Chapter Text
“No.” The barista crossed her arms; a gesture that would have any other customer decide to take their business elsewhere.
But Anthony J. Crowley was not any other customer. He glared at her. “And what’s that supposed to mean?”
“I’m not serving you six shots of espresso.” She returned the glare and, even though he would never admit it, Crowley actually admired her attitude. “It’ll give you a heart attack.”
“I’ll have you know that six shots of espresso is a very common drink,” Crowley lied. “It’s been my beverage of choice for years and I’ve never had a problem.”
“I don’t care,” the barista replied. “I’ll be happy to serve you but six shots . . . no. Out of the question.”
Crowley scoffed but the sound drowned in a small, polite “ahem” uttered directly behind him.
The barista looked over Crowley’s shoulder. “Be right with you, Mr. Fell.” She turned her attention back towards Crowley. “How about a double espresso?”
“Do I look like a bloke who settles for a double espresso?” Crowley shot back. “I asked for six shots. And I’m not leaving this line until you serve me what I’ve ordered.”
The barista sighed. “Look, I . . .”
“Ahem.”
The sound made Crowley’s scowl deepen. Honestly. Were everyone idiots? He considered turning around and tell the impatient bastard to stop ‘ahem-ing’ every other second when the bastard spoke.
“Nina.”
Crowley inhaled. Oh, bloody hell. One single word. One single word spoken in a voice so soft that you just wanted to wrap it around you like a warm, comfortable blanket.
Right. He would definitely have to turn around and look at the owner of that voice.
But no. Better not. That voice may very well belong to someone twice as ugly as Satan himself. Someone hideous. Someone who slithered out of someone’s basement, intent on devouring small children and puppies; someone . . .
. . . who, very politely, but with the air of someone used to being obeyed, now told the barista. “I suggest you serve Crowley what he ordered.”
The barista, Nina apparently, shifted her attention towards the owner of the voice. “Is this bloke a friend of yours?”
“An acquaintance,” the voice replied. He no longer sounded like someone who was used to people jumping to make his life easier. Instead his tone of voice strongly suggested that the mysterious stranger was smiling.
Right. Crowley should definitely turn around and see the face of someone willing to lie for him. And smile while they did. But he really didn’t want to. Simply because the face that went with that voice could so very easily be a disappointment.
But on the other hand . . . not seeing the face of someone who had made the barista shake her head and turn towards the espresso machine would definitely be uncool. And if there was anything Crowley tried very hard not to be . . . uncool was right at the top of his list.
He put a smile on his face. Not his good smile, but the smile reserved for strangers who thought that reading his blog gave them the right to ambush him when he was out and about, and turned around.
To a sight that made his mind implode.
Crowley was used to drinking six shots of espresso. It’d been his favorite breakfast drink for almost a year; or rather the drink he called breakfast; the drink that made his heart beat faster and made everything seem sharper and more manageable.
But the buzz created by six shots of espresso was nothing compared to seeing the man standing behind him.
He was definitely a stranger; not the acquaintance he claimed to be, and he was also, hands down, the most gorgeous man Crowley had ever seen. Broad shoulders, strong arms, a chest you could easily rest your head on and a waist that practically begged to be embraced. And while he was dressed as someone who had just stepped out of a Jane Austen themed party, it not only suited him, but enhanced his already considerable beauty.
His face was something you could stare at for hours; sensual lips, a curly blond cloud of hair and eyes the color of the most refreshing drink of water you could imagine.
And it didn’t stop there. Because he looked every inch like a man who smiled whenever someone said something nice to him. Which Crowley definitely hoped someone did. Frequently. Because if someone even dared to treat this angelic being with something else but reverence, Crowley would personally hunt them down and do unspeakable things to them.
And speaking about doing something unspeakable . . . he should probably say something. Instead of looking like the village idiot.
“Are you all right?”
Crowley exhaled. Oh, there was that voice again. The voice that belonged to the creature from another world; the most beautiful man he’d ever seen, the man who was . . .
. . . looking somewhat anxiously at him.
