fully, Crowley limited himself to observing from his place, completely appalled.

"Do you do this with every unusual book you get?" the redhead inquired, interested. Aziraphale, however, was in a current state of ecstacy, and answered in basic forms of communication, like tiny nods or simple m-hm's from time to time.

He passed some time doing his darned best not to scream when passing the pages delicately, reading the beautiful cursive Agnes had while letting the scent of time-worn paper impregnate his brain. Aziraphale was well aware he acted weird to an outsider when it came to books, but this was the book of his dreams, so he was even weirder this time, and was letting Crowley experience that weirdness alongside him, front-row seat.

"Come, take a look at this!" Aziraphale invited without thinking twice about it.

Crowley obeyed without showing resistance, getting closer to the man he was interested in, checking him out first, then deviating his attention to the book. 

"This book dates back to the 1600s, believe it or not. You can tell by the paper! Now, I'm not sure if this is parchment, or if it's animal-based, in any case it's most likely paper created by hand. Fascinating..." Aziraphale deducted, caressing the page with his fingers. "Listen to this: 3008. When that the angel readeth these words of mine, in his shoppe's or other menne's book, then the final days are certes upon us..."

Crowley laughed at that, and Aziraphale couldn't help but feel offended with how unimportant the matter was to him, turning to confront Crowley, frowning, ready to lecture him, only for his poor heart to skip a beat at the sight of the redhead finally taking his glasses off, eyes closed while smiling.

Aziraphale forgot the scolding and decided to take the role of the observer, a viewer paying attention to every single movement the man performed. The glasses were left on top of the table, then one of his hands landed on his hair, fingers intertwining, disappearing amongst that vibrant colour of his, then Crowley opened his eyes, gazing back at Aziraphale. The floor moved, the room spinned, everything exploded inside, as if those sunglasses served as a safety pin that once removed, wreaked havoc on Aziraphale.

Never, not once did he feel like an idiot. He felt like an idiot now, not knowing what to say, how to react, taken aback by his beauty, mesmerized by it. He wondered why Crowley went through so much trouble keeping those gorgeous hazel eyes hidden, when they took his breath away the minute he saw them. 

"Well, if the final days are certes upon us indeed, I don't want to die knowing that I haven't at the very least kissed you."

They both stared at each other, and Aziraphale simply couldn't handle it anymore. He would sing his Virgin Mary's and Our Father's later, as for today, he allowed himself to lust over Crowley, just this once. "Then do it, or we'll both die with regret in our hearts."

So Crowley grabbed Aziraphale's face and placed his lips on top of his. The initial tenderness behind it was unexpected, but welcomed with great gratitude. Aziraphale reciprocated, kissing him back, hands placed gently over his back, pulling his body closer, needing to close the gap between them. 

The tip of their noses rubbed slightly against each other as they moved, deepening the embrace, feeling like those tingles returned to haunt him, only this time Aziraphale acknowledged that the attraction he felt for Crowley was the main reason those appeared in the first place. His mind went numb, grabbing Crowley's tiny waist firmly as the kiss began to escalate, their mouths opening a little more with time, and what once was tender, wasn't anymore.

Aziraphale's back hit the edge of the table just as their tongues met, and when they separated, gazes connected as if kissing still, Aziraphale lost every ounce of bashfulness he could have felt hours ago, deciding to take off his fogged glasses and the pair of gloves, leaving them somewhere on the table, and getting on top quite easily, the only prayer given being please let it hold my weight. In any case, he was so horny that if the table were to break, he'd pay what was owed later, stopping was not an available option.

Once above, Aziraphale was nervous to, but spread his legs so Crowley could reach him better, and Crowley did make great use of this new position, smirking as he leaned in, making out. Everywhere he touched, kissed, or licked burned, his brain melting as those slim hands adventured under his clothes, sending shivers everywhere, including his dick, which showed a covered yet evident boner Crowley couldn't help to stare at once he noticed. As Aziraphale panted slowly, Crowley gave him a look that almost made him moan in anticipation, since he knew the meaning behind it, he knew what was coming, and when his fingers reached for his caramel pants to take them off, he knew his suspicions were correct. The pants and underwear hit the ground, and Aziraphale wanted to cover his face at the sudden vulnerability of being exposed in such a way, yet for some reason, that made him even more eager.

Crowley was tying up his hair now, awakening something in Aziraphale he didn't know he could feel. Crowley with his hair tied up made his dick throb, his heart pound, and his mind run wild. The poor man was there to exchange books, but would return home with a brand new preference: please tie your hair before sucking me off, thank you.

Without giving much thought to it, Crowley let some spit drool on top of Aziraphale's cock, gazing at him fleetingly before taking it into his mouth, feeling the warmth of his tongue as he licked from inside. Aziraphale's hands grabbed the edge of the table tightly, his head tilted backwards letting Crowley devour him as he pleased. The sensation of his hand meandering  through his stomach under his upper clothes while getting the best blowjob he's ever received was something worth remembering. If Gabriel was good, Crowley was spectacular. Aziraphale felt embarassed with the sounds he was making. He tried his best to hide his voice, but then Crowley stopped, and Aziraphale swiftly stared down at the man between his legs, lips and chin glistening with saliva. Don't stop Aziraphale thought.

"Let me hear you," Crowley begged, eyes flaming with desire. He realised the redhead was stroking his while giving him head. Aziraphale bit his lips at the sight, nodding at the request, and Crowley appeared pleased, grinning a little. It wouldn't be fair if only he was the one enjoying this.

Crowley returned to his duties, only that Aziraphale wanted to watch attentively this time, taking the liberty to move part of the ginger's bangs out of the way, getting a better view from up there. Crowley's tongue was licking all over his shaft while moving his own hand rapidly, going back and forth, never letting go of neither of them. Aziraphale decided to give in, letting out a guttural voice he hadn't heard from himself in years, one he had repressed for far too long. Crowley seemed to like that, now locking eyes with him, Aziraphale returning the stare while breathing heavily, unconsciously moving his hips and fucking his mouth, gasping and frowning as pleasure took over and made a mess of him entirely, his nails marking the table's wood. He wouldn't last much longer, not when Crowley was like this.

The man in black sacrificed his own satisfaction, placing both his hands on top of Aziraphale's thighs, massaging and squeezing near his groin as he kept on blowing, up and down, slurping sounds coming from his mouth, fingers insufferably close to his balls, reaching them, feinting, never taking them. He did, however, use his hand and lips together, taking his cock and jerking him off while sucking on it, licking him, kissing it, feeling some of Crowley's hot spit falling onto his skin, eyes rolled back as he cried in absolute frenzy. Finally, a deepthroat made Aziraphale see stars, hearing scents, smelling sounds, his senses rebooting, back arching as spasms grew on his lower half spreading out to the rest of his body, hitting the table, grunting in pleasure as he came inside his mouth and grabbed Crowley's head instinctively, pressing on it. 

He breathed brokenly, sweating, legs pulsing and tingling, his heart accelerating, loving every second dearly. "Fuck..." he let out, eyes closed as his breath calmed down, a little smile forming on his lips.

Seconds later, Aziraphale realised what he had done to Crowley, and that smile quickly disappeared, hurrying to look down and help him, but caught Crowley swallowing instead, mouth wide-opened with that devilish grin, sticking his tongue out proudly. 

Anthony. J. Crowley was going to be the death of him. Aziraphale reached out his arm to grab Crowley's turtleneck collar, pulling himself up to kiss him deeply, something Crowley accepted joyfully. Their tongues slided into each other's mouths, mixed together, feeling his taste on him, not caring to stop for air, or to stop for anything really. Their teeth clinked at times, their hands couldn't be kept to themselves, wanting each other. Sadly, Crowley parted ways, a thread of saliva breaking as they pulled apart, leaving a follow-up kiss on top of Aziraphale's lips and grabbing his hand, pulling from it, helping him down. He was still butt naked, upper half absolutely messy, hair disheveled, legs shaky, and what mattered most: content.

"Let's get you to a more comfortable place, shall we?" Crowley suggested, and Aziraphale shook his head but nodded afterwards, correcting himself, almost as if he was drunk, or as if Crowley casted a spell on him.

"Are you a succubus?" Aziraphale questioned, mocking Crowley as they headed hand-in-hand to what he supposed was going to be his room.

Crowley laughed. "A succubus?" 

"Yes, you know, a type of demon. Well, you're a man so you'd actually be an incubus, but I don't think that suits you. Why can't you be a succubus, even if you're a man?" Aziraphale rambled on while being pulled by Crowley through a corridor, in where he opened a door right at the end, revealing his chamber.

First thing that caught his attention was the huge bed with black wings as a headboard, laying in the centre of the room against the wall. Almost everything was black in Crowley's flat, with red and gold details here and there. It was a strange arrengement, but it wasn't horrible. Far from it, it was different yet alluring. It was Crowley. Unique, erotic, sofisticated, genuine, true to himself.

"I know what a succubus is angel, but I can't believe you compare me with the sexy demon that needs spunk to survive... pretty spot on, I'd say," Crowley answered, owning it, turning around with a huge smile on his face.

Aziraphale's eyes wandered down. He could testify Crowley was still hard, it was rather obvious, even when he chose to put his away, he couldn't really hide it.

"You haven't..." Aziraphale began saying as soon as he realised, blushing before he could continue on with the sentence. "You haven't finished."

Crowley stared at him, stupefied. Then, he followed Aziraphale's eyes down and it hit him. "Oh, this. I will, don't worry angel. Like I said, night is young. Plus, I enjoy some yearning pain..."

He sat down at the edge of his king-size bed, legs crossed while basically ogling him at this point. Aziraphale wanted to strip right in front of him after seeing the way Crowley was gazing, he really wanted to. So he did.

He began taking his waistcoat off, Crowley's expression changing from lecherous to perplexed, mouth opening a bit as he glared at Aziraphale delighted, not crossing his legs anymore, completely serious in his expression. The mood shifted entirely. The way Crowley was looking at him now... it made Aziraphale think he was already undressed in Crowley's mind, eyes charged with nothing else but hunger.

Aziraphale swallowed, his cock rock hard again, hurting, not daring to keep visual contact with Crowley, closing his eyes and inhaling deeply yet almost choking out of nervousness. It scared him how much he wanted this, how much he wanted Crowley to see him, to be free for once, to be held, and to hold someone else, to hold a man in his arms without any shame, or guilt. 

His bow-tie fell to the ground next to the waistcoat, only his shirt and socks left, faltering to remove them when Crowley's voice echoed in the vast room. "Go on..."

Aziraphale continued, suddenly fearing Crowley's reaction to his body. If they got that far and it just happened to be that he didn't want him anymore... the idea was far too damaging, mortifying even, yet, there he was, standing in front of a man that drove him crazy in more than one way, getting naked, needing, nay, despertately longing to be touched by him.

When his shirt touched the ground, he was about to get rid of the suspenders, opening his eyes as soon as he reached down to do so. He froze when Crowley spoke. "The, uhm, stockings and suspenders can stay..." 

Aziraphale finally piled up the courage to gaze at Crowley, watching the man in utter awe. Blushing. Crowley was blushing. "I like them in you. I fancy you a lot, actually..."

Aziraphale could feel his heart pummeling against his chest, laughing out loud all that unnecessary stress from earlier, knowing that the man was still interested. He began making his way towards Crowley who watched him do so wide-eyed, a not-so-subtle flush painting his cheeks. Aziraphale got on top of him, feeling his bulge under his ass, pulling him closer.

"Sorry to keep you waiting."

Crowley's eyes ran through Aziraphale's entire face, bewildered for a second but quickly grinning petulant, deciding it was time to change positions, grabbing him by the waist and pinning him down. Aziraphale's back was against the mattress now, wrists on top of his head being grabbed tightly by those slender hands of his, pressing their bodies together, causing Aziraphale to instantly tilt his head back at the sensation, but staring at the man that was trying to assert some dominance. 

"The pants... take them off..." Aziraphale ordered between breaths, begging. 

Crowley captured Aziraphale's lips, closing his eyes, savouring the moment, their tongues meeting roughly, hips joined like magnets, their erections rubbing against the other, doing his best not to cum at that. Some coldness in his wrists anticipated that the kiss was about to end, and it did, just as Crowley began unbuckling his belt, leaving it on top of the bed. "Just in case..." he murmured, taking his pants and underwear off as fast as he could. "God, if only you could see the way you look right now. You're a bloody work of art Aziraphale."

I've been one my entire life, I want someone to change that, he thought, wondering if he should confess. Crowley didn't give him the time, but it didn't matter, it could wait. Their mouths were glued together, grinding each other, wrists taken hostage once more. As they both desperately moved in seek of satisfaction, they moaned against each other's lips, Crowley gently biting Aziraphale's as they fused into a kiss right after. If Agnes was right and the world was about to end, then so be it, he would not care, not when he heard Crowley grunting next to his ear, muscles tightening as a result, feeling shockwaves running through every part of his body. Friction had to come to an end, he was dangerously close.

"Stop..." Aziraphale pleaded in a shaking voice.

Crowley obeyed, separating only to end up sitting on top of Aziraphale, looking at him from above, caressing his stomach with one hand, moving to his chest with another. "What is it? Feeling unwell?"

Aziraphale shook his head, even when he was struggling to keep his breath and heart under control. He swallowed, grasping for air, Crowley purposely moving a little, teasing him, feeling his cock taken care of as he rode him. 

"Do you have... uhm..." Aziraphale was way too prude to ask, even after everything they had done, but Crowley seemed to understand automatically when he pointed at his dick.

Like a puppy, he got off the man whose cock was dripping precum on his own body to go fetch something on his drawers. Aziraphale closed his eyes as he listened to the sound of wooden furniture opening, things hitting against it, then closing.

Once again, he could feel the weight of Crowley. "Do you want to top or bottom? I don't care either way," Crowley began, and Aziraphale opened his eyes to stare at the man sitting on him, holding some condoms with his hand. Aziraphale didn't know what possessed him that night, but grabbing Crowley's cock seemed to be a great intrusive idea, slightly stroking it gently, slowly, covering every part, thumb playing with his head, feeling Crowley trembling at that, whimpering. Aziraphale was a bottom, always has been, but in a future, who knew, he could get accostumed to this sentiment of control over Crowley. This time, however, was not the one. He stopped his hand, and smiled.

"To top or not to top, that is the question," Aziraphale said jokingly, grabbing Crowley's hips under the turtleneck and changing positions. "I'm a bottom dear."

He pinned Crowley down with that smile still on his face, body sweating like it never did before, and now he was the one riding Crowley. 

The man didn't seem to mind at all, quite the opposite, he seemed turned on by the initiative, since Aziraphale could feel his erection hardening a little more, slipping through his parted cheeks, moving his hips to feel him better.

"Lead the way..." Crowley voiced with a grin on his face, pleased, both his hands resting on top of Aziraphale's thighs, grabbing them strongly, palms visibly engraved in pink over his pale skin. 

He had to prepare himself, which wouldn't be an easy task to do all alone. 

"Where are the... ah, found them," he said as he took one condom out of the many that were laying about, opening a packet with his teeth. "Be a darling and help me out, would you?" Aziraphale asked while handing the condom over to Crowley, who seemed surprised by the request, but not complaining at all. 

"You know I can prepare you better if you're in all fours, right?" Crowley decided to use logic, but Aziraphale wasn't thinking straight, he just wanted the man to fuck him as soon as possible.

"I like this position better, want me to teach you how you do it?" he asked, teasing the man still wearing his turtleneck.

That seemed to ignite something within Crowley, who simply took the condom out and put it on his two middle fingers, throwing the package far away and grinning while holding eye contact with the book-lover. Aziraphale became startled at the sudden feeling of rubber pressing against his hole right next to Crowley's dick, other hand being kept busy spreading Aziraphale's cheeks some more, groping hard.

"We can stop if you want," Crowley whispered, that cursed grin printed on his face. Aziraphale decided that it took two to tango, and smiled back as he placed his thumb's pad on top of Crowley's lower lip, caressing it softly, pulling down on it, viewing him from above since kneeling on the mattress. He moved closer, his other palm on Crowley's face, mouths touching slightly.

"We didn't even begin," Aziraphale murmured, and Crowley was dead serious, eyebrows curled up in a frown. Aziraphale decided to lick Crowley's lips with a broad stroke, thumb still pressing on it, pulling his hair from the back. "You can start now."

He did just that, pushing both fingers in with the condom on, startling Aziraphale as he jumped vaguely at the sensation, making Crowley grin as usual, but he didn't care at that point. He hugged Crowley, hiding his face on his shoulder, his perfume still as strong. The redhead moved his fingers in and out, gently at first, the lube on the condom coming in handy, helping with the process. It was when Crowley placed a gentle kiss on top of Aziraphale's neck that his heartbeat lost its rhythm. That silly act might have caused Aziraphale to feel things twice as hard, feeling drunk as Crowley pushed even deeper, faster, gasping while holding onto him even more, allowing the man to do whatever. 

