Never Too Latte

by ChapChaph, elf_on_the_shelf, scullyphile

Summary:

Twenty years ago, Aziraphale and Crowley met as teenagers while visiting Rome. They instantly formed the kind of horny, smitten bond neither would ever forget. They lost touch and haven't seen each other since that summer. When Crowley applies to work in Aziraphale's coffee shop after leaving his job as an architect, they're both full of doubt. Neither wants to ask if the other remembers, let alone admit their feelings. After all, who would still be in love with someone they met two decades ago? They turn, instead, to writing down their feelings.
But would they be brave enough to actually confess them instead of keeping them to themselves?
How will our heroes cope?

Notes:

elf_on_the_shelf wrote and drew architectural sketches for Crowley.
scullyphile wrote for Aziraphale.
ChapChaph created all the other art. (Actual art - Elf here, making an an amendment)
We would like to thank our amazing betas: HolRose, SpectrallyDistracted, and anna_bird!

Chapter 1

Notes:

🧝‍♀️ elf here.
CWs for Crowley's opinions on both Pride and Prejudice and cappucino sipping hours :))
He is wrong about the cappuccinos, she says, as she considers a cappucino herself at an hour very close to midnight.

 

03.03.2025

 

What brings you to Rome?

Look, it’s Rome. Why wouldn’t I want to work here? I know that your next question will be about how I am overqualified for the job. But I just want it, yeah?

 

Please list your previous work experience:

Bus-boy at a hotel: 2018-2019 – will send the link in the email.

Full-time architect at Norman Foster and Partners: 2020-2025. Will probably take a while for them to reply if you’re asking for a letter of recommendation because Beth in HR prefers doing her nails or chatting with Sue from Accounting over the company phone instead of doing her job.

Aaaaand this is where I think you will say – overqualified for the job.

I am not. I never made a coffee – professionally – in my life. So there you have it, my diploma and masters and all that – absolutely and completely useless.

 

What hours do you prefer to work?

Whichever hours work for me. I used to pull all-nighters like twice a week for the last job, so I’m pretty flexible.

 

Do you know how to work your way around a coffee machine?

If by work my way around it you mean something like give my roommate’s museum piece of a coffee grinder a hard thump every now and again when it’d end up just grinding thin air, then sure. Haha. Um. That’s probably not what you meant, soooo… no. I have about zero idea how those things work. I realise how this could earn me negative points.

 

Do you know how to operate a computer?

Ever since I was like… five, or something. This is the twenty-first century, after all.

 

What is your favourite book?

Weird for a coffee shop app, but okay. It’s Pride and Prejudice. I know that’s a bit cliché, but what can you do? Sue me.

 

Why is it your favourite book?

Still weird, but you know what? I’m properly invested by now.

I guess it’s because Lizzie’s got some serious spunk and doesn’t let anyone tell her what’s what. I can almost hear a myriad of year eleven lit teachers just stop whatever it is they’re doing in their daily life and give me a standing ovation for that truly beautiful piece of text analysis.

I do have to say that I have other skills.

Even if none of those skills are actually making coffee. So there’s that.

 

What type of coffee would you pair with reading your favourite book?

Um. Cappuccino, I suppose? I can’t say I’ve been all that bothered with what I put inside my mouth back when I was working at Foster’s but back then it didn’t matter if it was either filter or instant coffee or even Redbull as long as it got the job done and kept the sleep at bay for yet another deadline.

I have to say that ever since I’ve come to Rome I have been treating myself to caffeine that has actually seen a coffee bean at least once in its life, so that’s progress. And I have become partial to the occasional cappuccino. Some of the locals have been giving me weird looks for asking for one after lunch, though. Did you know that it’s frowned upon to have one any later than breakfast here?

Of course you know, you own a bloody coffeeshop in Rome.

What gives, though? It’s good coffee. Why not drink it after dinner? Makes absolutely zero sense.

 

Do you have any allergies? 

None that I know of. Who the hell fills the app form for a café if they have any allergies?

I mean, I suppose the job description isn’t just sit behind the till looking pretty.  So I imagine there’ll be a lot of handling ingredients out back.

 

Do you bake? This job does not entail any actual baking, but there are moments when the days are slow upfront and when our wonderful chief baker, Maggie, could use a helping hand.

Never baked anything to save my life, save for when I once tried to surprise my roommate with birthday fairy cakes that ended up more like carbonised biscuits.

I do know how to make a mean sandwich, though. Have lived off them for the better part of my Uni years and, I have to admit it, a couple of years after that. There is absolutely no one who could beat me at my sandwich game, hands down.

 

Do you plan on living in Rome for long? This coffee shop is an outlier in the Eternal City, and I don’t tend to have residents apply for the job. We are quite fond of each other, and have become somewhat  of a family here at Espressos of Love. So it is rather important for us that any new employees plan to stay with us for some time..

I can’t say that I’ve given it any serious thought. I mean, definitely not here for a summer job. I see myself living here for at least the oncoming – one year, two years? Something like that.

I haven’t thought about what I would do afterwards. Hell, if the pay is good and the hours are not architecture firm hours, I don’t see why I wouldn’t stay here for a while. Getting to see the sights in my free time. Sketch a bit if the weather holds. And who are we kidding, it always holds here. It's downright refreshing to not have it rain four times a day or get winter in the mornings, summer at noon and autumn in the afternoon all in the span of one day. 

Hell, if I stay here for a bit I might even get to understand what the whole cappuccino debacle is all about, and I’ve always been quite the curious sod, me.

 

What made you decide to live in Rome? Seeing as most applicants will  likely be foreigners from the United Kingdom.

Who is to say that I am not some eccentric Italian who wants to work in a place where everything you serve in terms of dessert are trifles, tarts and apple crumble? Hmm? That could be an option.

I could also want to get the novel experience of chatting about the weather four times a day or scoff whenever someone mentions the Tories or listen to a rant when Brexit is so much as implied. Who knows? Don’t be reductive like that. People might actually start queuing up for all of that quality entertainment. Even if queuing is something so inherently British that you might want to educate the locals about how much we all use it as a national sport.

Sorry. I was obviously pulling your leg there.

I realise that I haven’t painted myself as an all in all nice person in this form here. It’s just that, well, I don’t necessarily have much of a filter, and I thought it best to get it over with from the very beginning and not have to pretend to be someone else for a whole month of trial period.

As for your actual question.

I’ve always wanted to revisit Rome.

Sure. I didn’t have any idea that I would be able to put so much money aside to actually say darn it all and book a flat and actually end up living here in my early thirties, but here we have it.

I’m sure that I would bore you to bits were I to go into any detail about the perfect proportions of Piazza Navona or how I feel my knees nearly giving in when I step foot inside the Pantheon (and trust me, they do, I’ve been there like ten times and I had a hard time unsticking my jaw from the floor every time I visited), or how the way the stone pines sway in the wind makes all the ruins in the Forum spring to life, how everything looks golden and almost ethereal in the late afternoon sun when it catches the Capitoline hill just right, how peaceful it is to wander around Piazza di Spagna at two a.m. when there’s no one on the streets anymore, all them pesky tourists being in bed already – he says, as a pesky tourist himself.

Sorry for the rant. Sort of comes with the territory. Or, it would, if all my former colleagues would actually appreciate history. 