Right. Something was definitely required. Something along the line of . . . ah. Words. Right. He could do words. Nothing to it.
Crowley opened his mouth and the most gorgeous man in the world leaned forward. Almost as if the sound of a busy coffee shop would prevent him from listening to what Crowley was trying to say.
But the thing was . . . the coffee shop was nowhere near busy. Only two of the tables were taken and there wasn’t even a line waiting to be served.
Crowley blinked at the stranger. He had been thinking of doing something, right? Something involving . . .
“Because if you’re not all right I may regret recommending that Nina should serve you six shots of espresso.”
Oh, right. He’d come in here to order . . . coffee. Or possibly death. Whatever came first. And instead he’d . . . stumbled over someone. Someone who was . . .
The most gorgeous man in the world’s frown deepened. “Are you all right? I’m only asking because you’ve been staring for quite some time.”
Crowley nodded. To what he wasn’t entirely sure, but it seemed to do the trick. The man standing next to him visibly relaxed. “Oh, good. Because your beverage is ready.” He pointed towards the counter where the barista (Nina or something, Crowley wasn’t sure but he honestly didn’t care either) was pointing at a mug with barely concealed impatience.
Right. Coffee. He’d ordered six shots of espresso, the barista had refused to serve him and this man had intervened. Had even claimed to know Crowley, which he definitely didn’t.
But perhaps it wasn’t too late. Perhaps he could still . . .
Crowley opened his mouth, but before he could say anything a blonde woman tapped the most gorgeous man in the universe on the shoulder. “Mr. Fell?”
The man turned towards her and smiled and . . . oh. Crowley’s heart, which had slowed remarkable stamina during this brief interlude, apparently decided that it was time to go into overdrive. Overdrive on top of overdrive. And he hadn’t even tasted his coffee yet.
Mr. Fell’s smile was warm. Sunny. Genuine. And with just a touch of mischief.
“Maggie,” he exclaimed. “Just the person I wanted to see. Please tell me that the records I ordered are on their way?”
“I have just received them,” the woman (apparently someone called Maggie, apparently someone whose mere existence was enough to make the most gorgeous man in the entire universe smile a smile that went directly to Crowley’s heart) replied.
Crowley would have considered it impossible, but somehow Mr. Fell’s smile became even more radiant. “Oh, that’s wonderful news. I’ll be around to collect them as soon as . . .”
“. . . this bloke pays for his six shots of espresso and allow me to serve you,” the barista (Nona or something like that) said.
Crowley turned back towards the counter with a sinking feeling. He’d just met the most gorgeous man in the entire universe and he’d behaved like a fool; an idiot unable to form even the most basic sentence.
And even worse, the man’s attention had shifted to . . . Marjorie? Margaret? Someone who had access to him on a regular basis. Someone familiar enough to know what kind of music he preferred. Someone who had made him smile that wonder of a smile. Someone who wasn’t Crowley.
Crowley sighed. Took his mug of espresso, paid his bill and grumbled his way towards a window overlooking the street.
Crowley was busy tapping notes on his phone (excellent coffee, but the barista’s attitude could sour milk) when someone sat down at his table.
He looked up; ready to growl or possibly hiss until the intruder understood that they were to find another table. But fortunately, his snarl died before it could escape.
Because sitting across from him, looking every inch like someone who belonged there, was the most beautiful man in the universe.
He glanced briefly at Crowley and leaned forward; something Crowley unconsciously mirrored. “So sorry to intrude like this, but since I told Nina we know each other, I thought it would look rather odd if I sat down at another table.”
Crowley was vaguely aware that his mouth was hanging open; something the man opposite him clearly took as a sign that his presence was not a gift from above. His shoulders slumped slightly and he began to push the chair back, obviously meaning to get up and leave Crowley’s table. And possibly his existence.
Crowley held his hand out. He had no idea why; it wasn’t as if he could actually restrain the man, but it seemed to do the trick. Or at least slow things down a bit because the man hesitated and . . . wonders of wonders . . . didn’t leave the table.