"Forget about that..." Aziraphale said, needing him inside pretty urgently, clutching Crowley's wrist and stopping him. He stared, both of them equally blushing and sweating. Aziraphale kissed Crowley without hesitation, addicted to the sensation of their lips together, forcing the redhead to pull his fingers out, searching for another condom on top of the bed, not losing track of that tongue, only when he managed to find one package. "Do it, I'm ready."

Crowley wasn't so sure. "We don't have to do it now if..."

"Oh Crowley, just fuck me already!" Aziraphale exclaimed, causing Crowley to nod enthusiastically in understanding.

"Say no more..." Crowley snatched the wrapper from his hands and opened it without much difficulty, staring at Aziraphale intensely as he grinned all the way through, enjoying himself, that demon.

They moved places, Aziraphale having his legs around Crowley's waist, whose back now rested on his pillows. With his hands placed on Crowley's shoulders, he was looking down as the redhead managed to put the condom on while having a koala sitting on top of him. Aziraphale laughed a little at the stupid thought, infecting his partner with the same joy rush that appeared out of nowhere. "What?"

"I'll tell you later..." Aziraphale trapped Crowley's lips, both smiling as they kissed.

Crowley pressed his cock against him, pushing it in as Aziraphale broke the kiss to moan on top of Crowley's mouth, who quickly caught his lips once more, tongues so wet and hot they didn't know which one was theirs anymore. The tip was in, and once more, Aziraphale pulled away, biting his red and swollen lips reaching for his dick, pleasuring himself until Crowley thrusted without a warning, his forehead now buried on his shoulder, then his mouth, biting him gently on top of the cloth as Crowley penetrated him, arching his back almost as a reflex. "God, yes..." he managed to croak as he felt Crowley stretching his hole more, hands grabbing his ass and mouth nibbling on his nipples, biting on them, enough for him to scream in complete thrill, legs feeling a little wobbly, same with his mind, but it was the best type of feeling ever, and didn't want him to stop, even when some hints of pain appeared here and there, the pleasure was ten times superior. Maybe he enjoyed some pain as well after all.

Crowley stopped suddenly, and Aziraphale felt stuffed. That could only mean one thing. Shivering a little, his eyes moved downwards, viewing his own cock pressing against Crowley's clothes, getting them dirty with precum. Hot, Aziraphale thought, not being able to form full sentences in his head at the moment. He did manage to move his hands to his ass, checking that the only thing left hanging outside were his balls, which he did not mind to play with a little, smiling as his eyes sparkled with lasciviousness, catching Crowley's changing expressions, who had his eyes closed, eyebrows curved, head tilting forwards, tightening his grasp while burying his fingers on Aziraphale's skin as he pounded, spreading his ass some more.

He could feel Crowley inside completely, fucking him, grunting together like animals, immersed in the intimacy, lost to their basic instincts, their mouths joining as Crowley moved, and as Aziraphale moved with him. Crowley decided to pound harder, searching for Aziraphale's eyes, finding them fast. "Fuck, angel..." he purred, holding his waist, an impulsive thought crossing his mind as he held Crowley's wrists when he thrusted.

"I... God, I hate my fat rolls, sorry..." he confessed, making Crowley stop, breath hitching.

"Fat rolls? Fuck that, these are love handles angel!" he answered sincerely, which was enough for Aziraphale to melt into him once again, letting go of his wrists, holding Crowley's face. 

He started pounding again, and Aziraphale knew he was close, goosebumps all over his spine, cock and body gave it away everytime he hit that one spot, snogging still, their breaths becoming one and allowing their voices to be heard, moaning both in their own unique ways. Crowley's were raspy, low-pitched, short, Aziraphale's sounding like cries, continuous, high-pitched at times, others the opposite, sometimes heard without even opening his mouth. He felt dizzy, sex with Crowley was an absolute ride he was willing to join every single time, the sound of clapping flesh echoing in the room being a noise he wanted recorded in his brain and played over from time to time.

He wrapped his arms around Crowley's shoulders and he stared into his hazel eyes, spellbound by them. 

"I'm close..." he announced, and Crowley nodded, grinning lazily, his fingers still firmly attached to his love handles, placing a gentle kiss on top of his lips, then cheeks, then neck, getting as low as he could, collarbone being a great place to stop. 

"Me too..." he ghosted against his skin, and Aziraphale wanted to take the opportunity to grab his face and kiss his cheek back, moving into his lobe and nibbling on it, feeling Crowley's thrusts getting faster and deeper. "Fuck!" he yelled, capturing Aziraphale's lips as he reduced the speed but continued hitting that spot, his walls contracting as Aziraphale felt some new warmth inside of him, knowing Crowley had finished.

Aziraphale quickly grabbed his cock, stroking it as hard as he could, pleasuring himself while moving, pressing his cock and hand towards Crowley's body as he stroked his dick. "Crowley..." he whispered in a breathy cry, moaning brokenly as he climaxed, cum hitting the black turtleneck, not being able to stop his own hand for some seconds, his body tensing up and kissing Crowley in the heat of the moment, burying his fingers on his hair, pulling from it while final spasms took over his body, making every muscle and corner of his being twitch in satisfaction.

Crowley rested his forehead on Aziraphale's shoulder, kissing it while inhaling sharply, holding his body close, the air thick and hot around them, their legs sticky, his mouth salty from kissing while sweat was in between, but didn't care at all. They simply stayed there, holding each other, hearing the other breathing, feeling their hearts pumping hard, remaining silent. There was nothing to be said for now, or nothing they could, anyways. They were exhausted, at least Aziraphale was. He exhaled a long ragged breath before speaking.

"We didn't get to use the belt," he mentioned jokingly, causing Crowley to burst out laughing, feeling him shaking with his forehead still stuck to his shoulder. 

He looked up with a smile on his face, taking his turtleneck off and throwing it somewhere to the side. Now you take it off? Aziraphale thought to himself, but didn't mind the view. He caressed Crowley's chest, moving his fingers through his ribs sticking out, beautiful as he had envisioned. 

"Maybe some other time. I'm knackered..." he said, pulling out. "Farewell my children," he said aloud as he tied the condom, once more, throwing it somewhere in the room.

Aziraphale laughed like a maniac at that, falling on the mattress, light-weight as a feather, chest still a little heavy from all that adrenaline rush, but nothing he couldn't bear. Crowley fell next to him, his fingers running through his short white hair with blonde hints, smiling as he looked at him.

"Will you be here in the morning?" Crowley inquired, showing some vulnerability he hadn't seen until now, and heaven broke lose. God, please, don't fall for him this quickly.

"If you want me to, I will..." he answered, smiling gently, reaching out to him as well, touching his chest, staring at his lips, then his eyes. Those eyes, he became enamored with them.

"I'd like that. Very much, actually," he replied and Aziraphale's smile widened, daring to move a little closer, cuddling Crowley, the heat of their bodies rising as they hugged, legs intertwined, hands into each other's hairs. "Plus, we still have to do the exchange," he added, and Aziraphale laughed once again.

"Ah, yes, the exchange. I assume this wasn't enough temptation for you to consider other books, was it?" Aziraphale replied, knowing very well he had already lost Theory of Moral Sentiments the minute Crowley kissed him. Maybe he was the one being tempted.

"I'm afraid not, but since I'm feeling generous, you can try again tomorrow..." Crowley answered, his hands still skimming through his hair gently. Aziraphale closed his eyes, ready to fall asleep.

"Right. Well. Name your price tomorrow then."

Crowley covered them both under the sheets, kissing his forehead and hugging him close, bodies coliding together like puzzle pieces meant to be. "I will. See you in the morning, angel."

Chapter 5: The Matching Shoe

Notes:

Content warning, even if it's in the tags:
Conversion/aversion therapy discussed, simply called therapy in the story as that's how Aziraphale thinks of it. Mere therapy.

Some historical context, conversion therapy was enshrined by law in the UK until 1967 (the year this story takes place) but Aziraphale was in said "treatment" years before. Homosexuality as we know was not only considered a pathology, but was also an illegal conduct as well, which made many innocent lives seek a "way out" in desperation, religious reasons also taking a substantial role. Many people were imprisoned for being gay before 1967, others died from conversion therapy, since this type of malpractice offered many "options to cure homosexuality" that went from misused psychoanalysis, to pills/injections (apomorphine), to electroshock... well, I think I don't have to explain myself any further. Enjoy your reading!

Aziraphale felt something move on top of him, which was unusual since he didn't have any pets. His body also ached a great deal, frowning and cursing profusely in his mind as soreness became noticeable the instant he moved, eyes opening slowly, heavy and itching from fatigue, only to discover a sleeping Crowley in front of his face, a visual that served as a replacement for coffee. 

He looked beautiful, more now than ever, and that's when Aziraphale knew he was hanging from a very dangerous thread, a lethal fine line. Seeing a man under a brighter light than the day before meant he was falling already, afraid to crash into the ground where his heart could be shattered once again. He remembered the night they spent together vividly. The grip of his hands against his skin knowing bruises with Crowley's palms' shape would decorate his ass for several days. Their tongues couldn't split for more than three minutes while holding each other, the sound of the redhead's raspy voice succumbing to pleasure, or their moans and their flesh hitting against each other echoing in the room...

Fireworks. Nothing could ever describe the experience better, even though he was no chemist, the chemistry was there. A sudden heat reached his face as more memories began to flood his mind, trying but failing to stop an erection. The things he did, the things he said... he was still the same, after all these years, after everything he had done to keep this part of him hidden, or erased entirely, didn't matter, it was still there.

Aziraphale thought that therapy, alongside praying and confessing twice a week were indeed successful, or so he had been told. Even if he didn't feel any sort of inclination towards women, he didn't feel particularly attracted to men, either. That's, of course, what he told himself at the beginning, reality was Aziraphale did catch his attention being drawn to them after therapy concluded and he was presumably cured from his homosexuality. He decided it was best if those glimpses were to merely contemplate a suit he had liked, or shoes, or ties, even when he never wore those. Case was, he acted the part for years, and as time went on he began settling for nothing more than fantasies. But those were never taken into action, now, after all that time, he was back to square one. 

Aziraphale doubted, as he observed Crowley's resting expression, whether or not he wanted what happened between them to be forgotten entirely. Yet upon further reflection, only two things could effectively make that work: dementia praecox, or electroshock, and he knew very well he was too much of a coward to have electricity sent into his brain forcing him to convulse. Either way, he was no fool either, and knew that wasn't the right option to pick from anyways. Crowley had fucked him so good he decided to keep the memory the way it was, the sensation of his cock thrusting still present inside, even when it wasn't there, like a ghost.

He decided to pay attention to the smallest details he had skipped previously as a way to distract himself, landing on the long lashes Crowley had, or his pierced lobes, collarbone sticking out more than his, a tattoo in front of his left ear that couldn't be seen normally due to his hair covering it, or the way his thin lips remained parted as he slept, breathing peacefully.

"Gorgeous..." he whispered more to himself than anything, yet that seemed to get a reaction from his partner, legs intertwined, hugging closely under the sheets. 

Crowley also frowned as he opened his eyes, staring at Aziraphale's face for some seconds, adjusting to the situation. He blinked but kept frowning after a considerable amount of time of simply laying down, gazing at each other. "Well, hello. You're different."

Aziraphale was certainly taken aback by that sentence, a part of him guiltily begging that Crowley didn't catch his morning wood given their proximity. Highly unlikely. Either way, what mattered was that he didn't make any comment on that whatsoever, instead Crowley told him he was different. Out of courtesy and politeness, he decided to greet him as well before seeking answers.

"Good morning, Crowley. Hope you slept well. How am I different, exactly?" Aziraphale inquired in a puzzled tone as soon as he could, a tad crazy for hazel. He knew he was different in comparison to the norm, but he was interested in knowing what Crowley considered.

For starters, he carefully placed his hands on top of Aziraphale's hair, his fingers making their way through his scalp sending pleasurable tingles everywhere. Great start, he'd say. "Simple: you stayed. Coffee?" asked Crowley rapidly after the first statement, legs separating, bodies departing, and suddenly he was alone in that huge bed. Sitting against the winged headboard with comfortable pillows behind him, he stared directly at Crowley's face, knowing for a fact that if he were to look anywhere else he could actually cum without even touching himself. Pathetic, he thought, but also concluded normal, since he hadn't seen an attractive man's naked body in a decade.

"I'd rather have tea, but if you only have coffee available, then coffee it is..." Aziraphale replied, Crowley smirking sideways as he wandered in search of a piece of cloth, finding his robe, black, obviously, hanging in his closet, putting it on and heading towards the exit.

"Tea for the angel, won't take long," he assured with a smile, delivered as Crowley leaned on the doorframe staring over at his direction.

Aziraphale smiled, playing with his fingers above the sheets. "I promise I won't go anywhere."

Crowley was now frowning, yet not entirely. He wasn't mad, he was plainly looking at him as if analysing him carefully, crossing his arms while the right side of his body still rested on the doorframe, holding its weight in case it were to suddenly collapse. "Well... good. I doubt you would be able to after last night, anyways."

Aziraphale sighed a laugh, a slight blush painting his face. "Ah, yes. And who's to blame for that, exactly?"

"Unless you were a fraction of my imagination, you and I are equally responsible. Now rest, I'll bring you tea, coffee for me," Crowley said about to leave, but Aziraphale was faster with his response.

"Let me guess, black?" 

Crowley froze in place and turned around, grinning a little, his teeth showing and eyes shimmering. "Always."

He winked at him, and left. His erection had subdue, but his heartbeats were uncontrollable. Aziraphale swallowed, looking around, seeing some stains on the sheets, catching his own clothes on the floor where he had undressed, felt the mattress with his own palms, deciding to lay down for a little longer, staring at the ceiling and the chandelier hanging with candles, gone unnoticed since he had Crowley on top of him covering the view previously. He rested his back, feeling his own chest go up and down as he breathed, not being able to get the two phrases Crowley had spoken earlier out of his head.

You're different. You stayed.

---

They had breakfast in bed, Crowley insisted. 

"So you're telling me it's true?" Aziraphale asked fascinated, holding his cup of tea, sitting on his side after borrowing a robe the owner had gently offered. "You met Agnes Nutter's relative."

"I did. It appears to be nutter is not just a surname but a very fitting adjective as well," Crowley answered, drinking his coffee.

Aziraphale chuckled in response, not because he was particularly entertained by the comment made, rather he was appalled, not being able to understand how he slept with a person who had met the book of his dreams' writer's descendant tongue twister that one, and how everything connected for them to be like this. Sitting in bed together, some minutes past nine in the morning, having breakfast and talking.

"Destiny..." Aziraphale mumbled to himself, sipping his delicious tea, fleetingly side-eyeing Crowley, knowing he hadn't heard him.

They stayed silent for a while, not even realising their legs were once again intertwined, Crowley's on top of his, as if they were connected to each other by this omnipotent force that couldn't keep them apart.

"I do want to say I was wrong about you. I apologise," Aziraphale announced, now arms touching, right next to each other.

Crowley looked at him, his head resting on the headboard, grinning almost unperceived. "Oh? What did you think of me?" 

Aziraphale peeped inside his cup, watching his own reflection. God, his hair was an absolute mess.

"I thought you were insufferable, and cruel, amongst other things. Bidder thirty-three definitely was the object of the most deplorable insults in my dictionary," he confessed, diving into his cup quickly, as if it could hide him.

Crowley laughed sporadically, leaning in and softly forcing Aziraphale to put the cup down to his thighs again, where it rested everytime he didn't get to drink, not without holding it, of course.

"Aziraphale, I am insufferable and I am cruel, both of us know I deserved those insults, whatever those might have been," Crowley reassured with a half-assed smile, yet Aziraphale wasn't convinced at all.

"But you aren't neither insufferable nor cruel, Crowley. You gave me the book of my dreams! You paid at the Ritz yesterday, you made tea for me, lent me your robe, and most importantly you..." he stopped, dubitative on whether or not he should remain silent, like he did his entire life.

Crowley listened, no smile in sight, eyes bright as the sun, staring at him as if those words were spoken by God himself.

"What?" he interrogated, leaving his own mug on top of the nightstand, on his side of bed, quickly returning to him.

Aziraphale gazed down, feeling his pulse increasing all over his body, ears being the place that bothered him most. Looking back, youth had slipped away before he could fully grasp it. He loved performing, acting, taking silly roles to make his parents laugh or solely pay attention. In fact, he loved acting so much he always kept his mask on, and so he grew up completely unaware of what his real self was even supposed to be like.

Then, Gabriel appeared at church, son to a fairly respected family in the community, a teenager just like him, and with Gabriel came this self discovery, these emotions, this desire to be selfish for once after living like a puppet for so long. Of course, if Gabriel hadn't made the first move nothing would have happened, but he did make the first move, leading to their escapades, sneaking out to be together often. Gabriel became his first everything. His first kiss, his first love, his first time, and his first heartbreak.

