Chapter Text
New York City, 7:42 AM
The cold was unforgiving, as if the wind itself had read the morning headlines and decided to be cruel on purpose. Aziraphale Fell tugged his scarf tighter, juggling a cheap takeaway coffee, a bag of second-hand books, and the constant urge to turn back and hop on a plane to Oxford.
He was definitely not in England anymore.
Skyscrapers loomed like silver judgment. Taxi horns screamed like they had personal vendettas. The city moved with the aggression of caffeine and capitalism. Everyone seemed to know exactly where they were going—except for him.
He stopped at a red light, nearly tripping on a frozen puddle. A man in an immaculate coat brushed past him without so much as a glance, leaving behind the scent of expensive cologne and condescension. Aziraphale sighed, adjusted his glasses, and kept walking.
Today was his first day.
He wasn’t even sure he wanted the job, not really. He’d applied on a whim, in that dazed post-graduation panic. "Assistant to the Editor-in-Chief of Temptations Magazine," the listing had said. He hadn’t expected a call. Certainly hadn’t expected them to call. And yet here he was, lost in Manhattan, about to walk into one of the most exclusive fashion publications in the world—wearing corduroy trousers and a jumper with actual elbow patches.
It was all terribly not him.
And then he saw the building.
Tall, glass, intimidating in a way that didn’t require gargoyles. Just power. Pure, polished power.
Aziraphale took a breath, wiped a stain off his coat, and stepped inside.
If the rumours were true, working for Anthony J. Crowley was like surviving a storm made of stilettos. No one lasted more than a few months. Some left crying. Others never spoke of it again.
But Aziraphale was determined.
The lobby of Temptations was absurdly elegant — cold, mirrored, almost clinical, as if beauty here was measured with a steel ruler. Polished concrete walls, minimalist chairs no one ever sat on, and people walking as if they had far more important places to be.
He was adjusting his tie for the third time when a woman appeared at his side like a gust of caffeinated wind.
"You must be the new assistant. Aziraphale, right? Perfect. Come with me. Quickly. Very quickly."
She was short but moved with such urgency she could’ve powered the entire building on sheer will. Razor-sharp heels, eye makeup like it was applied with surgical precision, and a bun that seemed held together by tension alone.
"Shax," she said, extending her hand without slowing down. "I’m Mr Crowley’s senior assistant. But of course, you already knew that."
"A pleasure, Miss Shax," Aziraphale murmured, nearly tripping after her.
"Of course it is. Thousands of people would kill to be in your position. Literally kill. Sell their souls. And that’s not even a metaphor."
She looked at him, as if waiting for him to grasp something deeper in that sentence.
"Anyway, you’re late, but luckily, Mr Crowley isn’t in yet. That’s a blessing. He hates waiting. And when I say hates, I mean he once made an editor cry over being five minutes late. Five."
Aziraphale blinked.
Shax stopped in front of the lift and turned to face him, her eyes gleaming.
"So, here’s the basics. Breathe sparingly, walk quickly, and never — never — draw attention unless it’s strategic. And no beige."
The lift pinged. The doors opened.
"Ready to meet air-conditioned hell?"
Aziraphale hesitated.
"I’m not sure ready is quite the word."
Shax smiled. It was not a comforting smile.
"Good answer. You might do better than you look. Or worse. We’ll see."
The lift doors slid open with a hushed ding, and Shax stepped out like a general entering hostile territory.
"Keep up. And don’t touch anything."
Aziraphale followed her through a pristine hallway of glass and steel, where people moved with an eerie kind of synchronicity — like dancers in a production he hadn't been told the choreography of. Every surface gleamed. The air smelled faintly of expensive cologne and ambition.
Then, they turned a corner and entered it.
The office.
Crowley's domain.
It was vast and terrifying in its perfection. Black marble floors, towering windows that overlooked Manhattan like it belonged to him — which, in some ways, it probably did. At the centre was a desk like a throne: minimalist, commanding, sharp-edged and glassy. Behind it, two chairs for guests that looked wildly uncomfortable on purpose.
Every detail screamed taste, money, and control.
"Oh dear," Aziraphale whispered, clutching his bag a little tighter.
Shax turned to him briskly. "This is it. The inner sanctum. You’ll sit there" — she pointed to a desk near the entrance, far too small and far too exposed — "and pretend to understand everything he says, even when you don’t. Especially when you don’t."
She glanced at her watch and muttered, "He’s late. Unusual. Which means something’s probably on fire."
Aziraphale opened his mouth to ask a question — he wasn't sure what, exactly — but was interrupted by the click of designer boots on marble.
The temperature dropped.
Heads turned.
Crowley entered.
Black tailored coat sweeping behind him like a shadow made of silk. Dark sunglasses, indoors. Hair a controlled mess of copper and chaos. And a presence — no, a pressure — that filled the room long before he spoke.
He didn’t walk. He prowled.
He passed Aziraphale without a glance, tossed his coat onto Shax’s waiting arms like she was furniture, and approached his desk with terrifying precision.
“Coffee?” he said, voice like velvet over knives.
"Right here, sir," said Shax, placing it in his hand with the speed of someone who’d been burned before.
Crowley sipped, grimaced faintly, and finally looked at Aziraphale.
A pause.
A flicker of something in those hidden eyes.
"This the new one?" he asked.