I’ve been to Tivoli thrice and to Ostia once and have taken the Frecciarossa every other weekend to visit whatever I could. Walked the Via Appia up and down so many times in the same day that I got blisters on my soles. In case you ever want to try it – I really don’t recommend sandals.

Okay, shit. Sorry. Rant over.

Point is.

Rome’s amazing. In case you, as a fellow countryman who decided to live and open a business here, haven't realised that already.

 

Do you have any final thoughts to impart?

I mean – probably… hire me?

I know I am severely underqualified. But I’m a hard worker. And can make a mean sandwich, like I said.

And I can probably learn enough broken Italian to shout at people in the street to come and visit your shop in a very cringe fashion. I’m sure people will cross the street and avert their gazes in order to avoid me.

All of them prime attributes for any would-be employee-of-the-month, I’m telling you.

 

Anthony J. Crowley

(details attached in the C.V.)

Chapter 2

Notes:

I hope you're ready for some ✨pining✨

🩵 scully

5 March 2025

Dearest,

Today began typically enough. Early to rise for the opening shift. I always enjoy the camaraderie, preparing for the day. Except there’s nothing that could have adequately prepared me for this day. 

I haven’t had one like it in a long time, because I’m always planning, always worrying about every eventuality. My days are also not all that different from one another. You see, I live alone, have done for nearly a decade now, and I have my routines. 

Structure. Let’s put it that way. I enjoy structure and predictability. 

At least I think I do, until something happens that shakes my foundation. 

But I shan’t get ahead of myself. Let me begin with the dull part so that you can begin to understand my state of upheaval. 

I always wake before the sun. It doesn’t mean I am functioning at full capacity, at least not until I get to the shop and have my first dose of caffeine for the day. Therefore, I make my eggs and toast in a drowsy state of half-awareness. I eat it in a slightly more alert mood, and then I put on the same clothes I always wear.

Muriel says I’m like an animated character because I have a closet full of the same tan slacks and light blue collared shirts. I’m comfortable in them, and it’s not unusual for cafe workers to have a uniform. Mine actually don’t have to keep to any particular dress code beyond a business casual that is not distressed or torn. 

I am the only employee who has a uniform, and it is of my own making. I put myself in a glass box. I set my own limits, and I keep others at a friendly distance. It’s not that I want that. It’s only that I no longer remember how to get out of here.

I think you would know; you’re already tapping on the glass, and it’s only been one day. How do you do that to me when no one else even notices the box? That’s how it was before, too. You walked right past all of my defenses like it was nothing, like they weren’t even there. 

It’s like you belong in my life, and the universe won’t let me say no.

The interview was scheduled for after the morning rush. There’s this lull after that, a tiny island of peace that we spend wiping the counters, restocking and, on that day, holding interviews. 

I’ll be honest. I didn’t have high hopes for yours. It’s not you. I’ve been trying to fill this position for some time now, and no one who applies seems to have any sense. Forgive me, but that repeated disappointment had left me as bitter as espresso grounds at the bottom of a full bin bag. 

I would normally have helped prepare for the next wave of customers, but because I had an interview, I retired to my tiny office in the back and let my staff handle it. 

I was rereading your application letter, and it made me smile. I was still grinning when Anathema knocked on the door to tell me you were here. 

“You’re smiling,” she said. There was something sad about her expression, and I didn’t like that. It twisted my guts and tasted like pity. “It looks good on you. You should do it more often.”

“I’ll make arrangements for that post-haste,” I replied. 

Anathema is a good friend, as much as I can say that for one of my staff. She doesn’t quite fit in if you consider the fact that she’s American, but we’re all of us misfits. In that regard, she’s right at home.

“You’re going to be smiling even wider after this interview,” Anathema said, smirking. Then she opened the door and looked out into the cafe. “He’s hot."

“Oh, please, dear. I don’t hire people based on their appearance. That really is unprofessional.”

“I’m talking about looking at him, not about hiring him. I think his pants are painted on.”

“You’ve seen his pants?" I exclaimed, forgetting for a moment about her Americanisms. “Oh, right, you mean his trousers."

“Aziraphale. You’re missing the point, possibly on purpose.” Here she narrowed her eyes at me. “I’m telling you he’s got an amazing jawline, distinguished nose, and long, wavy red hair. He looks like he should be on the cover of one of your romance novels.”

“I—”

“Don’t say you don’t read romance novels. I’ve seen them in the top drawer of your desk, and I’m telling you. Your jaw is going to drop. If you don’t hire him you absolutely have to ask him out.”

She really wasn’t giving me any chances to defend myself.

“And if I do hire him?”

“Hm, I guess you can’t ask him on a date then, huh?” she said, not sounding convinced. “Always exceptions to rules, though, aren’t there?”

I scowled at her. She deserved it. “What do you want more, someone to help out around here or a date for your boss?”

“Tough call, boss. Glad I don’t have to make it,” the cheeky witch said. Once you get to know her, you’ll understand. That’s how she is. “Should I send him in? I’m telling you, you’ve never seen a guy who looks like this.”

But I have. I had. I—

I never thought I’d see your face again. We were kids then, but you looked—you look—so much the same. A little more seasoned, perhaps, but equally as beautiful as you were then. 

No. More beautiful. 

I was struck dumb by the sight of you. All the air left my lungs, and I could barely draw more. I’m lucky, endlessly lucky, that I wrote down my interview questions, because I wouldn’t have remembered a single one of them without those notes. I couldn’t, not when you smiled, and the charm dripped from your canines. Not when you shook my hand and my spine tingled and sparked. 

If you were touching me then it meant you were real, and not one of the many fantasies I’ve had over the past twenty years. 

Anthony.

Please tell me you remember that summer.

I couldn’t ask, couldn’t get the words out, and I kept hoping you’d say it first, that you’d say you remembered me, too. I was hoping I wasn’t alone. 

But you remained professional, and I understand that. Any flirting was the kind we all engage in when we’re hoping to charm someone in a position of power. Necessary, and not directed at me as a person but at me as your potential employer. 

I don’t need to tell you how our conversation went, how we joked and laughed about the questions. I don’t need to tell you that when the question of your favourite book came up you were able to produce it from the satchel propped up against the uncomfortable chair I always drag into my office for interviews. 

All of those questions, and I didn’t need to ask them. I only wanted to keep you sitting across from me as long as possible, to see the way your eyes crinkled when I said something unintentionally funny. I wish I were funnier, selfishly, so I could see that joy more often.

I need to know that you remember me. It’s a burning, all-consuming need, now that you’ve gone home, and I’m alone in my flat above the coffee shop. Why couldn’t I just muster up the courage to say, “Pardon me, but do you remember a certain summer in Rome, twenty years ago?”

I may be older and softer and stuck in this glass box of my own creation, but my hair is the same bright blond fluff you used to compare to dandelions. Do you remember sitting down next to me on the bench in the museum that first day?

I remember the way your fingers wrapped around the slight curl at the edge of the seat when you said, “Hi, I’m Ants. Well, that’s what my little sister calls me, and it stuck. Anthony.” And when I didn’t say anything—I was so shy in those days—you kept talking. “You look lonely,” you added. And I was. My older cousins had ditched me, snuck around the corner and left me behind. 