They dated for a long time, keeping it a secret of course. What they had mirrored an affair, yet Aziraphale convinced himself he could handle that role, he wasn't a stranger to acting, he could fake being his closest friend if that meant he got to take off his mask once they were alone. He accepted the terms, because he was in love. Even when Gabriel got a girlfriend that everyone at church adored, he smiled through it, because while she could have him at church, Aziraphale had him at night, and that's where they were their true selves.

However, in every fairytale, there's a morning following happily ever after. She found them, and just like that, the apocalypse began. Gabriel and him inevitably split up, but what tore Aziraphale's soul to shreds was how he managed to convince the entire community, including his parents, that Aziraphale had corrupted him, throwing him into hellfire for everyone to watch, becoming an outcast, a deviant, while Gabriel got out intact.

What followed happily ever after was rejection from his own family and church members that had known him since he was a toddler, suddenly he went from angel beloved to sickening monster. He was forced into therapy to ammend what was broken, sessions on top of sessions that accomplished astounding results such as guilt, self-loathing and discomfort within his own skin. Holding a simple look with a man for more than two seconds was met with voices reprimanding him to the point of nausea, not even mentioning what symptoms the strong, tight handshake of his same sex provided. He hated himself for liking men, so he began denying that even existed. So, the mask was on again, acting the part of a former homosexual, reformed into heterosexuality.

The therapist was pleased with their breakthrough and progress, he had been cured! The joy on his parents' faces when they heard the news was picture worthy. He had girlfriends, none that lasted long since he couldn't get down to business when it came to female anatomy, but him dating women was enough to please his parents, at least they died at peace thinking their son wasn't sick anymore, to the point they decided to leave him with their wealthy inheritance after their passing, which allowed him to buy his bookshop, and items of his collection. The rest was income from his own, saving a vast amount of money from his parents waiting to be spent. One could say he was rich, and he was, but what he what he had plenty in money, he lacked in company. 

He had been alone for so long, guilty for the same amount, sad, miserable, he was ready to take a leap of faith, and change that for good.

"You allowed me to be free again."

He didn't wish to look up, it was a thing far too embarassing to say to a guy he had just met, yet it was the truth, and the instant sense of relief that came after was cathartic, even if what they had here wasn't meant to last for long. "Up until now I've lived a life of lies, all of my existance was wasted in pleasing others. Deviated, perverted, sick, every term I've heard being used against me, I'm tired of listening, and caring. If I'm all of those things, then so be it. I'd rather die accepting this side of me, knowing it's who I am, than to live and realise I'm killing myself everyday by hiding in the shadows."

He was grabbing the sheets strongly, feeling like crying, even if he wouldn't, he had mastered the arts of keeping his feelings buried, that knot on his throat had to disappear soon enough. He opened his eyes, staring down, biting his lower lip as his chin trembled, a common sign of being at the verge of tears.

"It is scary at first, I must say. I remember how I felt back then. It isn't easy, but eventually you come to understand that you don't need their approval, or that you don't need them at all, actually. Take it from me, I learnt it the hard way, that cross you are meant to carry as a punishment for being different? Oh, fuck that cross, and fuck the society that created it while we're at it. Denying who you are is killing yourself, don't give them the power to take away your identity, that would be the closest thing to murder. You aren't sick, you like men."

Aziraphale was not expecting an answer as powerful as that one, neither was he expecting Crowley's hand placed on top of his, comforting him. He turned his head to see his face slightly tilted, compassion and sympathy gleaming in his gaze. The knot was not disappearing, in fact, some tears did form in his eyes after all, quickly turning away before Crowley could see them drop. He laughed, embarassed from getting emotional after all these years.

"One can only carry a cross or wear a mask for so long, I suppose..." Aziraphale answered, the warm feeling of his tears running through his cheeks.

He was about to take care of them when Crowley decided to step in, wiping the tears away with his thumbs, smiling reassuringly. "No need to wear a mask with me angel, you're fine with your weird books, dressing like you're a time-traveller from the Victorian-era, great taste in men I must add. You're perfect, just the way you are."

Aziraphale did stop crying. In fact, he couldn't stop himself from leaning in and stealing Crowley's lips with a kiss, softest kiss known to Earth. They parted, but they remained close, their mouths mere centimeters apart, foreheads touching, holding each other's faces as the tip of their noses brushed together, laughter coming from both of them as they did.

"My taste in men is not that great I'm afraid, you seem to be the exception, although it's too soon to know of course..." Aziraphale began, parting ways but touching Crowley's chest.

"To know what?" he asked, hand on top of his.

Aziraphale inhaled very deeply, exhaling a brief laugh as he looked up, down, licked his lips, biting his lower one, shrugging, then knew it was time to answer. "If you wear white any once in a while," he joked to lighten up the mood. At least that made Crowley chuckle. "Being completely honest with you, it's too soon for me to know if I'll fall for you even further and if you'll break my heart, because last time it was broken it took me ten years to repair it, so I need to know, to keep myself protected from harm, was this a one night stand?"

Crowley was certainly surprised. 

"Angel, apparently you skipped a very important part of our conversation. I think I made it clear that I've been... well, observing you even before I knew you had the book my client wanted."

"Yes, I did understand that bit, but my question is, were you observing me as in: what a nice pair of shoes! I'll try them on just this time to see how they fit and move on to different shoes, or what a nice pair of shoes! I'll buy this pair because I want to wear it more than once?"

He wasn't really sure why he used a metaphor involving shoes. 

"I don't think I've ever had a reliable pair of shoes. Every single pair of shoes I ended up liking ran out of stock reaaally quickly, so I never got to see them again. I like the shoes I'm wearing now, so you tell me, do they fit?"

Aziraphale stared at Crowley, surprised that he wasn't concerned or confused about the metaphor used, which made Aziraphale not only feel relief, but also happiness about being understood. He smiled at the answer given. "I believe they do, quite well, in fact. Maybe you could take them for a walk on a different occasion. To the movies, perhaps?" 

Crowley smiled back. "If the shoes are comfortable with, uh, for that, then that sounds delightful..."

It was a very bizarre metaphor to use in order to ask for a second date, but if they understood each other, then maybe they were the matching shoe they've been looking for so long.

Chapter 6: One Life Left

Notes:

Content warning for homophobic slurs and conversion therapy mentioned. Also implied child abuse (not sexual)

Music sounded different, and it had nothing to do with the gramophone's quality lifetime. It sounded different everywhere, better, even when he was the one doing the singing, or the humming. Not only that, food was also ten times more delicious. Couldn't really say the same about smells, some people didn't seem to know perfume, deodorant or soap were invented, but smelling wasn't his strongest fifth sense anyways. Taste and hearing were.

Weirdly enough, there was a scent that caught his attention lately: his cologne. Crowley's cologne had a very particular and distinguishable kick, and maybe it was because he was falling deeply each day that passed, but everytime he heard the bell above the bookshop's door ringing, Aziraphale could have his nose buried in a book, yet feel Crowley's presence solely by his fragrance. That very same instant was one of said occasions.

"No Agnes today?" Crowley asked while grinning as he made his way to the counter with long, unorganized strides. How could he tell from afar and with sunglasses on that he wasn't reading The Nice and Accurate Prophecies of Agnes Nutter? Aziraphale did not know, Anthony. J. Crowley was a mystery he was hoping to unravel soon.

The man leaned forward, sliding his sunglasses down a little, enough for him to catch hazel staring at the bookshop's owner.

"No Agnes I'm afraid, I keep her hidden from the books I sell, even from the ones in my collection, which also happen to be hidden..." he explained, taking his own reading glasses off, using the bookmark to know in which page he left off before he concluded his reading session of the day.

"So she's hidden even from the hidden books. Let me guess. Agnes is in a painfully unnecessary big safe, guarded by the deadliest traps imaginable to mankind, and there are security measures that anyone would think could only exist in sci-fi movies, but you, Aziraphale. Z. Fell, managed to have them right here in your bookshop." 

Aziraphale laughed and nodded at the deliberate exaggeration, joining both his hands on top of his lap after leaving the glasses and book above the counter. "Almost correct, the safe is actually average size," he joked back, making Crowley's smile widen and his own heart skip a beat.

Aziraphale had already given his copy of Theory of Moral Sentiments to Crowley, mourning that loss for a week but feeling much better after reaching the acceptance stage, so it was rather obvious by this point that Crowley didn't just make a quick stop at his shop almost everyday to obtain something, unless that something were books, kisses or what followed after, they both knew Crowley didn't read much, and was already getting plenty of the other two.

"What does someone have to do to tempt you to a spot of lunch?" Crowley asked, taking off his sunglasses completely and resuming the staring contest they had going on.

Aziraphale looked around, seeing certain customers more interested in the books they were holding than what happened with the man behind the counter, who just so happened to be the owner as well. 

"I guess I could have Muriel take care of things while I'm gone. I did hire her for the register, task that I still find myself doing even after she began working here..." Aziraphale recollected, standing up from his seat, putting a pair of fingers up. "Two minutes, please."

"For you, angel, I could wait an eternity..." he whispered, checking him out from bottom to top without any shame.

Aziraphale slapped Crowley's chest softly as he smiled, blushing on his way out of the counter, shaking his head with a grin drawn into his face as he walked, hoping none of the customers overheard. He began looking for Muriel everywhere, finding her in Romance. Last week it was Mystery. 

"Muriel, love. Sorry to interrupt..." he began talking, startling her and causing her to almost drop the book, putting it away as fast as she could. 

"You're not interrupting Mr. Fell! I work here after all. What can I do for you?" 

Aziraphale's hands moved over to his waistcoat, he had the habit of caressing the cloth piece in case any wrinkles formed. He did that unconsciously every ten to fifteen minutes. 

"I would appreciate if you took over the cash register while I'm out. Worry not, it won't be long! I have some business to attend to, that's all..." he said, and the young lady smiled, followed by one single enthusiastic nod.

"Yes, of course! Please, do what you must and take all the time you need, I'll handle it!" she exclaimed, and Aziraphale squeezed her hand in gratitude.

He turned his way, and joined Crowley once more, looking down at his shoes as they were now in front of each other. 

"Not that I actually counted but I wouldn't be surprised if those were in fact two minutes, Mr. Fell," Crowley remarked while putting his sunglasses on. "Ready to go?" 

Aziraphale couldn't really be surprised that Crowley overheard, that's the sole reason they first interacted after all, yet Mr. Fell did have a completely different ring to it when it came from such a, didn't know how else to put it, manly voice. He swallowed dryly, clearing out his throat while fixing his bow-tie, and finally nodded, signaling the way out with his arms.

"After you."

---

They had lunch. It wasn't the Ritz, but he sincerely didn't care. Like stated previously, food tasted ten times more delicious lately, which applied to this beautiful place filled with flowers and climbing plants. The bill was on him, he insisted on it, and Crowley was resting his head in his hand, elbow glued to the table, staring with the glasses on. Aziraphale gently delivered the check and money to the waitress and rushed to pay attention to Crowley, who only needed a wagging tail to be mistaken for a puppy in need of attention. 

"St. James's Park is nearby... we could go for a walk? I'm suddenly in the mood for a red ice lolly," he proposed.

Crowley was finishing off the soda he had ordered, watching his eyebrows rise as he drank. He swallowed before speaking his mind. "Really? A red ice lolly? I'm way more boring than that," he confessed, leaving the empty bottle and straw on the table, letting his back fall so he could rest on the chair.

"Too much sugar and you won't be able to sleep?" Aziraphale teased with a smile, causing Crowley to get one too.

"Now that you mention it, I knew there was a reason I couldn't shut an eye whenever I saw you! You're far too sweet angel, could be life-threatening!" he responded, simulating panic, knowing very well the effect that would have on Aziraphale.

As expected, the book lover started moving on his own chair, blushing so intensely Rudolph's nose could lose its job soon. He coughed a little, accommodating his bow-tie as a reflex, feeling his limbs go numb and aching while his heart pumped dangerously hard. 

"Look at you, all embarrassed. Might consider praising you all day long!" Crowley said, a harmony to his voice that easily gave away he found that reaction extremely adorable. 

"Please don't, I'm afraid I might die," Aziraphale begged, still a little smirk on his face, looking down and playing with his fingers on top of his thighs. "So what ice cream is of your preference then?"

Crowley crossed his arms, laying against the back of the chair, exuding tranquility. "99."

Aziraphale was not expecting that to be his personal favourite choice, yet it wasn't as dramatic as Crowley painted it out to be. "That is a very popular ice cream, not to be confused with boring. Now, shall we get going?" 

Crowley remained sitted some more seconds after Aziraphale got up, both staring at each other longingly. "Lead the way."

---

The park was not as crowded as it usually was, which was a good thing for Aziraphale, since he truly wished to enjoy the afternoon stroll without any disturbance. He recognised he needed some time to adjust to the idea of going out with another man in plain daylight for the public eye to see. Whenever he was alongside Crowley, there were certain moments where he caught some strangers staring intrigued at the odd pair, others glaring straight-up judgemental, those were the situations that induced anxiety into Aziraphale, but thankfully they haven't been that many. 

Both men were enjoying their respective ice-creams while walking side by side, chatting excitedly about anything that came to mind, could be everything and nothing in particular, all at once. Whenever Aziraphale said something, Crowley listened and added to the conversation, and whenever Crowley shared whatever he pleased, one hand inside his pocket and the other holding the cone, Aziraphale nodded in understanding, licking his lolly and replying whenever he felt there was something that could be said. In any case, what Aziraphale loved the most about their interactions was the fact that he didn't feel forced to listen, or worse, he didn't feel like he was being a nuisance for sharing with great passion his personal interests. No. Crowley listened honestly, so did he, bantering with each other, playfully commenting on certain topics, feeling understood inside the bubble of their own creation.

"Fucking faggots..." 

Aziraphale heard the phrase as they passed by a man taking his dog out for a walk, freezing in place for a brief moment but then turning around with his eyes wide-opened, watching as he went away. His breath became hard to control all of a sudden, feeling as if his throat was closing and couldn't grasp oxygen properly.

"Pay him no mind angel..." Crowley spoke softly, hand taken out of his pocket to squeeze his shoulder, almost hugging him from behind, chest pressed against his back, and gaze locked on the man as well. 

Aziraphale could tell by Crowley's expression he was just as affected by the offensive commentary, but the key difference being how his head remained high, ready to confront whoever he needed to, eyes charged with an anger only visible to him from the sides since his glasses were still on. Aziraphale could only look down at his shoes after that, all the voices and phantoms from his past coming back to haunt him again, stabbing him with words too painful to endure. The ice-cream was already dripping into his hand, but he didn't care, it felt as if time had stopped, and their bubble was bursted so he could return to the crude reality against his will.

"I– uhm... I need to sit down," he confessed, and Crowley understood, taking the melting lolly off his hand and throwing both inside a nearby trashcan, escorting him to a bench with a view of the lake, some ducks floating on water. "I apologise–"

"No. Angel, listen to me, you don't need to apologise for anything. We did nothing wrong," Crowley reassured rapidly, taking out a handkerchief and offering it to Aziraphale to clean his hand, which he accepted, wanting to cry all of a sudden.

"Then why are we being made to feel like we did?!" he exclaimed in a whisper that almost wasn't. He sobbed after that, lips trembling, hands holding the handkerchief Crowley had given him tightly, tears forming in his eyes as he stared at the lake, closing his eyes and feeling some warmth running through his cheeks, gasping unevenly while his chest ached in sorrow. "Why can't we just walk and talk passionately like everyone else? God, it's like I'm back to that place again..." 

Crowley still kept his hand on top of his shoulder, which to an outsider might seem like it wasn't much, but it was. "What place?" 

Aziraphale looked up to the sky as his breath stabilized, trying to swallow down the knot that had formed inside his throat. "It's a long story, a tragic and boring one I'm afraid. No need to dig those memories out..." 

Crowley sighed. "I've heard you narrating bloody Jane Austen and you managed to keep me entertained, I'm a tough crowd. If it's a painful memory, I understand you wanting to keep it to yourself, just know that whatever it is, I'm a good listener, and you happen to be an excellent storyteller."

No, he was right. Aziraphale had to eventually talk to someone about it, and he'd say a month of seeing each other almost everyday was enough for him to trust Crowley with his background. "Once upon a time..." he began, but laughed slightly, sounding nasally from crying a little, trying to dissipate the tension as usual. Crowley snorted in incredulity. "Sorry for that, although the story does start with me as a child. I was raised in a very religious household, as I'm sure I've mentioned when we first met, or when I first met you, since you already knew who I was. Ah, I'm beating around the bush. Well, my parents and I lived in a very small village on the outskirts of Oxford, wouldn't be surprised if you haven't heard of it. Case was, the village relied on religion heavily, and no, we weren't a cult, before you ask.

"I grew up going to church every Sunday, I was even an altar boy by choice. Loved God, I believe I still do. Never got into trouble, everyone always thought fondly of me, everyone adored me. Not to brag, but some parents even compared me to their sons, why can't you be more like Aziraphale? they'd say. I turned sixteen, and it so happens that a new family arrived a week later, one that had influence over the church and the village. Gabriel was their son..."