Crowley took a deep breath. Told himself to focus. He had a voice; he was usually capable of speech, surely stringing a sentence together was within his grasp?
No. Apparently not. Because all that emerged was a strangled croak.
The sound made the man look at Crowley with a mixture of anxiousness and apprehension. “You’re not having a heart attack, are you? It doesn’t look like it, but one can never be sure, can one?”
Crowley shook his head. Opened his mouth and willed his tongue to pronounce actual words. Or just one word. One would surely be sufficient.
“No,” he managed. Not the first word he wanted to say to this gorgeous stranger, but at least it came out sounding almost like a word.
The man tilted his head sideways and regarded Crowley evenly. “No? No to the heart attack or no to one cannot be sure?”
“Both,” Crowley croaked. Good. Well, not good-good, but better than ‘no’. And apparently enough to make the other man relax. He leaned forward again and Crowley, too weak to resist flying closer to the sun, leaned forward too.
“I’ll leave as soon as I’ve finished my cocoa,” the man whispered and Crowley, who was on the verge of thinking that an actual conversation might be within reach, promptly froze again. Leaving? What kind of shit was that?
“Because we don’t actually know each other,” the man continued. “And I’m sure you would like to enjoy your beverage in peace. And I tend to be awfully talkative. Which I’m sure you won’t appreciate. You must be sick and tired of fans harassing you whenever you stand still for more than a second.”
Crowley blinked. Not so much at the stranger’s words; more due to his tone of voice. He had suddenly not sounded like before; like someone who could easily be trusted with a flaming sword . . . no, instead he had sounded anxious. Nervous. Like he was intruding on Crowley instead of being the answer to every prayer Crowley had never once wasted his time on.
Right. This definitely needed sorting. Nobody, especially not someone Crowley suspected he was rapidly falling in love with, should feel anxious around him.
Crowley cleared his throat; a sound that made the other man look at him expectantly.
“Please.” Crowley violently cleared his throat again. “You’re welcome to stay.”
The other man fucking beamed at him, and Crowley felt all his courage, and his ability to form another sentence, run for the hills. Who could beam like that and make it look effortless? And, even more importantly, how could Crowley make it happen again?
Those were indeed very good questions but moments later they were shoved aside in favor a fresh round of, even more urgent, questions. Who was this adorable man? Was he from around here? And did referring to Crowley’s fans meant that . . . Crowley swallowed audibly . . . he was one of them?
Crowley briefly considered how to broach the subject when the other man raised the mug to his lips, took a delicate sip of cocoa and made a sound that came very close to killing whatever remained of Crowley’s brain cells.
By the time he’d gotten himself under control, the other man was leaning forward again. “I hope your interaction with Nina haven’t made you think poorly of her. She is usually more agreeable. Especially towards customers. She’s just going through a hard time.”
Ah. Just the opening Crowley had waited for. “So you know her?”
“Indeed I do,” the other man confirmed. “All shopkeepers here on Whickber Street know each other.”
Aha. Another clue. “So you’re one of the shopkeepers then?”
The other man’s eyes widened. “My dear fellow. I’ve been terribly rude, haven’t I? Me knowing your name is not the same as you knowing mine, is it?” He leaned forward and lowered his voice even further. “My name is Aziraphale Fell. I own the bookshop across from here.”
Aziraphale. Could this divine creature be called anything else?
“Pleased to meet you,” Crowley said. He was very proud that this understatement of the century came out sounding almost normal.
“Likewise,” Aziraphale, the most handsome man in the universe, replied. And wonders of wonders, he actually looked like he meant it.
Crowley gathered his courage. Aziraphale hadn’t actually seemed like he was dying to get back to work, so perhaps . . .
“Perhaps I could tempt you to another cup of cocoa?”
And there was that beaming smile again. Followed by an actual wiggle that made Crowley’s heart explode out of his chest. “If you insist.”
Crowley pushed his chair back and got to his feet. Which was rather remarkable, considering that his heart was currently lying at Aziraphale’s feet, gazing adoringly at him. “Be right back.”