You saw right through me. Then you walked the museum with me, pointing out all of your favourite pieces and telling me what you liked best about them. 

When we’d been through the whole museum and my cousins still hadn’t returned, you insisted on walking me back to my uncle’s house. Then you invited me to another museum the next day, and all I could do was smile and nod. 

Eventually I did talk to you. But I didn’t say a word that first day, and you didn’t seem to mind. That, in itself, was a kindness.

I suppose I was struck by that same shyness today, seeing you after all these years. I couldn’t be silent, so instead I kept to my script, read my questions and barely listened to your answers. I was so taken in, exactly as I was back then. You have this… presence about you. I’m drawn into your orbit. It’s gravity.

Here you are again, and I can’t move away.

I confess I don’t know what I’m going to do now that I’ve hired you. Chances are an attractive man like you has a spouse or a lover or several of those. As your employer I certainly cannot ask. What have I done?

Can I confess something else? The only question on the application that really counts is the answer to the favourite book. I read the others, yes, but the book is the one that matters. As far as I was concerned, you were hired before I even saw you. 

Before I remembered that you're a planet, and I am destined to be your moon.

Notes:

Don't forget to give Chap's amazing art some love on Tumblr 🩵

Chapter 3

Notes:

🧝‍♀️ elf here again

Sorry it's gonna take a while for Crowley to match Aziraphale in terms of pining, but there you have it, folks.
The pining is definitely there, it's just that one of them is a bonafide poet at heart and one of them is a disaster noodle who can't string two sentences together 🤷‍♀️

04.03.2025 

10:17

Speech to text.

Notes.

Oranges. Two. More than that and I feel like it’d be the end all cure for all scurvy.

Tomatoes. Some. You can’t live in this here country and not buy tomatoes. Even if they do initially come from the colonies.

Did I know that up until like a month ago? Absolutely nope. Tomatoes are not a Roman dish and never were.

Anyway.

Grocery list.

Some pasta. Obviously.

Those cannoli that I could kill someone for over from the bakery around the corner.

I feel like I should say bread at some point, but there is no point to bread in general, no matter how tasty it is.

Tons of coffee for the French press.

Hehe. French.

As in not very Italian.

Um. What else.

Whatever else.

Asparagus! That seems to pop up on all of my searches.

Expensive as fuck,, but…

When in Rome?

 

05.03.2025 

18:24

Speech to text.

Notes. 

What the fuck?

And I do mean what the actual fuck.

Out of all the coffeeshops you land in mine, or whatever that quote said.

How is it that I got to see the fucking angel again?

Fuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuck meeeeeeeeeeeeeeee.

Or don’t.

Your choice.

Mine would definitely be the first.

How the hell hadn’t I realised that the angel would be my new employer to be?

He’s even more bitable now than when he was a teen.

Eugh, Siri, scratch that.

That made me sound like a pervert.

He is, though.

I could sink my teeth in him.

Fuck’s…. you know what, delete this.

 

05.03.2025 

22:05

Speech to text.

Notes.

Note to self: They have a Carravaggio exhibit this month. Maybe let’s not forget about that and actually go for once.

Chapter 4

Summary:

Aziraphale's thoughts are getting steamy, and they're not even making coffee yet...

Notes:

Poor guy can't sleep. Send help!

🩵 scully

6 March 2025

My Dearest,

I am unable to sleep. I’ve wanted so badly to keep a journal for many years now, but I’ve found that recording the mundane, day-to-day events of life to be wholly uninteresting and abandoned the hobby. 

Now I’m awake in the middle of the night, thinking of things I forgot to say and feeling compelled to write them down. 

Pretending to write letters to you started as a thought experiment, something to get my feelings about seeing you again down on paper and out of my mind, but I rather like it. And it’s not as if you’ll ever see these “letters,” so I am free to say whatever I please. It’s freeing. Therefore, I shall continue to dedicate this diary to you. 

I have so much to tell you. 

I’m sorry I wasn’t able to return to Rome the following summer. I know I mentioned that it had been my family’s tradition for many years to stay with my uncle and cousins, and perhaps you were expecting… I always wondered if you returned to look for me, and I felt guilty. If only I’d given you my address in London.

My mother and uncle had a falling out, you see. I never fully understood what happened, but they both passed away without reconciling. In any event, we were not invited to Italy that next summer or any subsequent summer. 

As I am, apparently, in the habit of making confessions here, allow me one more? Or several? 

I often think back fondly on our time together. It was one of the most wonderful periods of my youth... and probably my life up until now. Although that is not the confession I set out to make. That is as follows:

I moved to Rome because of you. It’s silly, I know. It’s not as if I should have expected to meet you here. For all I knew, you went home and never came back to Italy again. But all my memories of you are here. 

I’ll admit I opened a business and built a life for myself in this city in part because of you. But it’s not nostalgia that makes me stay. Rome is a gorgeous place with rich history, beautiful art, and wonderful food. I could go on. But that’s not what’s keeping me up at night. You are.

You see, I had never you were the first person I ever touched in that way, the first person to touch me, other than myself. 

As I certainly hope you remember, after that first day I opened up, came out of my shell, as it were, and talked to you. We became fast friends in the way that only happens in youth and is accelerated by temporary, intense proximity. 

I told you things I had never told anyone before, because I knew you’d never reveal them to anyone. You hated my cousins as much as I did, and we had no one else in common. But, beyond that, I trusted you instantly and wholly. I still do.

Being with you created fantasies I have carried with me all these years. I still often imagine the press of your hard length against mine when I take myself in hand. I hear the sounds we made together, the echoing of our moans and our ragged breathing. 

What I remember the most, however, are the things you whispered to me, and the way you pushed me up against that wall.

Thinking about it already has me half hard in my trousers. What would you do if you were here with me now? I often reminisce about how your mouth felt on me.

I think I’ll handle your training in the shop myself. I can show you how to grind and froth and steam… and then maybe I’ll show you something about making coffee. That is, if we don’t get too distracted. If you don’t bend me over the table in the storage room and make a complete mess of me. I suppose I can still show you a thing or two, time permitting. 

If you did, however, decide to take me in the storage room of my own shop, during business hours? After we closed shop for the day? What would I do? Would I be obligated, as your employer, to put a stop to the proceedings immediately? 

Perhaps in reality. But this, this is not reality. These are the ramblings of a lonely, desperate man, one who has loved the same young man for all this time, even as he, outside my purview, grew into an adult. I have trouble reconciling the image of those boys—whom I have repeatedly reminded myself no longer exist—with the people we’ve become. The version of you that I knew then, he never actually existed in the first place, did he? That boy was a figment of my imagination. 

He was in my head.

He touched me—wanted me, maybe—and I left.

How could he have loved me? How could you?

Chapter 5

Notes:

🧝‍♀️ elf again.

Let's get a bit of backstory about our boi Crowley, too :D

06.03.2025 

20:13

Speech to text.

Notes.

I think that this might have been the push that I needed to actually go and look for a flat.

Cause, lemme tell you, that AirBnB wasn’t cheap.

But it felt like too much of a commitment to rent something before getting a proper job.

Not that I know if it’s going to stick or anything.

But a bloke can hope, eh?

If anyone’s going to bollocks it up it’s definitely gonna be me since it’s been established a while ago that Aziraphale's a right proper angel.