"Yes, sir. Aziraphale Fell," Shax said quickly. "Oxford. Literature. Fluent in three dead languages and once corrected a museum plaque."
Crowley raised an eyebrow, then slowly removed his sunglasses.
Aziraphale held his breath.
“Well,” said Crowley, voice low and dangerous, “let’s see how long this one lasts.”
Fuck
Aziraphale had barely settled into his miniature desk — which felt more like an aesthetic punishment than a workspace — when the sound of the glass door snapped open with a sharp click.
"Shaxs!" Crowley’s voice cracked through the air like a whip. "Shaxs, where’s the summary for the campaign with the Italians?"
Shaxs, who had just been about to hand Aziraphale a slightly squashed croissant, nearly stumbled in her rush.
"On your desk, sir, with the samples from Givenchy’s new collection."
"No, no. That was before coffee." He frowned, visibly irritated. "Where’s the... the... Emily!"
Shaxs froze mid-corridor, croissant still in hand. Aziraphale glanced around, confused. Then he cleared his throat, cautiously:
"Beg pardon, sir… my name is Aziraphale."
Crowley stared at him.
For a long moment.
As if deciding whether this was a personal offence or merely a waste of oxygen.
"Of course it is," he said neutrally. "Lovely to know. Now where is the bloody spreadsheet with this week’s schedule, Aziraphale?"
"I... haven’t seen any spreadsheet, sir."
Shaxs, in full panic, had already begun rifling through papers like a shipwreck survivor looking for a lifeboat. Crowley rolled his eyes with a theatrical sigh.
"Wonderful. We’re all starring in a social experiment."
Before the moment could spiral further into discomfort, the side door opened — and in she walked.
Anathema.
Tall, dark hair swept into a perfectly imperfect bun, minimalist black outfit cut with surgical precision, heels sharp, expression sharper — the kind of woman who’d read three reports, predicted two disasters, and still had time to source organic coffee.
"What’s going on now?" she asked, one brow raised.
"Witch!" Crowley said, almost relieved. "At last, someone with a functioning brain."
"As always," she replied, already crossing the office with elegantly annoyed strides. "You left this in the meeting room yesterday. With the handwritten notes that, by the way, no one else can read except you."
She handed him a black binder. He took it with the faintest of smiles.
"You’ve saved me. Again."
"I always save you. But do us all a favour and start typing like the rest of humanity."
She turned her gaze to Aziraphale, assessing him with clinical precision.
"This the new one?"
"Yes," Shaxs replied before Aziraphale could speak. "Aziraphale. Oxford. Literature. Already managed to irritate Crowley in under five minutes."
Anathema smiled.
"Excellent. Right on schedule."
Crowley glanced at the clock, already bored of the conversation.
"If no one else plans to disappoint me this morning, someone bring me the new cover proposal before lunch. And, Aziraphale, a word of advice."
The blond looked up, tense.
"If I get your name wrong again… don’t correct me. Just do better."
This was one way to start a new job — a bad one.
Aziraphale had never been good with rules, nor with keeping quiet; in fact, he never stopped talking during museum visits or whenever the subject interested him. The guides truly despised him.
But he would need to adopt a different approach if he didn’t want to lose the job, which, unfortunately, he desperately needed. Moving to a new country was no easy task, but losing an opportunity at Temptations would be madness.
He had no genuine interest in the world of fashion, but anyone with at least two functioning brain cells would know that the magazine was a stepping stone to any job you might want, in any field.
Deep down, Aziraphale dreamed of becoming a writer and knew that with just five months of work at Temptations, he would have met a host of editors and valuable contacts.
He might have the job thousands of people dreamed of having, but to him, it was only the gateway to his true ambition.
The flat he managed to get was in Harlem, close to the office and with an affordable rent. It had no luxuries but was enough. Yet one thing still bothered him.
He couldn’t stop thinking about the redhead.
Which was absurd, really. The man was rude, cold, and absolutely insufferable. Aziraphale had met arrogant people before—Oxford was full of them—but there was something about Anthony J. Crowley that lingered in his mind like the aftertaste of bitter coffee. Unwelcome, but undeniably present.
It wasn’t even about the way he looked, although — Aziraphale sighed, flopping down on his lumpy sofa — that didn’t help either. The man moved like smoke and spoke like sin, every word coated in condescension and honeyed disdain. And those hands … well. Best not to dwell on that.
He rubbed his temples. He was tired. It had been a long, humiliating day, and he was allowing his mind to wander in completely the wrong direction.
What he should be thinking about was how to improve. How to not spill coffee on memos. How to not be corrected in front of half the office. How to survive Crowley’s sharp tongue and even sharper cheekbones long enough to make it to those five glorious months.
He pulled a half-stale bagel from a brown paper bag on the counter, chewed it mechanically, and stared at the wall. The flat was silent, save for the distant hum of traffic outside and the occasional creak of the radiator.
He missed home. He missed bookstores with crooked shelves, tea that didn’t taste like hot disappointment, and people who didn’t look at him like he was a badly written footnote in their biography.
But most of all, he missed feeling like he belonged somewhere.
And yet, despite everything, as he curled under a scratchy blanket that smelled faintly of old paper and citrus detergent, his last coherent thought before sleep wasn’t about home.
It was about a man who assured him that the devil was not a little red man with horns and a trident, oh no, the devil wears sunglasses