"I think I know where this is going," Crowley interrupted, which was appreciated, he liked Crowley's intermissions to his stories, even when this one was more like an autobiography.

"Well, as you probably imagined correctly, Gabriel turned my world upside-down. Never in my life had I been attracted to someone, but Gabriel, you should have seen him, he was... ethereal. I avoided him like the plague, God, I was terrified of these new feelings I was developing for him. I was also very, very shy, and quite obvious too. I sort of gave myself away I believe. We'd exchange glances at mass, say our hellos and goodbyes until one day, he took my hand and kissed me after church. My first kiss. I think I saw Heaven that day," he narrated while remembering just how flustered he had gotten after they parted, and how he almost stumbled running on his way home. 

Aziraphale knew he looked like an angel as a teenager, even acted like one, so pure and innocent, because he was. Gabriel changed that.

"I ran away. I don't know, I panicked and ran as fast as my feet allowed me to. Now, I'm not the athletic type, so I did almost fall once or twice on my way home as I touched my lips and my whole face burned like crazy. Next Sunday, he told me he fancied me, and we kissed once again. We began seeing each other in secret, but I was a fool, I didn't care as long as I spent time with him, God, the only relationships I know are the ones that happen behind closed doors..."

"No wonder you were scared of being seen in the movies with me, it's a brand new world for you. I'm sorry if–"

Aziraphale hurried to reassure Crowley. "No! Please, don't apologise! I'm more than thankful to you Crowley, I... don't think I want to stay hidden any longer. I spent years of my life that way, Lord, my entire youth! I was his best friend for a decade, until his girlfriend found us and–"

"His what?" he asked in utter disbelief. 

"His best friend. Well, I wasn't his best friend, but I'm sure you unders–"

"Not that. I understood that, I've also been the best friend, or the neighbour, or something that wasn't a bloody partner, but the bastard had a girlfriend?!" 

Ah, yes, the girlfriend conundrum. Aziraphale nodded. "Clara. Gabriel met her at church, I tried to convince myself I was better than her, that I got to see him when he was real. I was young, he was my first love, my first everything actually, I didn't understand a thing about the world, so of course I thought that way, read too many romance books apparently. When Clara found us, well, it was over. Ten years, gone. I wouldn't be surprised if even Clement Attlee found out about the scandal given how quickly the news spread. Gabriel was fine, can't say the same for myself. I suddenly wasn't adored anymore, in fact people started calling me things, ignored me, or beat me up, then therapy began, followed by lots of praying and confessions..."

"You went through conversion therapy?" Crowley asked, a trace of concern in his tone. He wasn't sure what conversion was exactly, yet Aziraphale was an intelligent man, the word entailed transformation, so maybe he did go to one of those, the sole purpose was to reform him back to heterosexuality after all. That counted as a transformation. An impossible one, now he knew. Wish he had known sooner, wish he had resisted, but it was hard when everyone around him made Aziraphale feel like he was sick, that he needed to be cured to be loved by God again, to be loved by his parents again, to stop the torment that his life had become. He began believing the words being fed to him, so it was true that there was an intensive need to get rid of what was broken inside, the parts that people unquestionably preached needed to be replaced, as if suddenly Aziraphale was a product of their craft.

"Apparently so, with Mr. Johnson. He was a psychoanalyst that treated cases like mine. I went there for over a year, since I've been with Gabriel for a long time, then he told me I was cured, I can only imagine his face if he ever found out what you and I did together. I couldn't even look at men without feeling uncomfortable and guilty, let alone think of kissing them. After all, God would not accept me into his Kingdom if I remained the way that I was. I prayed, I confessed, I went to these sessions, I got cured, and my parents... well, they died some years later, on the same year, some months apart, peacefully. They left me with everything they owned, probably because I've dated women, such a silly thing really..."

Aziraphale doubted if there was anything else left to be said. He carefully thought about it, however, nothing came to mind. He had nothing, so he decided to stay silent instead, smiling a small smirk after a great sense of comfort invaded his entire soul, chest and body. Not even a million confessions, prayers and sessions managed to accomplish the sensation he was experiencing currently. Letting his old self die to be reborn, that's how he felt. 

"I don't say this often angel, but Jesus Christ..." Crowley managed to voice a mix of perplexity and affliction after that following silence. "And you spent all this time without telling anyone?"

Aziraphale nodded. "All this time, until now. I think I was inclined to tell you because you're different."

Crowley's hand slid from his shoulder to his arm, caressing it softly. "How so?"

Aziraphale looked at him, smiling joyfully, content, and proud of himself. If they weren't in public, he would kiss Crowley right there. "You listened."

Crowley didn't smile at first, it took him some time to do so, yet he did, eventually. It was a tender smile, one that showed more in the eyes. Thankfully, he had taken off his sunglasses, probably when Aziraphale was busy talking. "Glad we're different, together."

Aziraphale stared at the man touching his arm, looking back at him, and admitted aloud what he desired more than anything that moment. "I'm ashamed to admit I want to kiss you urgently..."

Crowley's face lit up, shimmering at the comment. "There's a solution for that. Do you trust me?" he asked as he stood up, looking at Aziraphale, waiting for an answer.

Aziraphale was sure, he did trust Crowley. He got up, and nodded. "Very much."

Crowley fixed his blazer. "Good. I know a place, but I'll ask you to tell me the most horrible things about this Gabriel bloke of yours on our way there. Use those adjectives only you'd be able to think."

The man in beige giggled at that. "Where do I even begin? Ah, skeevy, that's a good one!"

---

It was an alleyway. The place Crowley knew was an alleyway.

"An alleyway? I thought you meant your car for crying out loud!" Aziraphale exclaimed, deeply disappointed.

Crowley was leaning against a wall. "If it were my car, I would have said we could go to my car! Shame on you for assuming," he yelled, but there wasn't any hint of actual recrimination in his voice, he was being sarcastic, as usual.

"Do I seriously strike you as a person that would go to an alleyway to kiss someone?" Aziraphale asked genuinely, because he certainly didn't have that image of himself.

Crowley had the courage to shrug. "Don't know, you never cease to amaze me. We don't have to actually kiss here angel, it's just a possibility I offer. You did use the word urgently, may I remind you."

Aziraphale did use the word, that much was true. He looked around the place. Dark, quiet, gloomy, yet the most private place there was out in the open. He cleared his throat, feeling his heart beating against his chest, palms rubbing against his waistcoat. "And you're convinced no one would see us?" he verified, gulping nervously as he checked his surroundings.

"I've never been caught," Crowley answered, causing Aziraphale to gasp with his mouth opened, hand against his chest as he stared at the man posing in front of him against the wall. 

"You're heavily mistaken if you think I'll kiss you here knowing you already did that before!" Aziraphale whined, pulling down on his waistcoat and fixing his bow-tie.

Crowley grinned. "Jealous?"

Aziraphale was having none of it. "Je– I can't believe you! No Crowley, I'm not jealous! I don't feel comfortable with the situation, I don't wish to be treated like the rest of your pretenders!" he voiced his concern, although deep down, he was a little bit jealous.

"Rest assured, there's no comparison to be made..." he said calmly.

"Why not? You brought me here, and you brought others here, so that's a comparison to be made, is it not?" 

Crowley looked down at the floor and kicked a small rock with his feet, placing his boot's sole on the wall, smiling but clearly out of habit this time. "None of them lasted. If I brought you here it's not because I think you're like them, it's because I want you to be different."

 There was a loud silence after that, and Aziraphale felt like an asshole for quickly jumping to conclusions. He calmed down, his eyes softening as he stared at the redhead. "Why didn't they? Last, I mean."

Crowley shrugged. "Don't know, don't care," he answered sharply, evidently uncomfortable with being vulnerable, but Aziraphale knew what left his mouth wasn't what his heart was screaming.

"We both know you do care. Come on Crowley, I just told you my story, it's only fair if I listen to yours. I won't judge."

Crowley laughed, shaking his head. "My story is plain repetitive and sad, I'd rather be kissing you if I'm being honest," he confessed, yet Aziraphale stood his ground.

"Turns out I don't want to do that anymore, I'm interested in something less superficial now: you, and your story. Whenever you're ready."

Crowley growled audibly, the back of his head hitting the alleyway's wall as he looked above. Aziraphale just stood there, joining his hands together upfront, patiently waiting for Crowley to begin. He was dubitative on whether he should rest his back on the dirty concrete next to Crowley, he didn't want any stains on his clothes.

"Fine. I'll tell you, but only if you kiss me afterwards, as a consolation prize," he reluctantly told, showing a little demonic grin from his place.

Aziraphale's smile stayed put and nodded. "Deal. May I?" he gestured to his side, finally making up his mind to join him.

Crowley was surprised by his question, quickly moving aside to leave an empty spot to his right, one that Aziraphale decided to fill instantly, leaning against the wall, more uptight than Crowley was.

"Do I have to do the narration thingy?" he genuinely asked, and Aziraphale thought that was the cutest question ever.

"Only if you want to," he answered, doing his best not to smooch his cheek after that doubt of his.

"I think it would make things easier if I tell it as someone else's story. Just promise me you won't laugh, I suck at this," Crowley begged, cars passing by, birds chirping around them, the sound of distant voices having their conversations while they shared this moment of intimacy together, getting to know each other better.

"I swear I won't laugh. I'm a man of my word."

"Right. So, there was this teeny tiny toddler named Anthony..."

Aziraphale broke down in laughter. "Oh come on, you did that on purpose, who on Earth wouldn't laugh at that?!" he complained, wheezing like a teapot.

"I was testing you! You lost a life, only have one left," Crowley said, laughing as well, both needing a minute to regain their strength. The only thing remaining were residual smiles on their faces, slowly disappearing as time went on.

"So, teeny tiny toddler named Anthony," reminded Aziraphale, glaring at him, interested in a follow-up. 

"Right. Teeny tiny toddler named Anthony was an absolute rascal, a small-sized nightmare that drove his parents mad. Legend has it he invented disobedience. This is true by the way, look it up."

Look it up. Crowley was going to be the death of him, for sure. He didn't snort because he swore he wouldn't. 

"Anthony's parents were as religious as they were strict. Poor Anthony would receive his father's wrath if he didn't pray at dinner while his mum decided a screaming child was not of her liking and played loud music on the radio. That, of course, didn't cause Anthony to become civil, quite the contrary, he became more and more unhinged as time went on. Puberty came with time and boy oh boy, he realised he fancied lads a lot. Now listen, he was not the shy type, if he wanted something, he did his best to get it, that's why it was not difficult for him to have some fun here and there with a couple of classmates. Problem was, his dad came home early one day and caught Anthony in a very compromising position with one of them, he punched him like he had never done before, and threw him out of the house at seventeen.

"Thankfully for Anthony, he had a friend that helped him out, his parents allowed Anthony to stay for a few weeks until graduation, then he began looking for a job, found one, made a living slowly but surely, moved out from his friends' house to a flat, then his grandpa died and put him on his will because he was the only member of his family that cared and even liked Anthony, Anthony of course liked him back. He had seen the bruises whenever he visited, he had fought his parents about it, nothing stopped his father. Anyways, once he became an adult, Anthony decided to change his surname, which was Crawley originally. Now he was Crowley, like the satanist, not because he was a satanist, but because it was the last act of rebellion his father got to witness before he died, he turned red in anger but couldn't do anything about it because he was old, had Anthony at fifty-four with his second wife, so you can imagine. He hasn't spoken to his mum since the funeral, I believe Anthony is dead to her, but turns out Anthony is also dead to Crowley, so who cares, the bloody end!"

Aziraphale grabbed Crowley's hand and Crowley became startled, looking over at him with surprise hidden behind the sunglasses. He could tell. "But... that's not the end, is it?"

There was silence, a very painful one to endure, but at least Crowley didn't take his hand away. Aziraphale was patient, so he didn't mind waiting. He wanted Crowley to be ready.

"He began making money after his grandpa left him a letter telling him to sell his relics and antiques, he was reluctant at first but people offered a lot of money, and he owed two months in rent. How he managed to become an underground millionare is a story for another time. The thing is, he could get whatever he wanted, be with whoever he wished, but he couldn't get them to stay, at least not sincerely. You'd think being with many men was different everytime, but deep down... it wasn't, it was the same, over and over, you don't know their names, you forget their faces after a while, you just hope there will be one, just one that will stay, one that will call, or one that will make you feel like you're enough. Fuck, I lost the third-person speech. Told you I sucked at–"

Aziraphale kissed him, and Crowley kissed him back, hugging him closely, desperately clinging to him as if fearing he could vanish. Their mouths danced a rhythm of emotional connection, a vals of people that had been hurt and rejected for far too long, finding consolation in each other, knowing they didn't have to be alone anymore, that someone was there, to listen and to stay.

Their lips parted, numbed and tingling, holding each other's faces, Aziraphale had closed his eyes for the kiss, feeling the tip of their noses brushing. He decided he wantes to see Crowley again, only to realise his glasses were still on, blocking the view to his breathtaking gaze. That was inconceivable, he remembered thinking, as he removed the sunglasses, smiling the moment he got to observe those magnificent hazel eyes.

"You are more than enough for me, Crowley," he whispered with love, and Crowley's eyes suddenly crystallized, showing tears he hadn't cried for a very long time. 

"The sunglasses, give them to me..." he implored at the verge of letting his emotions be discovered, but unfortunately for him, it was far too late. "Fuck, I– you aren't supposed to see me like this..."

Aziraphale forced him closer while he stretched to place a gentle kiss on his forehead, blessing his very existance, thankful for being allowed into his life. "But I wish to see you, Crowley. I'll stay through it all, whatever it is. Hold me if you want me to be the one that does."

Thankfully, he didn't have to wait for long.

Crowley hugged Aziraphale, resting his chin on the top of his head, then burying his face on his shoulder as he tightened the embrace. "Do you promise? Because just know I'll hate you forever if you leave," Crowley warned with a broken voice.

Aziraphale pressed his hands against Crowley's hair and back, comforting him. "I told you already, I'm a man of my word... plus, I still have one life left."

Chapter 7: Secrecy And Privacy

Notes:

Decided to mix the POVs for this chapter, some bits are from Aziraphale's perspective, others from Crowley's. Either way, hope you enjoy nonetheless!

"Sorry, could you repeat that again for me?" Aziraphale voiced with great concern, dropping everything he was doing, which to no surprise, involved reading a book while sitting down. On a couch, this time.

He closed it immediately after processing the words that had left Crowley's lips seconds ago, not even thinking of marking the page, tossing it on top of the coffee table right in front of him. His gaze was now fixated on his red-headed partner, who was simply standing there, hands buried inside his pockets and no sunglasses on. He always took them off whenever he entered the bookshop and were alone.

"I'm leaving to America in two days. I have to deliver the book," he repeated, monotonous, no expression on his face whatsoever. 

It had become a habit for bidder thirty-three to stop by Aziraphale's bookshop at night, an activity that began two weeks ago when they decided to put a title to their status. The timeline thus far: they met under particular circumstances, felt attracted to each other, fucked but began hanging out for a month and a half afterwards because there was more to it than mere physicality, decided to call their affair by a proper name at last, and finally, Crowley started showing up unannounced, the couple absolutely aware by that point that him not showing was the real unexpected possibility.

Aziraphale and Crowley were officially an item, and in A.Z. Fell And Co. they could express their affection for each other in privacy. Not to be confused with secrecy, a similar word he learnt to differentiate the hard way, a resentment for the latter being the force that drove him to draw clear distinctions between the two.

Aziraphale's interpretations of each noun, backed by multiple dictionaries he owned and  occassionally read on his spare time, were meant to be read as followed:

Secrecy entailed an intentional concealment of information from others.

Gabriel was secrecy.

Privacy entailed a state of being free from the observation or disturbance of other people.

Crowley was privacy.

At night, after closing hours, he would arrive, as usual. They'd greet each other with an awaited kiss, Aziraphale would offer his man some coffee while he went for tea, sometimes Crowley took the initiative and prepared the drinks himself. While enjoying their respective verbarages, they'd discuss how their day went. Crowley would find something to complain about, Aziraphale would say something funny in return to cheer him up, which usually worked, but if he ever felt in need of a Plan B, he would put a vinyl on the gramophone, and he'd take his partner's hand, pulling from it so they could dance to the old records Aziraphale owned.

Hence the trick of Fell the Marvellous: Aziraphale knew how much Crowley detested the music his lover listened to, which consistently lead to one of his favourite hobbies: complaining. That never stopped him from holding Aziraphale's back, allowing their bodies to be guided by the melody. Crowley was a grumpy gentleman after all.

Since Aziraphale had planned it all from the start, like a chessmaster carving his next move thoroughly, he didn't care about the criticism given, because he was aware that was going to happen. Instead, he faked offense, playing the part and defending the work of the men that blessed the world with their art with adamance in his arguments, all of this while doing his best not to step on Crowley's feet, or trip, or turn with that terrible inner tempo of his, both dissolving into giggles after he had failed miserably. This part, of course, was also carefully thought through beforehand. Aziraphale knew he was a terrible dancer.