But, hey, maybe I’ll actually get it right for once in my fucking life.

The flat’s nice enough.

Small.

But nice.

Have to climb up five flights of stairs, but it’s no-one’s fault but my own for wanting to live in something historic.

My Italian is… well, none-existent would be putting it nicely, but the landlady was considerate enough to put up with my half English - half whatever sign-language that was.

Managed to get her point across when it came to her views on partying, smoking, pets, and lady visitors.

The point being that she wasn’t that keen on any of them.

I saw no reason to object on the first three and no reason to correct her on the last one.

Somehow, I don't think the lady part was the issue in the whole “lady visitors” bit.

So, yeah, it’s small and it’s a bit of a climb and the water pressure is nothing to write home about.

Absolute hell to get the conditioner out of my hair.

As for writing home about…

Mum seemed wary but accommodating when I told her that I decided to throw my life away and “go find myself”.

She kept smiling but it was a tight-lipped smile.

She’s probably convinced that I’ll be back in six months flat with my tail between my legs.

And Bee… well…I could never tell with Bee.

They have been giving me shit for years now about the deadlines and the long hours.

So I thought they’d be a little more supportive.

But all I got was a grunt and a - “I’m not letting you sleep on my sofa when this crashes and burns.”

They did amend that with: “give it your best shot, you wanker” - so I think the jury is still out on that front.

 

06.03.2025 

20:17

Speech to text.

Notes.

Although, to be fair, it might not have been the best time to call if Dana’s whole “would you just hang up, you tosser, I was just about to make your sibling see God” was anything to go by.

It didn’t help that Bee felt the need to add that they don’t even believe in God.

I still don’t see how it’s my fault that they answered their phone if they were…ugh… otherwise engaged.

I mean, Dana’s a hoot and everything, but I feel I’d be better off not knowing all of THAT about someone I’ve known since they were in nappies.

 

06.03.2025 

20:27

Speech to text.

Notes.

The talking helps, even if Siri’s not the chattiest conversationalist.

 

06.03.2025 

20:31

Speech to text.

Notes.

That must sound completely pathetic, but it really does help.

It gets awfully quiet otherwise.

Sure, the city that never sleeps et al. But it still feels quiet if I don’t count the voices in my head.

 

06.03.2025 

21:46

Speech to text.

Notes.

I thought this was a huge mistake as soon as I landed at Fiumicino.

It’s one thing to decide to have a full blown mid-life crisis at thirty six and a bit of a different thing altogether to find yourself with just a carry-on in another country while you hear announcements on the airport speakers in a language you just then realise you don’t understand outside of asking for coffee, saying thank you, and maybe a dozen swearwords that stayed with you ever since you were sixteen because what else are you gonna learn when you’re sixteen if not that?

06.03.2025 

21:54

Speech to text.

Notes.

Meeting the angel again must have reshuffled the chemistry of my brain because I’ve felt like I was treading water for almost a month now, and somehow, I don’t anymore.

Somehow, being here, in a foreign country with basically the clothes off my back and the smallest suitcase known to man doesn’t feel so daunting anymore.

It feels, in a weird way, like coming home.

[clears throat]

Anyway.

That’s dumb.

I’m dumb.

But what else is new.

I should maybe… yeah.

Let’s stick to grocery lists and memos about museums and the like.

For fear of it otherwise reading as “Anthony J. Crowley’s, failed architect and general embarrassment's sad ole memoirs”.

Yeah.

Maybe let’s do that.

 

07.03.2025 

22:07

Speech to text.

Notes.

They’re doing a rendition of Caesar and Cleopatra at that theatre. Which theatre was it? Siri, which theatre? Siri, for fuck’s sake….

I really don’t get why I have to let Google invade all of my privacy if it’s not in the least productive.

Siri!

 

09.03.2025 

18:07

Speech to text.

Notes.

Ugh, cantuccini. Some mosquito spray. Bread because, you know… ugh… bread. I suppose I’ll just have to embrace that aspect of living here now.

And maybe like olive paste? Always wanted to try that.

Chapter 6

Summary:

Crowley's first day at the coffee shop.

Notes:

Aziraphale has no chill, even when standing in the walk-in fridge.

🩵 scully

10 March 2025

Dear Crowley,

Today was your first day. Were you nervous? I was nervous. My barber recently recommended a new cologne, and I’m still not certain about it now. I hope I didn’t apply too much. You smelled like sandalwood, at least before we started grinding coffee for hours on end. Then the smell of it mingled together with the scent of you.

You probably weren’t nervous. You always have this casual, nonchalant air about you that I admire immensely. 

Except when you trip over a bag of coffee beans and nearly topple over. Serves you right for trying to carry so many things at once. Were you thinking you’d impress someone? It was only the two of us there in the back room, tantalisingly close together.

I’m proud of myself for keeping calm around you, for not asking you a thousand questions.

Perhaps I should’ve. I’m no longer entirely certain what the correct course of action is anymore when it comes to you. I tried the professional approach, and all it did was make me yearn. 

I showed you each process: the grinding, the brewing, the frothing, the steeping. You kept your eyes on me the entire time. Eager and attentive and all it did was make me wish you were watching me for another reason. 

When I passed you the frothing pitcher, our fingers brushed, and the feeling was similar to static electricity. I couldn’t tell if you felt it, too, because you stayed focused on your task, whipping that milk into a frenzy as quickly and easily as you’ve done to me.

I’m not sure if I can do this, to be honest. I’m not sure I can stand next to you every day and act like I don’t want you. I did it today, and it left me exhausted to wear that mask for so many hours. 

It was most difficult when you waltzed into my office, hours later. 

I’d left you alone with Muriel since you seemed to pick up on everything I taught you so quickly, like you didn’t need my instruction at all. But then you came in looking confused and asked me to point you in the direction of the refills of almond milk. I could have told you the exact location in the walk-in refrigerator—left side, third shelf from the top—but I didn’t. No, I rose from my chair and motioned for you to follow me.

The whole way to the back room, which isn’t far but felt like miles, I felt your eyes on my back. It made me warm, and in that moment, though it was fleeting, I sensed that you knew exactly who I was, that you remembered me. As I write this I’m not certain you do, but in the moment I knew it as fact. I felt it. 

As they tend to be, the refrigerator was cold, and it shocked me back to reality. You’re my employee, but you’re not mine. We don’t belong to one another or with one another. I don’t know you, and you don’t know me. So I pointed and turned and left you there. I’m not sure why I went along in the first place. I’m not sure why you followed or what you did after that, because I shut myself in my office and stayed there until everyone was gone.

The place really runs itself without me these days anyway.

Notes:

Look at this gorgeous sketch by Chap! 😍

Chapter 7

Notes:

🧝‍♀️ elf again

Crowley seriously needs to get a grip. Especially while out in public.

09.03.2025 

21:27

Speech to text.

Notes.

Pantheon guided tour. On Thursday at 11 am.

 

09.03.2025 

22:03

Speech to text.

Notes.

Shoot. I’ll be working on Thursday. Like a proper sodding adult. So no Pantheon guided tour for me.

Not like I haven’t been there more than twenty times already.

Might be able to pull it off on a Saturday?

Ugh. It’s gonna be chockfull of tourists if I go on a Saturday.

Really can’t stand the bastards.

[clears throat]

He says… as a tourist.