“No. I’m not serving you another mug of heart attack coffee.”
“Which I haven’t even ordered,” Crowley retorted. His vocal chords were back to normal. Which may have something to do with having his back to Aziraphale.
The barista tilted her head and regarded him suspiciously. “Well?”
“The largest mug of cocoa you could possibly make,” Crowley drawled. “With whipped cream. Lots of whipped cream.”
“Oh, it’s for Mr. Fell.” She nodded before turning his back on him. Hopefully to prepare the best cup of cocoa on earth. Otherwise Crowley might be sorely tempted to destroy the cafe’s reputation when he got around to write about it..
While waiting, Crowley sneaked another glance at Aziraphale. In profile, and thinking himself unobserved, he was, if possible, even more attractive. There was a dreamy look on his face and the curve of his mouth suggested that he was thinking about something amusing. Crowley just hoped he wasn’t too busy trying not to laugh his head off. Because honestly . . . it wasn’t as if Crowley had made the best impression, had he? He’d been unable to speak in coherent sentences, unable to stop staring, unable to act like he wasn’t falling head over heels in love with someone he’d not know only an hour ago.
Oh yes, and that was another thing. He knew next to nothing about this fascinating stranger. Which was why he was very anxious to get back to the table, shove his nerves back where they belonged, and try to get to know him.
Moments later his not-even-remotely-close-to-prayers were answered when the barista served him a fresh mug of cocoa topped with so much whipped cream that it looked like a bit of sky had decided to join the party.
Crowley paid the bill, smiled at the barista (because, why not?) and took the mug back to the table. Where he was greeted by another beaming smile and a murmured ‘thank you’.
“Don’t mention it,” Crowley almost collapsed to his chair. Fucking knees. Going all soft whenever Aziraphale even looked at him.
Fortunately, the other man didn’t seem to notice. He was far too absorbed drinking his cocoa . . . and getting whipped cream all over his lips.
Crowley swallowed. Told himself it was impolite to stare. And found himself unable to look away. He didn’t have to suffer too long, though. Moments later Aziraphale placed the mug on the table, pulled a handful of napkins towards him and dabbed at his lips. With extremely well-manicured hands; just the sort of hands you would want to feel in your hair and . . . Right. He was probably staring again. And should stop doing that in favor of saying something. Anything really. Just as long as it wasn’t something improper. Or downright stupid.
“The cocoa’s any good?” Crowley winced. Why was he talking about cocoa? The cocoa Aziraphale had obviously relished? The cocoa Aziraphale had already thanked him for? Was he that much of an idiot?
Yes. He definitely was. But he was also the idiot who had just made the man sitting across from him beam again. “Any good? Oh, my dear fellow. It’s absolutely scrumptious. And the whipped cream is an indulgence I rarely permit myself.” He once more unleashed a smile. “But seeing as it’s Friday, and seeing as I’ve managed to stumble over my nephew’s idol, it definitely seemed appropriate.”
“Your nephew?” Crowley silently congratulated himself on his ability to form an actual, if rather short, sentence.
“Yes, my nephew Adam is a fan of your blog. And he recommended it to me. I suspect he’s more fascinated by your car and your tattoo - he is only eleven years old, so his knowledge about restaurants is rather limited - but he did mention it and I decided to look for myself.”
Before Crowley could absorb that this gorgeous creature had known about Crowley’s blog before they even met, Aziraphale continued. “May I ask why you decided to call it ‘Forbidden Fruit’? There seem to be nothing forbidden about the blog itself, or the restaurants you recommend. Much to my sister’s, Adam’s mother’s, relief. He nearly gave her a heart attack when he mentioned the name.”
Crowley, who was trying to decide whether he should apologize or answer the question, merely shrugged, something Aziraphale apparently took as a sign to keep talking.
“The boy’s father immediately looked into the matter when she called him at work but fortunately he could quickly ease her mind. Afterwards Adam sent me the link and suggested I was to have a look.” He took another sip of cocoa. “And I must admit to being a fan.”