After that, Aziraphale would purposely give up on trying, and rested his head on Crowley's chest instead, embracing his body as they swayed gently to the rhythm, the tallest of the duo making sure his lover knew that counted as dancing too, just to make Aziraphale feel better.

Ta-dah. This technique to appease Crowley resulted resoundingly successful: reassuring Aziraphale and keeping him content proved to be more important than complaining.

Other nights, those mind-games weren't needed, because they had wine, and that was something they got to enjoy together. Crowley would arrive, as usual. They'd greet each other with an awaited kiss, then he'd reveal the bottle with that charming grin of his, and they'd spend the night chit-chatting about trivialities while drinking Malbec, animal facts being a favourite topic to discuss, one that both were weirdly knowledgeable of. On an excellent evening they got to talk, they got to dance, they got to drink, and they got to fuck, that was the luxury package. Didn't happen often, but it happened.

This one, however, was a first. Crowley arrived, as usual, no awaited greeting kiss, no wine. Instead, a mortifying announcement. 

"You're leaving," Aziraphale spat the words like venom as he stood from his couch. "For how long?"

Crowley shrugged. "Don't know, could be a couple of days, couple of weeks, I have other clients over there, so there's that."

Aziraphale sniggered crudely. "There's that. Right," he sat down again, grabbing the book and trying to remember the page number, or the plot, even, yet all he could think of was the sound of Crowley's voice telling him he was leaving, feeling his own breath becoming unsteady as anger kept building up. "Well then, have a nice trip, please escort yourself out, you know where the door is," he managed to keep a steady voice even though his blood was boiling, not even raising his head.

"Angel..."

He closed the book for a third time. "Don't call me that. If you came here to tell me this, it's because–"

"I want you to come with me," he declared, now staring at him, dead serious.

Aziraphale was left with lips parted and mouth filled with words he suddenly couldn't speak, heart racing from the sudden rush of cholera and an annoying pulse beating all over caused by jumping to conclusions. He didn't know what to do with the abrupt intensity of emotions that exploded within, so he gazed at Crowley frowning like an idiot, putting the book down on the table once more, hand on top of it.

"Come with you?" he enquired, not quite following due to the shock of such a proposition. He could have sworn Crowley was breaking up with him.

"We could go off together. I already have the tickets, in case you said yes. You could meet Agnes' descendant, Agatha. Maybe even deliver Theory of Moral Sentiments to her. Truth be told, she despises you and I thought this could be the only chance to redeem yourself in her eyes. No pressu–"

"Why does she despise me?" he questioned hurriedly, standing up, hurt by the discovery.

His lover was opening a book that laid on a drawer near the entrance, not even bothering to pick it up. "Something to do with you stealing the book of her dreams. Does that ring any bell?" Crowley retorted, smiling once he landed his eyes back on Aziraphale. 

That cheeky demon. Aziraphale wondered for how long he must have been waiting to bring that up. "In that case, I might end up seducing her! I reckon a shenanigan like that worked perfectly fine for bidder thirty-three with the man that despised him, the reason being the exact same."

"Are you comparing bidder thirty-three with Agatha Device? That poor lady! Never stood a chance,"

"And why is that?" Aziraphale playfully asked, showing a hint of a smile on his face. Every trail of anger now turned into joy once he discovered Crowley wanted to go to America with him so he could meet Agnes' descendant.

Crowley slowly made his way to Aziraphale, causing his legs to tremble a little, inhaling deeply as he watched him walk towards his direction, preparing for what was about to happen, understanding the minute his partner layed a hand on top of his chest, hazel stare on his collar. "Bidder thirty-three had a turtleneck."

Aziraphale rolled his eyes at that, snorting a laugh and bringing him closer, claiming his awaited greeting kiss.

---

"Took you long enough. Who's this? Adam Smith himself?" Agatha joked as soon as she opened the door to her modern and expensive looking house, cigarrette in hand while checking Aziraphale from bottom to top, exhaling a cloud of smoke.

Giving the clothing he was wearing, the joke deserved its merit, even when none of them laughed for different reasons. Aziraphale's being pride, Crowley's being not letting Aziraphale think he was making fun of him. If he were to comment on his old-fashioned clothes, he'd do it to his face knowing the consequences of those words very well and being fully prepared to face them accordingly. Aziraphale would educate him with an extensive improvised monologue on why his wardrobe choices were not only aesthetically pleasing and dared he say, superior, but also convenient, comfortable, reliable. He would listen to that rant on its entirety, carefully, lovingly. He'd grin, causing Aziraphale to believe he wasn't taking the matter seriously, but truth be told, Crowley was absolutely bewitched by his presence, or the sole idea of his being.

"Hello Agatha, sorry for taking so long. This is Aziraphale Z. Fell, also known as bidder twenty-two," Crowley introduced him to the lady, who by the looks of it, was not pleased with the news, considering how she choked with that last puff. 

"Are you fucking kidding me? Why would you bring him here?!" she exclaimed while coughing a little.

Crowley wasn't lying. The lady did despise him. Thankfully, he had been warned in advance, so they came prepared for said situation. 

"Er, hello madam. I want to begin by saying I'm extremely regretful of any pain I might have caused, but I'm here to try and fix the damage done, if possible..." Aziraphale voiced his apology, taking off his hat and placing it on top of his chest, saluting the woman in front of him.

Agatha was confounded, by the looks of it, which was not an easy task to accomplish, Crowley would know. She stood by the doorframe, her cigarrette consuming in solitude, frowning to the point every wrinkle on her forehead became visible, not knowing how to reply, she was apparently too stunned to even mutter a word. 

It took her some seconds to compose herself after time-travelling to when fire was invented and returning to the present in the span of less than a minute. Aziraphale did have that impact when people heard him speak in such a way for the first time, then they either fell in love and got used to it, or they were ready to fight whoever dared to criticize him for it. Maybe that was just Crowley's way of seeing things.

"Why do you talk like that? You sound like a character written by Jane Austen." 

And Crowley grinned inside, because he was certain they had won the moment she pronounced those words. Aziraphale's face lit up at the mention of her name, and smiled brightly, a type of smile that would make an entire room incandescent. Again, maybe that was Crowley's way of seeing things. Case was, Aziraphale was clearly honoured by the comparison.

"You seriously think so? Well, I must say I'm delighted! I happen to be very fond of Jane Austen," he confessed openly. "Am I correct to assume you are too?"

Agatha was now looking over at Crowley with nothing but confusion painted on her face. The man in black simply shrugged and wandered his eyes elsewhere, trusting Aziraphale to win her heart as he did with his. 

"I guess you'd be correct, yes. Ah, what the hell. In, both of you, there's no point in discussing business here," she invited them in, and Aziraphale actually bowed to her before stepping inside, as if Agatha was Queen Elizabeth II. 

Before closing the door, the woman grabbed Crowley's arm firmly, causing him to stare at the place she was gripping, even though his eyes were hidden by the glasses. "Is he really bidder twenty-two?"

Crowley nodded, the grin still slightly visible as they both glanced at Aziraphale, who was awkwardly standing right next to a chair in the kitchen, clear from where they were that he was uncertain what to do with his hat. "In the flesh. Look, before you murder him and toss his body into a river, Agnes' book meant a lot to him, and since you're her relative and all, he begged me to come, I couldn't say no! He crossed the ocean to hand Thesis of Moral Sentiments over to you..."

Only the last bit was true, but he didn't mind lying if it was for a greater good. Redeeming Aziraphale in the eyes of someone important to him counted as a greater good.

"It's theory, not thesis, I've told you this already. Either way, I won't believe you until I see the book, let me talk to this lunatic."

Crowley wanted to hiss at her for that remark, but remained calm as he followed her to the kitchen. Aziraphale, of course, smiled after seeing her return, Crowley standing next to her.

"The copy, show it to me," she demanded, and Aziraphale obeyed as requested, opening his doctor's bag immediately and taking not only the second edition of Theory of Moral Sentiments, but something else that made the lady gasp, placing both items on the table. Crowley was completely unaware he had brought two books. "No fucking way. How..."

"Upon further introspection, The Nice and Accurate Prophecies of Agnes Nutter has only one copy in the entire world, one I happen to own. These two, even if I treasure them dearly, have others. I'm certain I'd be able to secure myself more early editions, maybe Anthony here could even help me with that..." Aziraphale spoke, revealing this to both listeners in the room.

"I didn't... I'm not sure I can accept this," she mumbled almost to herself, sitting down and caressing the cover of both books, one being the famous Theory of Moral Sentiments. The other, Lectures on Jurisprudence, with notes of Smith, first edition. There was gold on top of that that table that didn't shine. Both men approached Agatha the minute her body hit that chair, taking her time to examine what was right in front of her, Crowley to her left and Aziraphale to her right, peeking over her shoulders. 

After some minutes passed and the lady was still busy being mesmerized by her new acquisitions, Crowley made it evident while standing that he was now searching for his lover's attention, which he caught rather quickly. He slid his glasses down enough for Aziraphale to get a glimpse of his eyes, a sense of astonishment behind his stare that he got to transmit securely. Aziraphale smirked, hands tied together upfront holding the fedora still, proud of himself. 

"I spent years cursing your name, or bidder number, since I didn't know who you were, but with this... how could one still hate you? You're not so bad after all... thanks," she concluded, closing both books and getting up to hug Aziraphale, causing him to open his eyes widely, looking like an owl. He stared at Crowley with a mix of desperation and surprise in his eyes, yet his companion simply grinned behind the woman's back, falsely clapping by stopping midair, preventing his palms from touching so he wouldn't make a sound. 

Agatha broke the embrace and squeezed his face between her hands, leaving Aziraphale stone cold, as if he had accidentally stared into Medusa's eyes. Crowley decided to intervene.

"Well, we'll be taking our leave then. I'm glad our business concluded peacefully," he said, but then the lady walked off to the other room connecting to the kitchen, some loud noises being heard while they waited. "So, you requested Anthony J. Crowley's services?," Crowley whispered, taking the opportunity to mention it now that they were alone.

"Only if it's not a difficult task for you, I don't want you to get in trouble. I'll give you the details, and of course, money," he whispered back.

Crowley placed a swift kiss on Aziraphale's cheek, causing him to stare stupefied while discreetly checking the door in case Agatha came back, rose colour painting his face. "Angel, if you asked me to bring you the bloody Crown Jewels of Ireland I would find them and give them to you. However, I don't take money at the moment," he voiced softly, daring to get a little closer, both of them still behind Agatha's chair.

"Oh? And what do you accept then?" he breathed the question, sharing the same idea as his lover, arms touching now as he had shortened the distance between them.

Crowley touched Aziraphale's fingers with his, quietly, welcoming the electrifying tingles running through his stomach, like a young girl in love. "Perhaps we can discuss the payment methods later, once we're back at the hotel..." he implied without a single hint of hesitation.

He was amazed when his lover took his hand on its entirety, fingers intertwined. "Then the exchange will be done following your terms."

Crowley felt a sudden heat invading every inch of his body, instants away from answering back when Agatha reappeared through the door holding a box on her hands, theirs departing behind the chair while curiously watching the lady leaving what caused her so much trouble to find on top of the table. The redhead cleared his throat and leaned forward, arms resting on the chair's top reil. Aziraphale straightened up, fixing his bow-tie. 

"Here, take this. I believe Agnes wanted you to have it," she spoke, breathing unevenly, some sweat making her skin glisten. Both men were a standing question mark. "3876. When the pair of menne from London findeth in the house of good, ye must entrust thee box to the angel in antique fabrics..." she quoted from memory.

Aziraphale stared at the box on the table, then back at Agatha. "May I?" 

She nodded, crossing her arms, watching as the man approached the table and touched the wooden lid, opening it impatiently. Crowley could tell solely by the way his face twitched he was blown away, and oddly wondered what was inside. He didn't have to wait for long, Aziraphale took yet another book. Further Nice and Accurate Prophecies of Agnes Nutter, Concerning the World That Is to Come.

"A second manuscript. Never published, of course. You gave me Lectures on Jurisprudence, so I give you this in return. Can I–" she stopped talking, holding her tongue, eyes locked on her feet. 

Aziraphale, however, encouraged her to continue. "Please, speak your mind..." 

Agatha looked at both of them, then at the book Aziraphale was holding. "I read the manuscript, and I couldn't make any sense of the prophecies written there. With Nice and Accurate Prophecies I could understand most of them, some becoming visible later, like the one with the box just now, but the manuscript? I couldn't even decipher a single one. However, now that you're both here, everything in there makes sense..." she said, a sense of relief in her tone. "Thank you for coming, and... well, I'm the same."

Aziraphale frowned, trying to follow what Agatha was implying. "The same, madam?"

She laughed, and Crowley was taken aback that the woman had it in her to remotely express happiness. The Aziraphale Effect, he'd call it. 

"Read the manuscript, you'll understand. Twenty-two is not a bad number after all..."

---

They were back at the hotel, sharing a suite, not minding the quizzical looks the front-desk receptionist had to give them everytime she handed the keys to them. 

"We've been there for less than an hour and she went from wanting your head on a stake to giving Agnes' unpublished second manuscript to you. You're a bastard, you know that?" Crowley began saying, taking his shoes off while sitting at the edge of the bed. "And she laughed! When I met her, she couldn't even say two things without having poison drooling from her mouth. Bloody hell, unbelievable..."

Aziraphale was frowning as he concentrated on his reading, sitting on a Divan sofa next to a large window. He wasn't really paying attention to Crowley, not when he was invested on the manuscript he was holding, trying to figure it out, fixing his specs from time to time. He spent some minutes trying to make sense of one prophecy, and when he couldn't, he moved on to the next one. You'll understand, is what Agatha said. We're the same.

He had gone over some of them by now, feeling unfortunate, not smart enough to comprehend. It was only when his eyes scanned through the words of a new prophecy that time stopped. It was the one. He frowning ceased and vanished as realization hit him, brows rising, aiming for the ceiling as he panted. "Oh my God, Crowley!" he exclaimed, deviating his attention to him, an expression of revelation mixed with perplexity covering the entirety of his face. 

"What? What does it say?" he asked, getting up from bed and walking barefooted towards Aziraphale, pressing a knee against the Divan next to his partner, leaning forward and spying the contents of the book for some minutes, reading one by one, in order of appearance. "I don't get it," he confessed.

Aziraphale took his reading glasses off, leaving them and the manuscript between Crowley and him, turning his body to face the redhead, hands on top of his thighs, the lower half of his face smiling, the upper one still processing the information that he had came to unravel. "This manuscript... is all about us. The prophecies are not chronological, but read prophecy number twenty-second..."

Crowley grabbed the book, a little skeptical, but decided to give it a go, clearing his throat and reading aloud. "22. When destiny sharle mayk its deed it is when angel and succubus sharle mayk theyr exchange, for destiny is wyse and theyr union eternal. God, angel, this is when we..."

"Yes. It was after that one that I began noticing others too, and I can understand them because they already happened, just not in order! You see, prophecies twenty-two, thirty-three, fourty-seven and ninety-two happened, but ninety-two comes before fourty-seven, fourty-seven being when we decided to become a couple, ninety-two the day we had ice-cream at St. James's Park. The others I cannot make sense of..."

There was an unbearable silence following that breakthrough, because Crowley read the ones that Aziraphale listed, and was simply too overwhelmed and freaked out by Agnes Nutter all of a sudden that he needed to take a sit properly, right next to Aziraphale, being careful not to crash his specs and putting them on top of a nearby table, same with the prediction book. All this time he thought Agnes Nutter was a hoax, he refused to believe someone could predict the future so far ahead, and yet there it was, the bone chilling evidence. He put his arm around Aziraphale, assimilating everything, holding his body as Aziraphale gave in, resting his back on top of Crowley's chest, feeling how his fingers played with his hair gently.

"What did she mean?" Crowley asked suddenly, sounding puzzled.

Aziraphale was looking forward, leaning against his partner on the Divan, mind-blown. "About what?"

"About being the same. What did she mean?" 

Aziraphale stopped looking forward, or leaning against his partner on the Divan. Instead, he separated from Crowley and turned to face him, mouth agape. "Jesus Christ. She's like us."

Crowley understood rapidly, a whole sequence of things adding up piling up and flashing through his face, given away by his expressions. "So, she's on our side."

Aziraphale smiled a little, feeling the urge to hold his hand, which he did. "Yes, I'd suppose she is..." he answered, staring at Crowley's face for a bit, kissing his lips rapidly and resuming his previous position of cuddling together on the Divan instead of using the bed, closing his eyes as he felt Crowley's tender touch on his arms moving softly through his body until they both began to fall asleep.

Our side. He could definitely get used to that.