 

09.03.2025 

22:15

Speech to text.

Notes.

It’s good, though.

Getting a job and everything.

The less I elaborate about why this makes me feel so giddy, the better, all things considered.

It’s just that I…

Nope. Nuh-uh. Not going there.

We have talked about this, Anthony Josephine Crowley.

Yup. Let’s go for that.

Having Bee’s voice inside my head always seems to do the trick when more amorous thoughts spring to mind.

Nothing works better, save a cold shower, than imagining Bee calling me a number of names, starting with Jennifer and ending with Jacqueline and giving me that scowl of theirs that makes me feel guilty for even imagining holding someone’s hand.

Not that the thoughts hadn’t veered very far away from just holding the angel’s hand.

But, I mean… holding his hand again would be nice, wouldn’t it?

We seemed to be doing that a lot back in the day.

Well… we did plenty of other stuff too, but… ugh. Snap out of it, you utter tosser!

 

10.03.2025 

18:53

Speech to text.

Notes.

Is it THAT problematic to ask your boss out for drinks?

I mean.

It is.

Obviously.

Fuuuck me…

Again, let’s not go there.

But maybe drinks like… in a friendly way?

In that particular friendly way one does when it comes to someone who you’d pinned against the nearest possible wall countless times and who’s literally had their tongue inside you.

As one does.

Yeah, sure. 

Why not go: “Remember that one time you ate me out like Christmas dinner? Let’s do that again, but maybe this time we might end up getting some actual food inside you. But, maybe afterwards… who knows?”

 

10.03.2025 

19:19

Speech to text.

Notes.

I’m sure I must have scarred those biddies at the next table over for life.

Serves me right for being a downright embarrassment while out in public.

But, honestly, what the hell could I hope to gain by doing that?

I don’t even know if he remembers me anymore.

I mean… not that many ginger tossers out and about in Rome who can’t shut their trap about Roman architecture.

But I was more elbows and knees than anything else back then.

And it’s been twenty years…

 

10.03.2025 

19:40

Speech to text.

Notes.

The restaurant people are giving me the hairy eyeball.

I’m guessing them biddies must have said something.

Not my fault that they have been eavesdropping on something that was clearly a private conversation between me and my phone, now is it?

Still.

Better tip generously and just go.

Chapter 8

Notes:

A short one this time, from Crowley's second day on the job.

🩵 scully

11 March 2025

Dear Crowley,

The second day working with you was much better than the first. I only had to get out of my own head and stop being so dramatic. I’m allowed to act as though we’re friends. It doesn’t have to be awkward. I’m the sort of employer who has that kind of relationship with his staff. Friendly. Accommodating. I like to think so, at least. So the next day I spent some time out front, talking with the staff, of which you were one, and the regular customers. 

It was easier, better. I can do this, I think. It’s only a matter of putting myself in the right mind. 

Several of the regulars seem to like you. I knew that hiring another person from their homeland would make them feel even more comfortable. That’s my business model, really. The beverages are there to give the people something to spend money on, but what they return for is the atmosphere, the way they’re treated, how it makes them feel at home. 

You’re good at making people feel at home, making them feel wanted. 

You certainly make me feel wanted.

Chapter 9

Summary:

Crowley rescues Aziraphale from an uncomfortable interaction with a customer.

Notes:

CW: implied unwanted advances from a customer. He does not touch anyone or make any inappropriate comments in this chapter, but it is implied that he has done so in the past.
--
Yeah, that's right, we have two Aziraphale entries in a row. You didn't think it was strictly alternating, didya? 😉

🩵 scully

04 April 2025

Dear Crowley,

You truly make every workday better simply by being there. Although you don’t like to admit it, I think you actually enjoy interacting with most patrons. I know you would not appreciate it if I brought this to your attention, but as you will not read these, I can say it here.

It comes naturally for you to joke with people, to poke fun at them in ways that won’t hurt their feelings, ways that encourage them to poke you back in the same way. You put on a show for them, entertain them with your banter and the way you swing your hips around as you prepare their drinks. Already I can see you developing a following. Some regulars return for specific members of staff. Nina comes to see Maggie. Erik to visit Muriel. 

It’s innocent fun, I assure you. If anyone treated my employees badly, tried to cross their boundaries, I’d see to them. I’d give them a talking to and send them on their way with the understanding that they’re not to return.

The young women especially seem to have taken to you.

It’s been a couple of weeks, and a lot of them stand at the counter and watch you as you work. Come to think of it, most people do, excepting the men who fancy themselves completely and utterly straight. They sit in their seats and watch you, convinced it’s less obvious. If anything, it’s more apparent.

I know they do because I watch them to keep my eyes off of you. It’s strictly off-limits to ogle you when anyone else is present. It should be forbidden to ogle you at all, but I am only human after all. I spare myself a look here and there if we’re in the back, something to sustain me. Something for me only, when I’m alone at home. 

All that is to say that business is booming with you making the drinks. You’re less… personable when I have you at the till, so I’ve learned to keep you busy with the machines. There, you come alive, especially when the music is upbeat. I’ve made it a point to play more of those kinds of songs, even though they’re not my cup of tea, so that I can experience the secondhand joy of seeing you happy.

But I digress. I sat down with the intention of recording today’s events. You see, I have my own admirers as well. I’m not so tucked away in the world of my office that I am not aware of it. Usually the older women fancy me. We have things in common to talk about, literature and the like, but they also like it when I roll my sleeves up. 

Perhaps I wouldn’t have noticed if Anathema hadn’t pointed it out, but she did. As a result, I have leaned into it. I’ve found it brings more repeat customers, so if I come out to help during a rush, I roll them up. 

Unless Mr Brown is there. On those days, whoever else is on staff will alert me to his presence so I can duck away, unseen and unbothered. Today, however, as Muriel had been under the weather, it was only you and I, and you didn’t know about Mr Brown. He hasn’t been in for some time, you see. 

You might ask why, if I’d chase off anyone else, I haven’t run him off, too. It’s not for lack of trying. He seems to like it when I get cross with him, actually. Doing so, then, does not provide the desired result. He comes back more often when I tell him not to, laughing and making a joke of it. 

Therefore, I keep my replies short and bright and don’t let him get under my skin.

You noticed it right off, didn’t you? You didn’t miss the sharp edge of my voice when I said, “Good afternoon, what can I get you?” Nor did you miss the one-word answers after that. 

I attempted to shoo him to the end of the counter to wait for his coffee, but he stood there trying to chat me up as I continued to help the long line of patrons that went nearly to the door. The busy hour is no time to chat, and I told Mr Brown so in as few words as possible. 

But Mr Brown has the social understanding of a doorstop. There’s no getting through to him. He leaned over the counter until I could nearly feel the heat of his breath on my face, and I nearly cracked. I’m not sure what I would’ve done, but I didn’t have to find out. 

You were there in a second, holding a steaming paper cup in his face.

“Here you are,” you said gruffly. “I think you’d better take it and get out.”

“I didn’t order it to go,” Mr Brown huffed, but you were having none of that. You stood your ground, rescuing me from him most gallantly. 

“Yes, you did. Get. Out.”

I didn’t think it would work, honestly. I thought he would laugh in your face, but he smiled and took the cup. He walked out with a minimum of fuss, and I’m still not sure how you did it. Several regulars actually clapped and cheered when the door closed behind him. 