“Thank you,” Crowley smiled. And this time it was his good smile; the one reserved for his friends and family. “It’s always nice to meet a follower.”
Aziraphale regarded him evenly. “I rather suspect it isn’t. Fans do have a tendency to ambush celebrities. Without any regards for their privacy.”
“Some fans, yeah,” Crowley acknowledged. “But I can honestly say that it doesn’t apply to all fans.” He shrugged again. “And besides . . . I’m hardly a celebrity.”
“Well, you are in Tadfield,” Aziraphale replied. “Adam recommended you to all his friends. And their families. Who recommended you to everyone they know.” He smiled. “Oh, I can’t wait to tell him.”
“Tell him what?”
“That I’ve met you, obviously,” Aziraphale said. “He’s going to be so exited. Especially if . . . But no.” He looked down at his hands. “I can’t possibly ask you that. You’ve already been so kind.”
Crowley, who would ordinarily have growled at anyone suggesting that his name and kindness belonged in the same sentence, leaned forward. “Of course you can ask me.”
“It’s just that . . .” Aziraphale looked up. “Perhaps you wouldn’t mind if I took your picture? For Adam, of course.”
Crowley grinned. “I can do you one better.” He pointed towards his own phone. “How about a picture of the two of us?”
Aziraphale’s face lit up in a manner that almost made Crowley wish he hadn’t left his sunglasses back home. “You would do that?”
“’Course I would.” Crowley got to his feet, walked the short distance, leaned down, pointed his phone at them and said “say cheese.” Or rather, he intended to say ‘say cheese.’ But being this close to this gorgeous man, close enough to almost bury his nose in fluffy curls, close enough to inhale Aziraphale’s scent of aftershave, old books, tea and cocoa, made him sound rather strangled. But seeing as the picture came out more than all right, he supposed he couldn’t actually complain.
He showed the screen to Aziraphale, smiled at the other man’s obvious delight, and, not without regret, returned to his own chair. “Right. I’m going to need your number so I can send this to you.” He opened the contact page, and pushed the phone across the table.
And when Aziraphale, who looked as if he’d spent the last hour hoping that Crowley would ask him that particular question, without further ado added his number to Crowley’s list of contacts, Crowley released a breath he somehow suspected he’d been holding for the last six thousand days.
The next hour saw the two men engage in lively conversation. Aziraphale asked a lot of questions about Crowley’s blog; questions he willingly answered, while Crowley asked about the bookshop he could easily see from the window. Not that he even looked in that direction; he was far too absorbed looking at Aziraphale and wondering how he could make this last. Preferably for eternity, even though he was willing to settle for less. For now, at least.
And then suddenly the gods decided to further smile on him.
“Are you planning to write something about this cafe?” Aziraphale asked.
Crowley nodded. “Definitely. The coffee’s excellent.”
Aziraphale smiled. “I can recommend their cakes too. Especially the Eccles cakes.”
And Crowley, who had eyed Aziraphale’s nearly empty mug for some time, didn’t waste any time asking “would you like some? And more cocoa? My treat, of course.”
“Oh, I really shouldn’t . . .” Aziraphale sighed. “All right.”
Crowley jumped to his feet. “Be right back.”
As he waited to be served, Crowley’s mind was trying to come up with something that would keep Aziraphale by his side for more than this afternoon. Surely there had to be something he could suggest? Besides feeding him. Because he couldn’t keep on doing that. Could he? No, surely not.
Unless . . .
And that’s when Crowley came up with an idea so powerful that he actually smiled at the barista before she could scowl at him again.
“Here you are.” Crowley placed the mug and a small plate loaded with Eccles cakes in front of Aziraphale and watched in amusement as his eyes once more lit up. “Oh, thank you, my dear fellow.”
“My pleasure.” Crowley sat down with a satisfied smile. Right. It was time to launch ‘Operation inch-closer-to-this-gorgeous-man’. “There’s something I’ve been meaning to ask you.”
“Yes?” Aziraphale tilted his head sideways.
“You know a lot of people in Soho, right? I mean, all the shop keepers around here.”