Chapter 8: With A Garden

Notes:

Hello! Hope you're doing well. I'm afraid I'm the bearer of bad news. This is the last chapter of this story. Good news is, there could be a short epilogue that is already getting written. I will save my goodbyes and gratitudes for later then. As always, I hope you enjoy! 🩷

Aziraphale was reading, not a book, but a letter from Muriel this time, sitting comfortably on the couch as he squinted, bringing the paper closer to his face when there were some curved lines that needed special attention, focusing until discovering the word intended, twinkling triumphant everytime he surpassed said difficulty and could move on to the rest of what his favourite lady had to say. 

He had told her time and time again that she could call to save herself both the trouble and the money spent on delivering these letters, he made it abundantly clear they had a phone at home, but Muriel was scared that the sudden ringing would lethally startle Aziraphale, or that he would fall while approaching the artifact.

Nonesense, he would always reply to appease Muriel, but the letters kept arriving weekly. Not that he hated them, quite the contrary, receiving news from her in whatever format she wished to deliver them was something he treasured very deeply, learning to appreciate the gesture more as years went by. 

His once sparkling golden hair had turned into a mix of white and grey. That baby-soft skin many commented on and envied during his youth had become wrinkled, some crow's feet visible whenever he smiled. His complexion remained the same, yet his muscles and joints had caused him suffering on certain occasions, Crowley being a sweetheart and attending to his needs, massaging anywhere that hurt, or making him some tea, or doing chores, or anything, really.

Truth be told, Muriel had nothing to worry about, Crowley was a very attentive partner and has been for more than two decades. However, Aziraphale was aware that he was the only person that loved this woman the way a father would, and she was the closest thing to a daughter a man like him could ever get, or dream of. The preoccupation was understandable, and Aziraphale tried his best on doing the effort to decrease her anxiety with every response given. Even if they weren't related by blood, as far as they were concerned, they were family.

"Muriel?" Crowley asked as soon as he stepped foot through the front door, causing Aziraphale to raise his head in time to see him taking his hat off, revealing his short red hair.

He hanged his coat and fedora on the wooden coat rack upon arriving, holding his new pair of sunglasses while folded as he approached his partner caught relaxing on the lounge, some feet away from the entrance to the cozy cottage they had built and made their home, logs cracking as the fire on the chimney burned and lit up their surroundings with a beautiful warm colour.

Aziraphale placed the letter on his lap, pausing his reading to receive Crowley, not bothering on standing up, his knee was hurting that day and his lover was notified. That old demon of his planted a rapid greeting kiss on his lips, grinning at him while softly caressing his cheek, Aziraphale placing a hand on top of his as they stared at each other.

"Indeed," he answered in affirmation, pressing and kissing Crowley's hand before he pulled it away, not without leaving a smooch on his forehead afterwards.

He began walking unorganized through the cottage, searching for something in particular. "Good news, I hope?" he asked as he moved. 

"Not this time, I'm afraid..." Aziraphale spoke picking the letter up again, sensing how the wooden floor stopped its creeking, meaning Crowley ceased his stroll, watching him as he turned around almost immediately with great concern painted on his face, eyebrows curled up.

"What happened to her?" he questioned urgently, taking long strides until he was next to him at the lounge again. 

Aziraphale sighed and handed the paper over to him, which he swiftly took from his possession and began reading, desperation behind his eyes. As the minutes on the grandfather clock passed, his expression softened, throwing the letter back at him as he grinned, Aziraphale laughing while picking up the letter that had fallen to the ground.

"Bastard! You scared me shitless! Almost had a heart attack and everything..." he exclaimed with a hand placed on top of his chest. "How many times is it with this one? Two?"

"Four, and counting. I don't know how else to tell her! If she keeps mindlessly cooking like that, she won't have any fingerprints left, Lord forbid..." 

Crowley shook his head, composing himself, that grin still on. Aziraphale sometimes wondered if he was born with one. "Muriel, The Printless Robber!" he yelled, both wheezing at the thought.

"She'd make a great criminal, I'll give you that. No need for gloves when you burned all your fingerprints baking muffins..." he concluded in a lower tone this time, resuming his reading.

"But then again, she burned her fingerprints baking muffins. Nah, she'd be a sloppy one. I'm telling you, every vase and pot inside the house? Destroyed during a break-in..." he built aloud, back to his business of searching around the cottage, probably related to a client.

"But then again, she wouldn't leave any traces behind..." Aziraphale added to his plotting, daring to correct him. He heard Crowley's giggle from the dining room while he kept on scanning through the letter.

"Muriel, The Sloppy Printless Robber then," he fixed the name making Aziraphale smile from his seat. Then, Crowley seemed to have found what he wanted. Aziraphale could always tell by that almost imperceptible ah he let out before announcing his victory. "There you are... but who were you?" he asked directly to the item, presumably on his hands.

Aziraphale smiled some more at the question. "What is it?" he asked raising his voice just enough, not on his plans to tilt his head upwards for anything, chuckling in disbelief at something Muriel wrote relating to some clients from his former bookshop back at Soho, now under her care.

"A book, again. Your lot sure loves me. Couldn't find it earlier since, well, tiny detail, you live here."

Aziraphale did lift his head this time, eyes skimming through those places that could be seen from the couch he was sitting on at the lounge. Except from the staircase leading to their bedroom, loo and guest room behind him, the dining place at his right and the kitchen to his left, he could see everything, and understood Crowley's point. No matter where his vision landed on, there were books, either on the ground, on one of four shelves they owned, above drawers, probably inside them as well, even on the coffee table in front of him. Aside from Muriel, those were his children, his beloved collection. He left them roam free now since their cottage was a place he trusted even with blindfolds on. No need to hide them any longer.

"If it's Florida Architecture by Mizner, I believe it was Mr. Douglas. That is if my memory does not fail me, of course," Aziraphale recalled.

He was now staring at Crowley's face appearing through the corner of the wall that hid the dining room and the other three shelves they owned, sharing place with the chimney on the opposite side. There was no body to be seen, just an expression of complete astonishment.

"Bloody hell angel, I hope it never fails. It's Florida Architecture, Mr. Douglas... was he the... uhm..." Crowley made some gestures with his hands.

Aziraphale nodded. "Short fella, yes. Well, I wouldn't call him short, exactly, we're about the same height. He's short in comparison to you, but that's technically everybody..." he mentioned, finally finishing the letter and taking off his specs. "Muriel wants to come visit this weekend, are we available?" 

Crowley's head remained there until the body was located, holding the red book on his hands. "For her we are. Tell her not to bake anything." 

Aziraphale tittered while getting up, his knee soaring. "I'll give her a bell then, let her know."

Crowley rushed to the phone. "Stay. Your knee hurts, I'll do it," he offered, already picking it up. 

Aziraphale sat down again, simply gazing at Crowley with devotion in his stare. He smiled broadly, feeling blessed to have him by his side. "I love you," he confessed from the bottom of his heart, not planning it, just needing to get it out.

That wasn't the first time he had said those words, and it wouldn't be the last, yet Aziraphale still struggled with expressing his affection openly, not on the same levels he used to in the past, thankfully more than two decades with Crowley were enough to build solid progress on that regard. Nonetheless, Aziraphale still had a hard time admitting his feelings so openly for the man he sincerely, madly, and faithfully loved.

Crowley stared back, a soft grin and hazel eyes sparkling with joy so transparent that it couldn't be censored. He blinked slowly, as if Aziraphale had just casted a spell on him and managed to hypnotise the gentleman with the phone still on his hand. They smiled at each other from their respective places. "Who wouldn't?" he asked, his grin getting bigger the moment Aziraphale rolled his eyes, ready to grab a book and start reading when his lover spoke once more. "Angel, you must allow me to tell you how ardently I admire and love you."

Aziraphale froze and frowned, snorting a laugh of incredulity as he turned to face his man. "You didn't just say what I believe you said."

Crowley shrugged. "I told you, I heard you narrating Jane Austen and you kept me entertained."

He was at a loss for words. It took him some seconds to process what he had just implied. "Crowley, that was more than twenty-years ago..."

Crowley nodded, proudly, putting the phone down for a second to cross his arms leaning against the drawer. "I know. I listened."

Aziraphale was ambushed by the sudden need to cry right there at the discovery that Crowley remembered the day he couldn't stop talking about Pride and Prejudice. He felt embarassed solely from the memory, how passionate he was while rambling on, his hands in motion going through the book events in a meticulous order. Even to this day he was ashamed, he had turned as red as a cherry, becoming silent and mumbling his apologies, terrified of Crowley thinking he was pathetic, or boring. Instead, Crowley asked him what happened next. 

Aziraphale inhaled deeply, swallowing that detestable knot down, calming down. He didn't wish to cry anymore, instead he decided to playfully banter with Mr. Darcy. "She rightfully rejects him on that one. You should have used his second proposal."

---

"Muriel! Come on in," Aziraphale invited the woman to the cottage, and she did as told. "Hope the trip wasn't too bad." 

Muriel shook her head, smiling as bright as always. "Not at all! I got lost, but I'm used to it, I had fun!" she exclaimed happily, and Aziraphale couldn't help but to smile as well while taking her coat and hanging it on the rack.

"Crowley will pick you up next time, will you not?" he asked his partner, who was just coming down the stairs to greet her.

"I will, most definitely."

Crowley hadn't heard what he was agreeing to and Aziraphale knew this, but Crowley would accept anything if Aziraphale asked. "It's settled then!"

Crowley finally took his foot off the last wooden step and approached Muriel with open arms, long strides and a huge smile on his face. "Alright?" he asked the minute he hugged her, departing shortly after but still holding her by the arms. He was very fond of Muriel, which made Aziraphale insanely cheerful inside.

"Yes! Thank you. How have you two lovebirds been? Alright?" 

Crowley put his arm around Aziraphale's shoulder and he took that hanging hand of his without hesitation. "Yes dear, we're perfectly splendid. Now, let me hear all about these clients you mentioned in your letter..."

They sat down shortly after, and she went into great detail about the whole ordeal while Crowley prepared Shepperd's Pie in the kitchen. Aziraphale listened carefully, and laughed at the absurdity of the situation. He could catch the sound of Crowley's deep chuckles, apparently overhearing the conversation, as usual. 

Then it was time for them to move their chit-chat to the dining room, food was ready to be served. Crowley wearing a black apron while announcing the news was a sight he would forever find pleasurable, no matter how many times he witnessed it. Muriel helped with setting the table, one-sided talking with Crowley as he listened, nodded and laughed whenever something funny escaped her mouth, which was fairly often. Once the table had everything that was needed, Crowley passed the plate to Aziraphale, who had to remain sitted on his chair. "Thank you love, thank you dear," he said, and both of them smiled at him.

"No need to thank me Mr. Fell!" she exclaimed, stubborn as always, he had told her already that she should drop that and call him Aziraphale, yet after all these years, she still refused to do so.

"Hope I did it better this time," Crowley said, scratching the back of his head, sensing a little nervousness coming from him. The first time he cooked Shepperd's Pie, he had burned it. Poor thing, still affected by that it seemed. "Right, well. Next one's yours, Muriel."

Aziraphale prayed internally, closing his eyes while everyone else took their seats. Then, it was time to eat. He tried it and as the taste began to settle in his mouth, he looked over at Crowley, eyes wide-opened, letting out a short noise of satisfaction. He had to confess he was surprised, amazed and charmed, all at the same time. "It's delicious! Bravo, you did it."

Crowley smiled, not looking at him. That old man he's been dating for over two decades and that had sucked his cock on their first date got flustered for having his lover praising his accomplishments, and Aziraphale always found that oddly adorable. Everytime.

"All I did was follow the recipe, really. Nothing overly complicated, no miracles or magic," he mumbled, shyly, eating the food himself.

"I follow recipes all the time and I still can't get a single dish right! Burned my fingers the other day, I'm sure Mr. Fell has told you about it..." Muriel intervened, causing Aziraphale to almost choke on his wine, trying to retain a laugh at the sudden memory of Crowley's voice saying Muriel, The Sloppy Printless Robber.

"He did mention it, briefly. How are your fingerpri– tips?" he corrected himself rapidly, circling the glass' rim with his index.

"They're alright, thankfully they don't hurt anymore, but look!" she spoke, showing her palms to Crowley who was in front of her at the table. "I'm afraid I might have burned some of my fingerprints!"

Crowley glanced at Aziraphale furtively, causing him to hide a small grin behind his glass while drinking, staring at her hand, noticing a terrible pink color on her fingers and putting the wine down, not smiling anymore. Crowley was grabbing her hand while taking a closer look, his eyebrows curled up. "Muriel, we were laughing it off the other day, but this looks worse than I expected, you need to consider seeing a doctor," Crowley spoke sincerely, and Muriel looked at both of them.

"Laughing it off? How terrible! Oh, but you're right. This is the fourth time this has happened! It may be a serious injury by now..." she worded, defeated, staring down at her food and bringing some to her mouth.

Aziraphale was now feeling an enormous amount of guilt for even finding the situation remotely entertaining. He grabbed Muriel's hand and squeezed it. "I must admit we did laugh, and I think I speak for both of us when I say we're sorry. We didn't think it would be this bad. I'll tell you what, we'll go with you to the appointment. Give you some moral support, what do you say?" 

Muriel smiled at Aziraphale, nodding gently. "Only if we listen to The Velvet Underground on our way there," she negotiated, and Crowley laughed aloud, joining both hands together with a huge grin on his face, absolutely thrilled. That demon.

"She got you there angel! So, what's it gonna be?" he asked, wanting to know the answer as much as Muriel did.

They were aware of how much he detested The Velvet Underground, or bebop in general, but on the other hand, he did laugh at Muriel's misfortune, maybe this could count as some sort of well-deserved punishment, God's way of telling him he could redeem himself. Weird way of seeing it, but it helped him. "I won't die from it I suppose. Am I allowed to complain?" 

"No!" yelled both of them at the same time, laughing, joining forces in their complot. Aziraphale sighed, knowing he had lost.

"Then maybe I will die after all..." he concluded, a hint of a smile forming on his lips as he ate.

---

"Brought you some tea... Muriel is sleeping like a log already," Crowley voiced softly while sitting down on their bench next to him, admiring the garden. There was an apple that had fallen from a tree, Aziraphale noticed. They could make pie.

The man took the mug in his hands and felt the wonderful warmth on his palms extending further. "Thank you dear, nothing for you?" he asked once he realised Crowley was empty-handed.

"Nah. Didn't feel like having any. I'd rather join you while you drink yours..." he answered, moving closer and putting his arm around him, Aziraphale leaning in until his ear touched Crowley's shoulder.

They remained like that for a bit, some crickets in the near and far distance chirping in unison. Aziraphale often amused himself with silly fantasies, that night a ridiculous yet interesting cricket orchestra made him chuckle, deciding it was time to take a sip before the tea got cold. He straightened his posture, intertwining their fingers together immediately after parting ways, the notion of them separating when he wasn't ready was unbearable to tolerate or consider, holding his hand as each rested on top of the bench between their bodies, his sky-blue eyes pottering at the various fireflies sparkling in the night, flickering incessantly.

Their plants and flowers were noticeably in good health, courtesy of Crowley's attendance. They had built the most delightful home together, a bubble that could not be bursted, a nest worth protecting. He closed his eyes, smiling as his heart pounded serene, supreme peacefulness overruling his existance, temporarily allowing himself to pretend that was the only sentiment a human could experience. 

What a companion Crowley had been. He had given him a beautiful life with no regrets, a life where secrecy was not forced upon, where love existed behind closed doors and out in the open, even when there were some limits with the exposure from his part. Crowley was meant to pull him out of that miserable cycle of eternal punishment for being queer, for destiny was wise, Agnes had written ages ago. They both got out of their respective dark pits together, kissing each other's wounds, curing each other's hearts, washing each other's tears, staying and listening. From the day they met, until death did them part.

"My affections and wishes are unchanged. Did I get it right this time?" Crowley spoke, taking him out from his deepest thoughts, causing him to stare, dazzled, hands actually tingling, heart running wild at that statement, laughing hysterically from the core, shaking his head with a smile on his face.

"You, Anthony J. Crowley, are an insufferable and painfully baffling idiot, and you don't have the slightest idea of how much my heart longs to see you every morning by my side the minute I awake, only to confirm my love for you once again..." he spoke like a poet, exposing his true feelings on the matter, not fearing vulnerability at this moment. And yes, he wanted to answer like a character written by Jane Austen intentionally this time.

Crowley kissed him, his warm palm against his cheek, moving closer. God in his mercy, please, let him stay by my side as much as our remaining years allows us to be, Aziraphale implored.

Their lips departed, hands still tied, not realising he had tilted the mug and there was no tea left anymore, since it all had ended on the grass. He giggled a little and smiled against Crowley's face, melting into a hug. There was a gap of silence during that, until Crowley decided to break it.

"I'm scared angel..." he confessed in a broken voice. Aziraphale closed his eyes, pressing his hand available against his back.

"Why? I'm here, aren't I?" he whispered, holding tears he wished would never come out.