You’re a wonder, truly. I’ve never seen anything like it. I’m not sure what I said, if anything, because we still had a long rush to work through.

By the end of it, you were pink and sweaty. Your hair was ruffled, sticking out at all angles like you’d been tugging it in frustration. Maybe you had. I had my back to you for most of it, focused as I was on the queue. Your apron was splattered with all manner of stains, and you had something on your cheek. I wanted to wipe it off. I leaned in to do so, raising my arm before I remembered myself and lowered it. 

Chapter 10

Notes:

🧝‍♀️ elf

Have some silly Crowley shenanigans to counteract all of that delicious Azi pining.

19.04.2025 

14:07

Speech to text.

Notes.

Note to self: I am obviously not terribly good at baking anything, but I feel that –

The fuck are you doing?

Oh, come off it, book-girl. You aren’t any better than me when it comes to baking!

I’m talking about you recording stuff.

Recording what.

Well, this, for starters.

This.

What the hell is the mic on for -

Oh, for Heaven’s sakes, I –

[static playing]

 

19.04.2025 

14:22

Speech to text.

Notes.

My friend and colleague, book-girl over here, felt the need to fuck up my recordings.

Didn’t I just?

She very much did.

She’s a pest.

[static playing]

 

22.04.2025 

16:44

Speech to text.

Notes.

I am looking at the angel and I have a lot of impure thoughts.

Oh, wow. Such a shocker. You know you're not being all that subtle, right?

Anathema, shut the fuck up!

[static playing]

 

23.04.2025 

19:42 

Speech to text.

Notes.

Pesto. But Pesto rosso this time. Bread, obviously. Some olive oil. And fresh scampi.

 

24.04.2025 

22:21

Speech to text.

Notes.

I should probably tell him stuff, right?

Like how I’d like to hold his hand and stare at those dimples in his cheeks for hours. Or maybe… okay. Not that. Defo, not that. I don’t want our lord and master Siri to know this titbit of info about me. I feel that it knows far too much anyway. At least I suppose it didn’t know this bit.

The one bit where I imagine Aziraphale’s head thrown back. Him moaning my name. His skin feeling all but silken underneath my palms. Jesus, Crowley, get it together…

 

26.04.2025 

18:06

Speech to text.

Notes.

Ugh, maybe jot a date down for when you want to go and see the Caravaggio exhibit, you tosser. For fear of missing it. Much like you did.

 

29.04.2025 

16:23

Speech to text.

Notes.

I have been banned from trying to speak Italian to the patrons.

I mean. Fair.

But still.

Anathema can go hang.

She’s not the boss of me.

Aziraphale actually said that he found my Italian “charming”.

Although, on second thought, that might just be angel code for “Crowley, please do be a dear and stop butchering this beautiful language, so”.

I still have a score to settle with book girl, though. 

I mean, suuuure, maybe I should stop my foray into foreign linguistics at “ciao” and be done with it.

But that doesn’t mean she gets to win this one.

It’s always been a guilty pleasure of mine to get her eye to twitch just so, ever since I started working here.

Heh. Bean a pleasure. Pffff.

Yeah.

Obviously I can’t speak Italian even if my life depended on it. But… oh, book girl…

I think I can pull puns.

Chapter 11

Notes:

🧝‍♀️ elf

two whole Crowley chaps in a row? what matter of tomfoolery even is this?

07.05.2025 

21:42

Speech to text.

Notes.

It’s been almost a full month now and honestly, I have no idea where all of that time went. It seemed to just fly by. 

And I don’t think that ever happened to me anytime before.

Well, maybe in Uni, but that was just because all of those all-nighters.

Didn’t know what day of the week it was, half the time. But I’m guessing that’s what happens when you live on Redbulls and protein bars for five days straight whenever there’s a deadline.

This wasn’t that. This was…

I dunno.

It felt nice.

Familiar. 

Even if I didn’t know any of the other people working here.

The angel is obviously a delight. But that’s just a given at this point.

But Ana, Muriel and Mags sort of just adopted me as if I was already a café fixture, not even two days in.

It’s nice to see that Aziraphale has surrounded himself with such amazing people. I mean… of course, it would make sense. Nice people seem to gravitate around him. 

Maybe they can somehow feel his inner goodness and just respond in kind.

Point is…

What was the fucking point anyway?

Point.

Is.

This feels more like home than London ever did.

I think I can see myself spending the rest of my life here.

And isn’t that a huge commitment, eh?

 

08.05.2025 

00:57

Speech to text.

Notes.

I’ve known th’ angel sinsshe I was a kid. Susssh a nice angel. Ev’n then.

I think I [hic] … think I love ‘im.

With ‘is pretty curls and the eyes and the… ugh… the dimples!

What’s up with those dimples?

They’sssh be illegal. 

Like. Acssshual jail time.

No one’s allowed to be that cute.

Maybe I should…

[glass clatter]

What the fuck was this?

Montepulciano.

Mmmm, ‘s a nice wine.

I should maybe - 

[glass clatter]

[static playing]

 

 

08.05.2025 

07:21

Speech to text.

Notes.

Note to self: no matter how good the wine is, maybe let’s not do like two whole bottles of it

Guuuuuuuuuuuh.

I think I can smell colours right now.

 

 

08.05.2025 

07:29

Speech to text.

Notes.

Listening back to whatever that was… wish I could smell fucking colours some more.

That was… ugh… beyond humiliating.

I feel like I definitely should delete that whole recording.

Although…

Might serve like a bit of a cautionary tale if I ever plan on starting on a second bottle ever again.

Just replay that whole - whatever that was - and then I’m sure it’d be teetotalling for me from that point onwards.

 

 

10.05.2025 

11:02

Speech to text.

Notes .

Brewing coffee is actually amazing. 

The repetitive motions help to make my brain quiet down for once.

And the smell is absolute bliss.

And to think I get to make people’s days even a tad better…

I know it’s not much, but to see them smiling at me as they inhale that divine scent of new grounds. It’s…

Well, it makes me want to respond with a smile of my own.

An actual genuine smile. Even if dealing with people had never been my forte. 

 

 

10.05.2025 

11:06

Speech to text.

Notes .

Aziraphale is also amazing, but then again, what else is new? He’s been amazing ever since he hired me. Hell, ever since he was sixteen. Fuck me.

Do you really want that?

Witch girl.. I swear to fucking -

I feel that you want that, though.

How do I turn this off? You know what? Mind your own fucking business, it’s not like -

[static playing]

 

 

17.05.2025 

15:07

Speech to text.

Notes .

He touched my arm today and called me dearest.

Touched it for like… more than anyone should have the right to do so. 

Like… more than five seconds.

Ngk.

Fuuuuuuuuck.

 

 

17.05.2025 

19:09

Speech to text.

Notes .

Okay. It’s evening and I’m at home now and book-girl can't start with her catty comments, so… what the fuck gives?

Can he do that?

He’s my boss for crying out loud!

I feel like he shouldn’t be able to do that, because if he does then.. Huh…

I mean…

Yeah, no. Better not go there for fear of whatever the fuck fucking Siri should imagine next.

I have been fighting a stiffy the whole day and that’s a fact…

Siri. Delete that. Or whatever it is you do.