“I most certainly do,” Aziraphale brought a cake to his lips; a cake, that judging from the sound he made when he took a bite, could easily have sent him directly to heaven.
Crowley swallowed audibly. Right. He really, really, needed to focus. “I’m asking because I’ve been thinking about doing something different. With the blog, I mean.”
“You’re not going to stop writing, are you?” Aziraphale frowned and Crowley shook his head. “No. But I’ve been thinking . . .” He leaned forward and lowered his voice. “In this economy . . . people need to save money. And that mean less restaurant visits. So I suppose some of the smaller restaurants are struggling.”
“They certainly are,” Aziraphale replied.
“So I’ve been thinking about visiting some of the lesser known, and more affordable, places,” Crowley continued. “And giving them some free advertising.”
Aziraphale beamed at him. “Oh, that is a marvelous idea.”
Right. So far so good. “So I was wondering if you could recommend me a handful of places like that? I mean, here in Soho?”
“I most certainly can,” Aziraphale was still beaming that wonder of a smile. “I know at least ten restaurants that could do with the additional business. They’re very good,” he hastily added, “but as you say . . . in this economy. People do tend to spend less money on restaurants.” He looked earnestly at Crowley. “Should I text you a list? I’ve forgotten my phone at the bookshop but as soon as you send me that picture I could easily . . .”
Crowley took a deep breath. And jumped. “I was wondering if you would care to join me? You could introduce me to the owners, give me that bit of background people like to read. It’ll be my, or rather the blog’s, treat. Obviously.”
He didn’t dare to look at Aziraphale. Either the other man would politely, but firmly, turn him down, or . . .
“My dear fellow, I would be absolutely delighted.”
Crowley exhaled. Raised his eyes to that wonder of a man sitting across from him. “You would?”
“Of course I would.” And there it was again; that beaming smile and delighted wiggle. “And so will Adam. Oh, I can’t wait to tell him the news.”
“Right.” Crowley was quite proud of the fact that his voice didn’t betray his emotions. “How about starting tomorrow? Or do you have anywhere else to be on a Saturday?”
“I haven’t,” Aziraphale replied. But before Crowley’s heart could begin its victory dance the other man continued. “I presume you’re proposing lunch, yes?”
“I was thinking about dinner.” Crowley shrugged. Mostly to hide his disappointment. Of course Aziraphale would have someone else lined up for dinner. “But I’m flexible. Breakfast, brunch, lunch, anything that works for you.”
Aziraphale’s eyes widened. “Oh, I’m sorry. I was just assuming you had somewhere else to be on a Saturday night.”
“I haven’t.” Crowley was quite proud of the fact that he managed to shut his mouth before he revealed that even if he had, those plans would cease to exist the moment Aziraphale agreed to meet him.
“Oh,” Aziraphale looked at Crowley as if he’d just created a brand new batch of stars. “Well in that case . . . yes, of course. Dinner. There’s this lovely little restaurant around the corner; it’s called ‘The Basement’ even though it really isn’t, and they serve the most divine ox ribs I have ever tasted.”
Crowley smiled. “Sounds ideal. Meet you there or . . .”
“How about the bookshop?” Aziraphale suggested. “Perhaps I could tempt you to a glass of wine before dinner?”
“Temptation accomplished.” Crowley grinned.
Later that evening as Crowley sat down to update his blog (“Give me coffee or give me death is certainly worth a visit. Their coffee is divine and so is the company . . . and by the way, Adam from Tadfield, your uncle has a bit of news for you . . . ), he couldn’t stop smiling.
Because tomorrow he would be having dinner with someone who had stumbled into his life with all the grace of a literal angel.
And tomorrow afternoon, on the way to a bookshop he had a distinct feeling he wouldn’t be visiting for the last time, he would pay a visit to his local florist and a place he’d previously recommended; a place that sold the most delicious chocolate he’d ever tasted.
He had an idea Aziraphale would appreciate roses and chocolate. Just like he had an idea that tomorrow would be the start of something beautiful.