He felt Crowley tightening his squeeze more, a hand over his hair, kissing his face the way he could. "I will never forget that day I woke up and you were there. I cannot wait until morning to see you again, to talk, to argue, to do whatever, just... be with you, see you, touch you, know you're here, because one day... God, one day you won't be, and I'm terrified of an empty bed spot where your body should be..." 

Aziraphale was looking at the sky. "I'm here, I have no intentions of going anywhere for the time being," he replied, doing his best not to sob.

Crowley chuckled a bit. "I know. You're so stubborn you'd face Death if it came to get you."

Aziraphale nodded with a smile. "And I would win."

Crowley laughed, feeling him nodding against his shoulder. "You would! I worried for nothing," he separated and kissed his lips, both gazing at each other lovingly afterwards. "In any case, I wanted to give you this..."

Crowley pulled out a small black box, extracting a gasp from Aziraphale's mouth. He couldn't help but to reach out for his mouth, eyes looking at Crowley's face, then down to the box again. 

"I know we can't actually marry, but I always wanted to give this to you, ever since I bought them. I waited until I knew your knee ached so much you couldn't run away," he joked, grinning at his own silly joke. "Like I said, we can't get married, and you don't have to wear yours if–"

"Oh Crowley for God's sake, open it!" he exclaimed, waiting desperately, each second worse than the last. The man did as told and revealed two matching rings, obsidian and silver gold. "My... they are gorgeous. How long have you had them? You mentioned you bought them and waited..."

Crowley shrugged, looking elsewhere, "...couple of years."

Aziraphale thought he imagined him saying that so he had to double check. "Forgive me, I think I might have misheard, you surely meant days, correct?"

Crowley lifted his head, abundant seriousness behind his gaze, sending shivers down his spine. Aziraphale knew by then his hearing was still as acute as ever. He permitted his eyes to saunter downwards, and dared to take the biggest one, the one made out of a beautiful black obsidian, putting it on his left ring finger, heart pummeling at the sight of his hand with it, fitting perfectly, meaning Crowley had taken measurements, or stolen one of his rings. He was lucky his fingers didn't get any more chubbier or thinner.

"You could always wear it as a pendant, in case people ask questions and you don't feel comfortable answering..." 

Aziraphale laughed at the suggestion, taking the other ring and grabbing Crowley's hand, hazel staring back at crystal-blue. He put it on right where it belonged, and pressed his lips on top of his knuckles, wrapping his hand with both of his own, squeezing it.

"We are old Crowley, people can think whatever they wish. I do believe they already suspect something, anyways. We're an unmarried pair of men, owning a cottage together, who are now wearing matching rings. Listen to this: everytime I go to town to buy groceries, our acquaintances keep asking me how my male friend or companion is doing, but it's always with this... insinuating tone, you know the one."

"I do, yes," he attested, nodding once.

"So now, I'll have to tell them: my husband is in very good health, thank you very much."

He stared at Crowley with a smile, fully aware of the crow's feet in the corner of his eyes, or the wrinkles forming on his face, or the big number of years he carried on his back, youth being nothing more but a mere ghost of mistakes and waste. He was more than thankful to Crowley for allowing him to live what he had missed, side by side, always. 

"Angel... I–"

"Why did you take so long to give them to me?! You know I would have been delighted!"

Crowley shrugged, playing with the new ring on his finger, staring at it while slouching forward. "Honestly? I didn't think you were prepared... I don't know, I was scared you'd care more about what others thought, that it would make you anxious in any way or something," he confessed.

His fear was valid. More than valid, actually: accurate, and making Crowley feel that way for God knew how long killed Aziraphale with an indescribable guilt. He was familiar with that emotion, guilt. He was made to feel guilty about everything, to the point he began to consider it a second shadow of his, always there stalking, even when darkness ruled over, it was there.

With time, with Crowley, that second shadow became less noticeable, he could let go of that guilt partially, yet not completely, which only caused more guilt whenever he remembered the suffering Crowley must have gone through being with him, an individual as open and carefree, forced to not go so fast, or be too loud, or too obvious.

"I've hurt you so much, haven't I? All those years, walking on eggshells... God, I don't think I deserve you." 

Crowley was quick to answer, a bit annoyed. "Oh come on angel, enough with that self-pity of yours! You treat me like I didn't have any sort of freewill on this. I'm patient, I can wait a few years to give you rings, they are more symbolic than anything. I already considered ourselves a marriage, only without the whole ceremony, rice, papers and what-not.

"The only thing I would have done differently in my entire life would be to have met you sooner, kiss you before that Gabriel prick could, take the punches we would have received, for the both of us. I would have told young Aziraphale that there's nothing wrong with him, I would have listened to him when everyone told him to stay silent, I would have taken him somewhere else the minute I found out he was being forced to go through conversion therapy, try to convince their parents otherwise, take some more punches if necessary. Anything that would have made your life easier. I don't care about them, I care about you."

Aziraphale felt his eyes itching as tears threatened to make their way through, which they successfully did. He gasped as he began to sob, drops falling from his face the moment he closed his eyes. Crowley waited by his side, as usual, washing his tears away.

He exhaled a long broken sigh, sniffing, lips and chin still trembling a little, but preparing himself to speak. "I think I very much needed your bad influence at the time, a demon on my shoulder. That's how everyone would see you at least, yet a demon is nothing more than a fallen angel, I would have known you weren't what everyone said you were. It's curious, how different things would have been if we only met sooner. If I had you instead of Gabriel, and if you had me."

"It is curious, yes, but I don't think it would have changed the ending, only the beginning. I would still be listening, you would have stayed, but we can only appreciate what we have so much more because of the things we went through, don't you think? We would still be here, but maybe not be the same as we are. That's a little sour, innit?"

Aziraphale looked at the sky, moon and stars painting the sky like a canvas, clouds swaying gently. "Or bittersweet, perhaps. We would still be together after all."

"For destiny is wise and their union eternal," Crowley quoted, both of them being pulled like magnets to stare at each other immediately, catching their laughs at the exact moment these left their lips, and at that moment, Aziraphale felt like youth wasn't so distant after all, not when Crowley was there to make him giggle like a teenager in love.

"You still ought to tell me the price for those Smith editions you managed to get me by the way."

"Not this again, it's been decades angel! Take it as a bloody present already, please," he begged, his back hitting the bench.

"You know how much I despise being in debt with people, and that includes you, so come on, name your price!" 

Crowley joined their hands once again, and buried himself into a cuddle. "Fine. You want to know what I want?" Aziraphale nodded, knowing Crowley had felt it. "I want you to... tell me about Sense and Sensitivity. Sure, that will do," he concluded, and Aziraphale just knew he came with that idea on the spot.

So, he snorted a laugh. "First of all, it's Sense and Sensibility. Secondly, I might have to reread it, actually. I don't remember much, at least not as much as I do Pride and Prejudice I'm afraid..." 

Crowley only pushed himself even closer, borrowing his shoulder, and Aziraphale did the same with his head, both staring at their garden. "No rush. I waited decades, let's schedule the payment for Wednesday at our place, maybe grab some dinner before that, what about the Ritz?" 

Aziraphale sighed, smiling with his eyes closed. "Sounds perfect. Wednesday it is..." he answered, pleased.

"Bring the book!" Crowley exclaimed, just like that time, same tone and everything.

Aziraphale gazed longingly at his lover with that smile engraved on his face, catching Crowley's grin with his, sealing the deal with a tiny little kiss.

Chapter 9: Epilogue

Notes:

Epilogue time!

Sorry for taking so long, I had some personal issues to take care of, they aren't fully resolved yet but at least I can write now!

At last, the actual final chapter of this story. I was planning on dropping a bonus one about unused ideas before this but honestly, I got stuck so much that it was beginning to interfere with the flow, pacing and structure of the story, even with my own satisfaction with it.

Then I began focusing on this epilogue, and I just couldn't stop writing. I decided this is the way Name Your Price should meet its end. Hope you enjoyed your reading, and thank you so much for all the love and support you've given me throughout this process. It's been both a delight and a pleasure to have you as my readers, your feedback being welcomed with open arms everytime. Rest assured this won't be the last you'll see of them while my profile exists!

The lady was as insane as she was rich, and if he had to pick, those were his favourite clients. 

"So you want a book?" Crowley verified, making sure he understood correctly, holding his black Parker Jotter in place, ready to write.

"Not just any book. Theory of Moral Sentiments, the edition from 1761. There's only one person in the entire world that has it."

Crowley scribbled as fast as he could, trying not to get distracted by the accent for the fifth time upon arriving to that luxurious house. 

"And you know who this person may be?"

The Device lady scoffed at him, smashing her cigarrette against the ashtray with evident fury. 

"If I knew who they were you wouldn't be here now, would you? I know their fucking bidder number if that helps, they always pick the same one, everytime. Fuck, it's annoying, only participating when rare books are being auctioned off, and always winning."

Crowley wrote that down. Could be useful. He then ran through his notes, completely ignoring the snake doodle he had drawn on the top left corner while Agatha was in the bathroom. "Right, so last time they participated was when the first edition of Thesis of Moral Sentiments was bought, correct?"

"Second edition of Theory of Moral Sentiments," she severely corrected, peeking over while he scratched his words and corrected himself. Only then she continued. "Yes. Two years ago, around July or August."

He added a circled 1965 next to the name, edition and year of the book. "You mentioned a bidder number..."

"Twenty-two. I swear I have nightmares with that number."

Crowley wasted no time and included that information, which happened to be the key to solving this mystery, he believed. 

"In Argentina's lottery system, twenty-two means the nutter..." he mentioned briefly while lifting his head to look at Agatha, trying to initiate an interesting conversation, yet she didn't seem to be moved in the slightest, not caring about the coincidence implied about the brief mention she of her predecessors. "Had an Argentinian client not so long ago, huge compulsive gambler, that one... none of which is important to you. Right. Bidder twenty-two bought Theory of Moral Sentiments, second edition from 1761 in 1965 at an auction in..."

"London. Can't remember where, I always send people oversees for this stuff, then send other people after them if they cut me off. Scammers don't even dare messing with me..." she stared ominously at Crowley while lighting another cigarrette, smoke coming out of her mouth like a dragon prepared to reduce him to dust. The message was delivered and received accordingly. 

However, Crowley was not easily intimidated. It was a bloody book. How hard could it be? After finding the identity of bidder twenty-two, he was going to spy on them for a while, then wait for the perfect opportunity to convince them to give the book to him. Surely their pupils would turn into coins after hearing what he had to offer. Agatha did say she was willing to pay whatever, not counting his own services, of course. 

"Better get to work then. We wouldn't want that book to grow a pair of legs and run away, would we?" 

The Device lady glared, she just glared, smoking, probably contemplating how much she hated him with every puff. Crowley paid it no mind, after all her lungs were hating her just as much, if not more. He never felt sympathy for smokers. His father died because of it, every men that fucked him or that wished to be fucked by him smoked after sex, leaving ashes and cigarrette butts as souvenirs. Crowley owned an ashtray just for them, even though he didn't smoke.

"I'll be in touch in case I need anything else or something shows up, please understand the process takes time..." he explained, not calmly, but monotonously. It was mere routine. He didn't wish to reassure her, if anything he wanted to get out of there as soon as possible.

With eager speed, he stood up from the very comfortable camelback couch in her vast and clearly frequented library, which connected to her kitchen for some weird reason he did not wish to discuss with the owner nor the architect.

"As long as you find that book, take all the time you need, just call me every two weeks or so, even if you don't have it yet. I know you will eventually, Agnes never failed with her predictions, that's why I'll pay you now, it will add more pressure to your shoulders."

Back to Agnes Nutter she was, mentioned previously even though he had no idea who she was, but deduced an important member of the family. As long as he was getting paid, he didn't mind the rambling of a single lady living in a house too big for her. Too big for a family, even.

"Or more money to my pockets," he retorted, getting a cold gaze from the woman in return. "Tough crowd apparently. More pressure on my shoulders it is. I'll give you a bell... er, call you, to keep you posted," he corrected himself as he went, trying his best not to use British slang.

"Good. Wait here, I'll go get my checkbook."

---

So much money for a bloody book. Actual insanity.

"Ka-ching..." he murmured exhausted while throbbing his own arms, crossed while staring at the clouds right beneath him with his glasses on, taking in the view of a darkened light blue horizon, and the wing of the plane.

Other people's money being wasted aside, he was glad he could get back to London, go home. He could drive his Bentley, sleep on his bed, visit his pub, see him again.

Immediately after that thought made its way to his brain Crowley wanted to jump off the plane, for being the way that he was. How many forsaken times did it need to happen for him to grasp the idea that Heaven condemned him with solitude for all eternity, born to bear the curse of tragically falling for blokes that clearly didn't care for his sake in the slightest. Crowley was the man of countless sporadic affairs, but zero permanent lovers. 

However, instinctively there was something different about this man. For starters, it was evident they both walked on the same lane, which gave Crowley a bit of an advantage, since that was one of his areas of expertise: seducing men. That obvious observation surpassed; in reality, what managed to catch his attention first was the way in which he chose to dress, always in these antiquated clothes, as if no one had told him Queen Victoria died sixty-six years ago. Not that he was one to talk about fashion, his unique palette of choice was black. Sometimes red accompanied, but only when feeling a bit crazy and innovative.

Crowley laughed a little at the imaginary scenario of the guy being shocked at the discovery of her former majesty's passing more than half a century later while staring out the window and contemplating the sky, now with his glasses down and a genuine smile. It was curious actually, how the sky matched the colour of his eyes, even the clouds counted. Maybe that was the main reason Crowley was drawn to think of him. Or maybe, just maybe, he had never really left his mind at all.

He liked to talk a lot once he got drunk, this man. Coincidentally, he would talk about books of interest, or how his previous partner was horrible to him, poor guy, or that he adored dining at the Ritz, an activity they shared in common. He occassionally mentioned Muriel, his employee, yet it was merely to speak well of her, even proudly, like a father with his own daughter, spiraling down into every single accomplishment she has managed at the bookshop he owned. Crowley knew the shop, he had passed by multiple times, briefly spying inside as he walked.

He wasn't much of a reader, or a reader at all. However, sometimes, whenever he passed through that shop, an urge to step inside for the sake of speaking to him grew stronger. It was an impulse he luckily didn't act upon, after all, he wasn't even sure he wished to speak to him.

Well, no, he did wish to speak to him, he was afraid of the events and the consequences that the aforementioned activity could have on his already stitched, sutured and sensitive heart. Did the risk justify the pain of learning once more that he wasn't good enough? Or enough, if at all? Was the excitement of recognising his flushed face amongst a crowd of nobodies worth the tears his pillow would wash once he found himself naked and alone? Could he survive the view of his back walking away, or the lies of words he had heard a thousand times before? 

Crowley shut his eyes harshly, trying not to let cerulean haunt his mind, yet there was no point in trying, it was there to stay.

---

"Yer Majesty, The Queer of England in the flesh, welcome! How was the land of the free, eh?" Gary asked as soon as his shoes were dragged inside the pub, not opened to the public but close to. It had been a day since he got back, deciding to take it to rest and compose himself, only to find out he'd need years of sleep to feel fully revitalized, but that he couldn't neglect his earthly responsabilities.

So, Crowley was vigourously letting out a gust of air at the questionnaire the minute his ass hit the stool, leaning forward and holding his chin with his hand, elbow glued to the bar.

"Ironically not. I need to find someone, er, well, someone's book, to be precise. Hardest thing ever if you ask me. I'll begin my research tomorrow," he pinpointed, now staring at Gary. Normally, no one would notice considering the glasses were on, but given the longevity of their friendship, it was likely that his friend/informer just knew he was doing it. "Has he...?"

"Fairly often. I have a clutch he'll show up tonight as well," he answered while cleaning a glass, not disguising the tiny smirk that had formed on his lips at the sight of his friend/boss interested in someone this badly. 

Either way, that alone was enough for Crowley to free his calendar for the evening. "Is that so? What did he say while I was gone?" he asked, severely intrigued, so much so he had to get even closer for this, excited. Gary could picture an invisible tail wagging all over place.

He poured his boss some scotch and reminisced as he stared at the wooden bar. "Let's see... there was something about an important book he's been wanting for decades coming up, he purchased a very expensive 1920 Chateauneuf-de-Pape bottle in advance to celebrate something related to that. Will never understand 'em, y'know? Bookworms, that is."

That made two of them, what was it so special about books anyways? Well, they brought him money, there went one good quality that could be rescued. "I recall a certain someone reading Wuthering Hills just to impress a fine lady that, shockingly, also happened to be reading it! Hm, how odd," Crowley snickered, a grin forming on his face.

Gary closed his eyes with a smile as he put the glass down, sighing a brief chuckle at the memory. "Wuthering Heights, and that was a long time ago. Never reading again, that book was exhausting."

Crowley took a sip of his scotch, pointing at Gary with the glass in his hand. "Whatever the name was, you cried. I recall your sobs lasted two weeks. Every single night. Your mom and I even teased about it when you weren't around," he confessed, then choked on the verbarage as he recalled something else. "Hell, you didn't even talk to this lady after that!" 