 

 

22.05.2025 

15:32

Speech to text.

Notes .

I made him a sandwich today and all that I could think about was - what if I were to feed him from my palm for the rest of my life?

That’s not normal, is it?

I mean… he moaned when he first tasted it.

He never moans that much when he samples Angel Cake.

I checked.

Why the fuck did I check?

And Mag’s Angel Cake is a temptation incarnate.

That lady can bake a mean something something.

My sandwiches are whatever gets you through the day at best.

And yet.

He moaned.

He fucking -

He’d probably give you a long look and then start moaning, that guy -

The fuck! Bookgirl, I swear to fuck!

Eh. 

Also, no, my dude, that’s not fucking normal. You both either need to chill or to just fuck each other’s brains out. I’m okay with whatever as long as you don’t do it in the shop.

That way, at least the rest of us get some well deserved peace and quiet.

Peace and quiet?

Those lovelorn stares are louder than a thousand words. So yeah. Peace and fucking quiet. Maggie thinks it’s cute, but then again, Maggie’s a huge romantic at heart. Can’t all be perfect, I guess. But even Muriel noticed it. And I love Muriel with all my heart, I do, but they let stuff like this fly over their head all the time. It took me and Maggie half an afternoon and a rather well needed intervention to make them realize Erik is head over heels for them.

Erik? Really? Who would have guessed?

Oh, shut the hell up, you shit! You two are three times worse!

[static playing]

25.05.2025 

16:42

Speech to text.

Notes .

Bookgirl ain’t all that bad.

She came by and spent the last three hours with sad ole me.

She called me stupid at least five times but that’s not anything new…

She also said that - Aziraphale of all people - has a crush on me. Pssshhh, as if.

She tried to hint at it in the past, but now she just sat me down - all no-nonsense-like - and plain told me that the angel stays up at night because of me.

Which, doesn’t even make sense. He’s an angel. He could have anyone his heart desired.

 

 

25.05.2025 

20:19

Speech to text.

Notes .

But what if he does? What if Ana’s actually right instead of just pulling my leg?

Fuck me sideways.

What then?

 

 

25.05.2025 

20:20

Speech to text.

Notes .

What fucken then?

 

 

25.05.2025 

20:21

Speech to text.

Notes .

Oh, I am so thoroughly and utterly fucked…. 

 

 

28.05.2025 

10:13

Speech to text.

Notes .

I retract my words. Book girl is Satan’s spawn placed upon this Earth in order to end it and she deserves all of the “it’s a brew-tiful day” and “sip happens” that she definitely has coming her way.

Especially after those very suggestive eyebrow wiggles she sent my way in full view of all of them old ladies who come in on the daily and ogle the angel and spend their afternoons whispering all kinds of things to each other as they’re sneaking rather obvious looks at the two of us.

I don’t trust them.

And Ana’s not so subtle eyebrow choreography surely didn’t help.

I mean… the fact that I had been staring at the angel’s arse for more than ten minutes straight probably didn’t help either, but now she went and put thoughts into their heads.

And god only knows how dangerous their thoughts might end up being.

So I am blaming her on this one.

She may have won the “Crowley vs. Italian” battle and even the minor “Crowley close your effing mouth, flies are gonna fly in” skirmish. But she will not win the war.

Cause let me tell you that a war is a-brewing.

Chapter 12

Summary:

Aziraphale is done with professional distance. So done.

Notes:

Wish him luck.

🩵 scully

5 June 2025

Dear Crowley,

I’m not sure why I never thought of it before, but tonight I’m going to ask everyone if they would like to go out to the pub after work. It’s like asking you out for a drink, but it isn’t. It’s not a date. Perhaps we can finally talk. I’d like to ask you about that summer, but I don’t want it to be awkward. 

There’s not much time to talk at work, especially considering I am sometimes avoiding you. I don’t want to avoid you. It’s just easier than worrying I’ll blurt out the wrong thing. 

Given enough time with you, I will definitely blurt out the wrong thing. You’re so stunning. Your sharp jawline, your long, slender fingers, the way your legs seem to go on for miles at a time. The biteable slope of your neck. You look like you could twist into any shape, all of them sexy. I could bend you over anything. You could wrap your legs around my waist and your arms around my neck. 

I spend my days trying not to get distracted by you. I’m especially useless on delivery days when you inevitably end up moving things to fit them in the storage room. Bending over, standing up, reaching for things on the high shelves. There’s this sliver of skin that I can see when you raise your hands above your head. Depending on where I’m standing, I catch a glimpse of your stomach or your lower back. Either way, I can feel my face getting red. 

You have these dimples on your back, you know. I’m sure you’ve seen them in the mirror. I imagine my thumbs there, then it’s a short distance to imagining kissing your spine.

I keep getting ahead of myself. I can’t stop disappearing into a ridiculous fantasy. 

I’ve tried staying away, maintaining a professional distance. Maybe it’s time to try something else.

Notes:

More Aziraphale tomorrow.

Chapter 13

Summary:

The gang goes out for drinks.

Notes:

Timing matters.

🩵 scully

6 June 2025

Dear Crowley,

I was happy my idea actually worked, that when I asked everyone to drinks, you were among those who said yes. Anathema and Maggie also agreed. Muriel doesn’t drink. I tried to explain that Maggie doesn’t either, so that Muriel wouldn’t feel left out, but they still politely declined. Quite alright. 

When we first arrived at the pub, you sat next to Anathema and across from Maggie. As far away from me as possible, I noticed. We began the night listening to Anathema talk about her boyfriend. Gangly fellow. You had a lot of questions about him, mostly about his unique interactions with technology. I followed the conversation as best I could, but I often got distracted watching your lips move.

After a few rounds, Anathema turned to me and asked if I’d told you why I moved to Rome. Of course I hadn’t. I kept it simple, reminding her I moved to Rome because I fondly remembered spending summers here as a child. Your eyes darted to my face, and I’d had several glasses by then so I thought, why not?

“I met a charming young man the last summer I visited, actually,” I said, trying to look at you without looking directly at you. I’m not sure if I succeeded in not being seen, but you smiled, so I kept going. I didn’t reveal anything private, but I did tell her how he befriended me at the museum. Then I waited.

After an awkward pause, you stood up from the table, staring down at your buzzing mobile, and explained you needed to answer a call from your sibling.

I shouldn’t have let it bother me. It wasn’t your fault. That’s your family, after all, and for all I knew it could have been an emergency. Anathema must have noticed the change in my mood because she didn’t ask me to continue our conversation about that summer. She did, however, ask me if I was alright. I’m not sure if she was convinced by my answer, but she accepted it.

I am mature enough to admit that it did bother me, though. I don’t blame you for my own reaction, of course. It took a lot of courage for me to bring up the subject, and it felt rather like the universe was telling us no, like it was a sign that we weren’t meant to have the conversation yet. Writing it down now, it seems silly, but at the time I didn’t think so.

I decided to let the subject drop. If you brought it back up upon your return from your private conversation, then I would welcome it, but I wouldn’t be the one to do it. I’d already broached the subject once, and that was too much vulnerability for me in one night, especially with the others there. I was already feeling self-conscious. 

Your brief departure left me sobered and serious, and it only made sense to switch to drinking water for the rest of the evening. 