Gary was left rather stupefied, his green eyes wide open as they could get. "Let me get this straight, I let you stay at my house and you have the audacity to laugh about me behind me back?"

"With your mom, yes. How is Lydia? Been meaning to ask..." Crowley retorted, glaring down at his drink, his index surfing through the tumbler's rim. 

The clearly frustrated brunette pressed his fingers against his nasal bridge with his other hand resting on his waist. "She's doing great, thanks for asking. Anyways, back to our discussion... it didn't help that the lady's name was Catherine, aight? That was an unfortunate coincidence. Would Heathcliff read a book solely because Catherine was reading it, just like I'm doing with the real Catherine? That thought alone unerved me. And yes, I cried, fuck off."

The ginger man had the perfect answer to the question made before he was sent to hell. "Ask him that very same question. I bet he would have the answer."

And confusion painted his face. "Ask who? Heathcliff?"

Crowley rolled his eyes even when that wasn't visible. "Him, Gary. White hair with hints of gold, piercing blue eyes, beautiful smile, interesting sense of style, addictive vo–"

"Got it! I will. You'd prolly fire me if I don't, anyways..." 

Crowley got up from his seat to officially commence that night's shift. He glared sideways at the bar with a smile as he approached the entrance. "After your family let me crash at your place for who knows how long when my father left me on the streets to rot, believe me when I tell you, if anything happens to me, this pub is already yours. Says so in my will."

Now the closed sign was facing him, walking back towards his friend/informer/employee whose face was worth a million. "You can't seriously mean it."

He sat down and finished his scotch, treating it like a task he had to complete. "Let us hope you don't die first, that would ruin all my plans. Either way, if that were to happen, by the time I die, John and Sarah would be adults, they can do whatever they want with this place." 

He asked for a refill, and Gary obliged immediately, only now his usual steady grip was incredibly unstable. "I don't even know what to say," he mumbled, not being able to look him in the eye. Not that he could, glasses got in between.

A customer arrived with what appeared to be a friend of his, both wearing suits, probably fresh out of work and seeking for some pleasure after a very exhausting day. "I believe 'what can I get you?' will do nicely."

---

The man did show up eventually, and as usual, he ordered wine. It wasn't long before he spoke in unintentional tongue twisters, laughing whenever he messed up, fanning himself with his own hand. Gary glared at Crowley, and the man nodded, meaning it was time.

"Say, mister, I have a book related question..." Gary began explaining, yet nothing else was needed.

"Oh, which book its– is it?" he asked while slowly correcting himself on the run. 

Crowley grinned a little at that from his seat right next to him. Apparently the guy never cared to check for his surroundings, therefore not noticing anyone unless they spoke to him directly.

"Wuthering Heights. You see, when I was younger, there was this lass I fancied a lot, Catherine was her name..."

"Ha! Isn't that ironic?" he interrupted before drinking once again, eyes fixated on the brunette bartender, letting him know he had his full attention.

"Yes, exactly. I began reading this book because we were in the same class and she was reading it, so I thought that if I read it, I could talk to her. The thing is..."

"You noticed Heathcliff's evident obsession with Catherine and thought you were being just as creepy?"

Gary was left stupefied for a second time that night. Not even Crowley expected him to nail it immediately, he had to bring his glasses down a bit to see this man more distinctively.

The gentleman simply drank with his eyes closed and back erect, finesse drooling from him, even when drunk, or when he was acting like a toddler mere five minutes ago.

"Precisely, yes. My question is... would Heathcliff also read a book Catherine was reading just because she was reading it, so he could discuss it with her?"

He did take his time to answer, thinking while the cup was set aside, something more important came up. 

"I suppose it would be accurate for Heathcliff to take the initiative of starting a book Catherine was reading, yes. Take this as a personal opinion of mine, but I highly doubt he would discuss the contents of said book with her. No, I believe his obsession was so intense he would resent the author. He would unconsciously criticize every single detail of it in his mind as his reading went on, probably thinking to himself that something about the story drove Catherine to make her decision. That is my guess, at least. They are fictional, after all... but satirically it could work." 

Back to drinking he went. He managed to spill all that fancy monologue without stuttering. Crowley was mesmerized by this being next to him, so much so he had to hide his open mouth behind his own drink and blame the blushing on the alcohol, feeling his heart racing rapidly and his ears beating annoyingly. Then, Gary laughed.

"Now that you mention it, I think that would happen too! Man, what a twisted character Heathcliff was, huh..."

The guy nodded with a peaceful smile. "Twisted, obsessed, enraged, cruel, arrogant, selfish, abusive... it is rather tragic to recognize such a character isn't only found in fiction."

Cheers to that. 

"Anyways, how is that book thing going, Mr. Fell?"

Mr. Fell? Crowley looked over at Gary with evident perplexity even when his eyes remained hidden. So there was a surname for that ethereal face of his. Then, he remembered vaguely reading the name of his bookshop and felt like an absolute idiot. He thought his crush was not the person whose name first appeared written on the sign, but rather, Co. 

"Oh, splendid. I cannot wait for the auction. Lucky twenty-two cannot lose now, can it?"

He stopped in motion as if time was paused. The tumbler remained mid-air the way he was holding it, turning his head to face A. Z. Fell. No. It couldn't possibly be. What were the odds of that happening?

Little, but never nule. Agatha did mention she lost Theory of Moral Sentiments to bidder twenty-two at an auction in London around the months of July and August of 1965. 

This was London. An auction was occurring the following week. Twenty-two was his number, and a guy owning a bloody bookshop was sitting right next to him, explicitly saying he was going for a book.

The coincidences were scary, but he wanted to investigate more, for his sake more than anything. He got up from the stool, signaled his goodbyes to Gary, and walked off into the streets of Soho with clear intentions of returning to his apartment. He would call Agatha first thing in the morning. For now, he needed to have a rant with his plants as unwilling spectators and bury his face against the pillow while he screamed at the possibility of A. Z. Fell, his massive crush, being bidder twenty-two.

He slept on that thought that night, cursing life once more for putting obstacles in his love affairs again, unknowing that destiny was beginning to set the foundations for the romance of his lifetime.

---

"WHAT?" She screamed right into his left eardrum, causing him to close his eyes and put a certain distance between the phone and him. Maybe it wasn't the best idea to call her first thing in the morning. He hadn't even had his coffee yet, but after that yell he doubted he would need any.

"I think I found him, I'm not sure yet. This man went to my pub yesterday and spoke about the auction next week, also mentioned lucky twenty-two and according to my... er, informer, he has been waiting for a very important book. Do you know anything about that?" he listed while not revealing that this secret informer of his was just Gary.

"The Nice and Accurate Prophecies of Agnes Nutter, Witch. I put the book for auction to lure him in, and apparently, it worked," she confessed, a long exhalation being heard from her side of the line after she spoke those words. Crowley could tell the lady was smoking, and with that knowledge, the smell was also somewhat present.

"Don't you think this piece of intel would have helped to know in advance?"

"Hey, your job is to get Theory of Moral Sentiments, you don't need to know about the rest. Even then, because I'm feeling generous, I'll tell ya'. If he has Agnes, maybe he won't care about Theory of Moral Sentiments that much. Agnes is far more valuable after all."

That made him think, which was unusual for Crowley to do as soon as he woke up. Playing with the belt of his silky robes, his mind began plotting and planning. A snake slithering cautiously through grasslands, paying close attention to outsmart his prey, and to outsmart his prey, he needed to understand it. 

"But what if he doesn't get Agnes?" Crowley questioned, eyes locked elsewhere, in the future, to be precise.

There was silence following that. "What do you mean?" Agatha inquired, yet Crowley was not in the mood for explaining, he wanted to act. The game was on. If that cutie wanted his book he would have to go through him first, which meant having an actual interaction. Crowley was aware of how radically insane and borderline stalker-ish this made him look, yet being completely honest to his heart, he couldn't care less. Two personal goals of him were to make some progress with Mr. Book Lover and find bidder twenty-two so they could negotiate, and Bob's your uncle. Miraculously, Mr. Book Lover and bidder twenty-two were the exact same human being, ironically solving everything he needed. Turns out it wasn't as bad as he made it out to be.

"Gotta go. We'll talk later."

"No, wai–"

---

Asking around, Crowley found the place the auction would be held at, and decided to barge in, like a model at a runway, catwalking his way to the man in uniform behind reception. 

"Hello!" Crowley saluted while succumbing shamelessly onto the reception, catching the attention of the employee who was, apparently, solving a crossword. Crowley, who almost had his head on the other side, caught a glimpse of the words and decided to intervene. "Try nebulae for ninth across. I'm here to participate in the auction you'll be holding next week." 

The man was completely appalled by the sudden rush of information given by the strange man, starting by writing nebulae down right where Crowley told him to, struggling with the spelling a little but figuring things out at the end. He smiled once he had it. "Finally! Uhm, hello! First of all, thanks mate. Quite a tricky word. About the auction... you have to fill this first, once you do and I corroborate the information, you will be given a bidder number, any questions?" the young man explained as he passed a sheet of paper for Crowley to complete, getting an immediate negative reaction from his behalf. 

That sheet of paper contained so many questions he was surprised the name of his grandfather's childhood pet wasn't required. He looked at... Austin, trusting the tag on his shirt, and nodded, declining the pen that was offered and showing off his Parker while walking away.

He sat down at the lobby, writing down every single detail they requested, which took him longer than expected. Name, age, phone number, address, passport or driver’s license number, yadda yadda, he was bored out of his mind by the time he got to the last y in Anthony. But alas, he did get to the end, approaching Austin with the opposite emotion he had at the beginning of their interaction. 

"Here it is. Sorry for taking so long, last time I had to write an essay... I didn't," he said, joking a little but drained from joy completely.

Austin took the paper and began scanning the information with his eyes. "Everything seems to be in order. Right, so, your bidder number would be..."

"Thirty-three. I already chose it on my way here," he interrupted, pressing the desk bell at the reception once, hearing it go ding!  

Austin blinked a little. "Uhm... that's not really how it works? You can't just choose your number. Luckily for you, thirty-three does happen to be available. That's... odd."

"Accute observation, thirty-three is an odd number indeed, and I happen to like odd numbers. Thank you very much Austin, try quarter for fourth down. See you around..." he winked and straightened himself instead of leaning against the reception like he was at first, patting his hat as departure. 

Good. With phase one of his plan completed, all he had to do was call Agatha, and wait.

---

"YOU WHAT?" yelled the lady, causing Crowley to look at the phone he was holding with a lucid irritated expression.

"I cant believe I'm gonna say this, but could you, for the love of God, stop screaming everytime I break the news to you?" he begged, obviously annoyed. He still hadn't recovered from that first explosion.

"I will stop screaming when you tell my why THE FUCK you got involved at the auction!" the lady replied in a demanding tone, which was only natural given the sudden change of plans that weren't anticipated. 

"I will buy Agnes and once I have it, I will trade it for Theory of Moral Sentiments. Listen, I know him, okay? Long story, not important. Thing is, I can anticipate his moves. Ga– my informer already told me that he made plans to celebrate winning Agnes, he will never see me coming."

Hopefully one day, under different circumstances, thought Crowley to himself, blushing a little while speaking through the phone with Agatha, doing his best not to picture filthy scenarios right now. Remember the smoking witch, remember the smoking witch, remember the smoking witch. There. It worked.

"I admit your plan isn't so... irrational, but I imagine you'd be paying from your own pocket, would you not? We're talking big numbers here..." 

Crowley grinned a little, tossing his hat to a chair nearby. "Just how I like them. How about we split?"

The lady chocked on what he guessed was the smoke she inhaled wrongly and began to cough. "I was joking. Are you seriously planning on throwing some cash of your own?"

Crowley knew a lot of money was at stake, the fine line read thousands if not millions, but if he had to win him over, let it be by getting him the book he's been wanting for, according to Gary, decades. Making a strong first impression was important. Strong, not positive, he was aware Mr. Fell would want his head on a wall as soon as he found out about the whole ordeal, but Crowley loved making grandiose entrances, unforgettable ones, those one could quote from memory as years passed. 

Luckily for him, Aziraphale had an excellent memory, and he wouldn't forget it, not even when years went by and his mind began to fail him, he would always remember the day an insufferable ginger man made a reservation for two at the Ritz and told him to bring the book!

"Let's just say we both get something out of this and leave it at that. So, how much are we offering?"

---

Auction day had finally arrived, and knowing how much money he had to bid, he walked into that building basically owning Agnes already. He approached the reception, where Austin sat checking people in and giving them their numbers. Crowley was no exception, of course. 

"Ah, Anthony, or should I say bidder thirty-three? Here you go, hope you find something nice!" Austin exclaimed as he handed him his number with some pink on his cheeks.

Beautiful lad, adorable really, but he was not the book-obsessed gentleman in antique clothing that spoke like someone from the Victorian era, or had poor alcohol resistance and stuttered once drunk yet still managed to articulate an entire monologue about Heathcliff smoothly in response to a silly question. He wasn't the gentleman that smelled like herbs, books; old and used ones, some type of wood for some reason, and sometimes, sushi. Oh, and wine, he couldn't possibly forget the wine.

No, Austin was not him, no one was, and he could tell by the way his heart threatened to induce him into a cardiac arrest now that his eyes were set on him, the man of the hour just entering the building with a petulant smile and cute chubby hands holding onto his coat while heading straight to reception, confidence oozing from his persona. Crowley decided to stay and check the number, just in case. It was his job after all. Still, the fragance of everything his mind recollected minutes ago was there, except for the alcohol and sushi. 

"Austin! All right?" he asked with a high-pitched tone that gave off his excitement.

"Oh, hi! I was just wishing this man good luck. Same goes, obviously!" Austin answered, and Crowley felt his legs tremble a little, like a newborn deer learning how to walk.

Could this be their first interaction? Nervousness took over his entire system but he had to play it cool. So, he leaned over the desk, one hand against his waist, smirking at Mr. Fell as he got to check his number. Twenty-two. It was him after all, just as he suspected.

"Is that so? Well, good luck to us all!" he exlaimed, and simply... walked away, without even looking at him.

Crowley was left absolutely appalled, and that was a hard thing to do. With great deception, he grabbed his number he had left upside-down at the counter, and parted ways with Austin without muttering a word. It was incredible how Mr. Fell did not care about his surroundings one bit. Crowley knew he wasn't a self-centered man, he did care about people other than himself. However, there was this wall around him that made him... impenetrable, for lack of a better word. Perhaps he was being cautious with his interactions. Whatever it was, it motivated him even more. With Agnes on his care, he wouldn't be able to ignore his presence any longer. Crowley was like a spoiled child that didn't give up unless he got hurt or got what he wanted, and what he wanted, he got.

---

"Sold! To bidder thirty-three!" the woman announced loud and clear to the room full of bored people with enough money to spend.

He had enough money, yet saying he was bored would be a detriment. Crowley grinned, comfortable in his seat, so much so, in fact, he was almost not on it. His black fedora covered his face, not even caring to look up, yet sensing Mr. Fell leaving, only carrying defeat.

Oh, well. He'd see him tonight.

---

Aziraphale. That was his name. Aziraphale. He repeated that name countless times inside his head because it was a beautiful name. On his way home after he successfully revealed his identity to Aziraphale at the pub, a pinch of guilt invaded his stomach, yet it quickly turned into excitement when he spotted a rerun of It's a Wonderful Life at a drive-in cinema. He adored that movie, mostly because James Stewart starred in it, but the whole Dickens' inspired story was touching too. He decided to watch it, his apartment could wait, no one was there to greet him anyways, only his plants. He wasn't much of a botanist, but his grandpa was, and he knew how sad the old man got everytime one of them died. Their well-being was up to him now. 

But for now, it was time for a rewatch. He payed for his ticket, bought some popcorn, and parked his Bentley with a speaker attached to his open window so he could listen. The audio was terrible, but he had seen the movie five times already, he could anticipate what they were about to say, lip-syncing the entire moon scene.

He did drop the popcorn for a moment when Clarence Oddbody showed up, and George finally called him by his nickname. Angel.

Angel.

It immediately reminded Crowley of Aziraphale's face. Angel. Yes. It suited the gentleman as if the word was created solely for him. 

He watched the rest of the movie without paying attention to it, he knew what was going to happen anyways.

The only thing he desired most was getting the chance to call him angel as soon as he could, unknowing of the fact that said moment would come the following day through a phone call. No. Not just any phone call. The phone call. Crowley was unaware that within a few hours, his life would change forever, he just needed to wait for his answering machine to do its job.

He thanked George Bailey for the wings, and went home.

---

Hey. This is Anthony Crowley. You know what to do. Do it with style.

Crowley was watering the plants when the machine went off, almost dropping his own hand when he heard his voice come through.

"Am I doing this style thing correctly?" 

Crowley rushed to the phone in record time, clearing his throat and breathing very deeply. He swallowed, and it was officially showtime.

"Hello angel..."

The words that had sealed their fates together.