You didn’t mention anything about that summer upon your return to the table. Perhaps you were relieved by the interruption. Perhaps it really wasn’t meant to be.

Chapter 14

Notes:

🧝‍♀️ elf

Let's have a smidgen of Crowley ANGSTE with a soupçon of yearning. As it is only proper.

06.07.2025 

23:47

Speech to text.

Notes.

Bituvva... bittuva change in tone here, heh?

It's just that I... well... I feel that this is something that maybe I could tell you, angel. Probably SHOULD tell you, actually. 

That is, if I'd actually have the balls to do that.

Which, seeing as this is obviously a recording. I. Do. Not.

I think that...

[loud exhale]

I think something must have gone haywire tonight.

I don’t know what, but there was a moment when you started opening up and when I could see that youthful ease on your face and then I went to take a call from Bee and when I came back you were your old guarded self again. 

Or should I say your current, adult, guarded self.

Cause you were never like this back when we were kids.

And I know, I know I shouldn’t try and compare you to whoever you were back then.

Fuck, it’s been twenty years.

That’s been longer than how old we were back when we first met, for fuck’s sake.

Of course you’re not the same person anymore.

But that doesn’t mean that… mmmh...

What if I want to get to know this person too?

What if I want to know what made you put your walls up?

What if I want to take them all apart, brick by brick?

It would be… well, a bit vain and all in all wanker energy to think that might have anything to do with me but one can’t help but hope, eh?

[sigh]

God... even listening to myself say that out loud is just... massive twat vibes.

I don’t EVER want to be the reason why you think you must hide parts of yourself.

Because you should never.

Never fucking hide your beautiful self, angel...

I actually… heh.

Bee told me that I sounded like a smitten shite.

Well, shite… they had called me that before but the smitten part was new.

And if there’s anyone who knows me better than I know myself then that’s surely Bee.

Smitten, huh?

I mean...

Obviously.

You have no idea what a hard time they gave me after that summer. And why would you?

There I was, an infatuated knob and there YOU were...

You could have…

Could have had...

I’m sure people must have written whole sonnets about you.

Never mind getting a painting or twenty to your name, fucking glorious Botticelli that you are.

And you were saying stuff about how you met someone an eternity and a half ago and obviously I wanted to jump straight on that titbit, cause… I mean… I couldn’t get a better opportunity than that.

But of course Bee had to go and ruin… mmmmhm…

[loud exhale]

It's not Bee's fault.

It's not Bee's fault.

It's not...

[sigh]

It really isn't their fault, now is it?

This one is obviously on me.

Bee just wanted to check in. Make sure I wasn't - as they so sweetly put it - dead in a ditch, you absolute pillock, you.

Sweet of them, really. Melts my heart to see that they care.

And it's not as if Bee was to know that I've been waiting for you to broach that subject for like literally ages now.

Might have let it go to voicemail and just texted them later if I knew it was just a social call. 

Bee never calls so it might have well been a - someone's in the hospital - type of call. Or mum's house is on fire. Or that they finally adopted a dog. That's been established to be the one and ONLY reason they can call at whatever hour. Although, obviously it wasn't that. Cause we had agreed on video.

Point is, Bee never calls. Or, at least, never called back when I was in London.

They must be getting soft in their old age.

[pause]

I feel like I'm trying to come up with excuses.

Actually, I know I am.

To me. To you, angel. To... I don't even know at this point.

Thing is, I imagined the whole night going a bit differently than it did.

Maybe ending with teary confessions and soft kisses and scarring Ana and Mags for life if I ever mentioned what you got up to - and, heh, well... UP - in your younger days.

But something must have happened because when I came back you were...

You were SO sad, angel.

I wanted to...

Oh, I wanted to do so many things. 

But I didn't.

I had the opportunity to just smoothly admit that - of course I remembered, I just didn't want to mention it at first. For fear of it reading as - hey, remember when we used to shag like rabbits - how about that job then? 

Then it just sort of felt awkward to bring it up, I suppose.

What with all the, um, previously mentioned shagging bit, and all that.

And then poof! 

No more opportunity.

And it wasn't as if I could just blurt it out like that, willy-nilly, right?

Cause just plain on saying - you know, back in o' five I met this fucking angel...

This charming, smart, beautiful, glorious ANGEL who looked at me as if I'd hung the stars.

Who kissed my hand each time we saw each other like we were in a damn Jane Austen novel.

Who always leaned his head on my shoulder when I thought myself awfully ingenious to time our walks just so we'd always be in the perfect spot to watch the sunset together. Fucking sap that I was.

Who would always bring a book with him and read to me with his fingers carded in my hair. Just because I told him once that I loved the sound of his voice. Still do. You could read the ingredient list of the pastries in the shop for all I care and I'd still listen to you for hours on end.

Who's laugh sounded like windchimes and who's eyes sparkled like bloody gems and all that romantic bull that I haven't got the proper words for.

Cause it's always been you, angel. The one with all the words.

Yeah.

Well.

That doesn’t roll off the tongue that easily, now does it?

 

 

Chapter 15

Summary:

Crowley gets himself a journal.
It's a black Moleskine - in proper architect fashion (ex or otherwise)

Notes:

🧝‍♀️ elf again

I personally can't stand them - I feel that if something is so ridiculously overpriced, at least make it look nice. Which is why I always buy the overly decorated ones from Paperblanks.
Fun fact: part of this fic was actually written on one of those because I am one of those people who loves writing stuff down on paper. Have amassed quite a lot of them over the ages. They sit on my bookshelves and are insanely aesthetically pleasing.

Short fun facts about elf aside, all of my colleagues back in Uni swore by the Moleskin ones. And other than myself, I've never met another architect who doesn't love them. Quality of the paper, or something.

The twelfth of July, year of our Lord, twenty twenty five.

 

Apparently journaling is where it’s at.

I mean, Aziraphale seems to do it all the time and I suppose it is a good way to sort your thoughts out.

Never to mention that this way Book Girl can’t snoop on my ramblings.

And I guess it does feel nice to put pen to paper some more.

I might even try and do some sketches while I’m at it.

It feels like a shame to be in Rome and NOT sketch stuff down.

A crime, really.

Well, at least that’s easily solvable.

The thing with Aziraphale however is not.

I fixed the espresso machine today cause they had been struggling with it for hours until I came in. Took a couple of hours off in the morning to sort stuff out with my landlady. Didn’t know that there would be an emergency at work and the biddy couldn’t be arsed to come over until noon. 

Italians, I swear to god…

I mean, kudos to them for all of that dolce farniente bullshit, but noon?

I must have read somewhere that old folks wake up at dawn or some shit. Guess that doesn’t apply to people in this here country.

Anyway.

Sorted the coffee machine.

And Aziraphale smiled at me as if I announced the second coming of fucking Christ.

I swear my knees nearly gave in.

And that feels like very dangerous territory right there.

Cause, as previously stated: that man is my boss.

I can’t go there, can I?

I mean, I’m sure I can find a job elsewhere, but I sorta got attached to this bunch of misfits. Even book girl. To an extent.

And what if I ask him out and he politely refuses?

Then I am out of a job and utterly and completely devastated too.

So.

Best not.

Best focus on doing some sketches instead.

And not replay that angelic smile in my head over and over and over again.

That’s the way madness lies.

 

 

Notes:

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