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April
The sky over London is grey but here and there the clouds break up the early morning gloom and show fragments of blue sky and the occasional ray of sunshine. One of those hits Aziraphale as he is on his way to boil the kettle for a nice cup of tea. He takes a moment to turn his face towards the light and appreciate the coming of spring, before continuing with his usual routine.
He puts on a fresh, new shirt and his favourite bow tie, making sure the collar is nice and proper and the cuffs crisp, then adds his well-worn waistcoat and goes to prepare a cup of tea and takes it to his desk in the bookshop and sits down in the old comfortable chair, moulded over time to fit him as if it was made for him; like everything in here - familiar, comfortable and perfectly accommodating for his every need in the way that he never feels the urgency to leave these walls.
However a book vendor, who has recently arrived to London, has awoken his interest with a not insignificant collection of first editions that tickle his fancy and so he had to get in touch and make an appointment to see the goods for himself and possibly make a valuable purchase - even if that means leaving the comforts of his bookshop.
The shop is closed - has been for a couple of days actually - and will stay that way until he comes back from this appointment; or until tomorrow. Who knows? Aziraphale has grown weary of too much contact with strangers. He is not conscious of it but the shop has shortened its already sporadic opening times and he has stayed inside of the comforting space more than he used to — to enjoy the quiet, he tells himself, and to recover from the stress and worry that was the recent almost apocalypse. Doesn't he deserve some quiet time after all of that excitement?
Practically the only time he leaves the house now is to meet Crowley. They go for lunch or dinner or to see a play but eventually always find themselves back at the bookshop. It's just nicer here than anywhere outside, isn't it? Although he curiously wonders why these outings don't happen as much as he would like them to anymore. Crowley seems very busy and constantly on the move since they helped avert the apocalypse. It is like the demon became more agitated and restless in the apparent calm.
His reminiscing gets interrupted by the striking of a clock. Bugger! He's running late to his appointment with the book vendor. Hastily, he takes a final sip of his tea, puts on his overcoat and heads out the door, securely locking it behind him with a miracle.
The situation outside catches Aziraphale off guard. Have there always been this many people on the streets? And at this hour? Certainly, this is Soho and just after 9 o'clock in the morning but this amount of people seems utterly excessive as does the noise. Sure, the air in the bookshop is very quiet but this is outrageous.
Regardless, there are rare books waiting for him and only a couple of streets away. Aziraphale steels himself; takes a deep breath, does his very best to ignore everyone around him and walks on — or tries to at least.
He's being the good, courteous angel he is meant to be - erring on the side of being too polite, rather than not forthcoming enough. He also makes the conscious decision to use these moments of courteousness to get a closer look at the people around him. Although he is not entirely sure why it he feels the need to examine every passerby.
They're all people - human people. Of course, they are. What else would they be? This is ridiculous. He has places to be. Time to get a wiggle on.
Still.
He can't stop himself from observing every little gesture, every tiny fracture of a passing conversation, every look that is thrown into his general direction and checking it for human behaviour.
He is getting more and more agitated and suspicious of the people around him. Following them with his eyes, eventually turning around and following them a step, getting more disoriented and starting to bump into people. It's increasing the feeling of being in danger. His own sense of being safe and in control disappears more and more. His focus jumps around, panicky, blurry, lost. He is frantically looking for something stable to hold on to, something to connect him to the world. It feels like the ground is shifting, unstable, making him lose his balance — making him fall?
“Fancy seeing you here. How are you doing?” A voice seeps into his consciousness.
What was that? It felt so warm.
Aziraphale stops and realizes for the first time that he's freezing. That doesn’t happen. He's an angel. Angels don't get cold. This must be an attack. Someone bumps into Aziraphale. He reels around rising his hand for…for what? What would help? Can anything help?
“Aziraphale?” There it is again. Where is that coming from? A warm, soft feeling runs through his body.
A trick! They must be trying to lure him into a false sense of security. He can't let his guard down. Not now! Not when they were so close to having peace.
“Angel.” Soft. Warm. Red? He has heard this voice before. Often. So often and always with a subtle tone of care and endearment. Always when he is with him — from him. Him — Crowley!
“CROWLEY!”, he shouts. Finally, seeing clearly again, looking straight ahead into the familiar reflections of the dark sunglasses, the typically raised eyebrow and the red messy hair. Crowley is standing right in front of him, his hand soft and warm on his shoulder and relief spreads through Aziraphale.
“It's you”, he exhales, the tension leaving his body.
The features of Crowley's face soften. “What's wrong?”
“Wrong? Nothing. Nothing is wrong. What could be wrong? Why would you ask that?” He cannot let him know what just happened. Can't let him see he's afraid. He's on the side of good. He's the one to spread optimism and positivity. He's fine. Everything is fine.
“Because you were running and spinning around like a headless chicken just now”, Crowley provides.
Aziraphale stills, deliberately so, to prove how very calm he is.
“Oh no. No”, he reassures. “I was just”, he continues grasping for words, “looking for someone.” Aziraphale smiles and nods very certain of himself now - and hoping Crowley would accept the ruse.
The way the demon looks up from a lowered face just to be able to raise his eyebrows even higher is possibly a sign that he doesn't.
Aziraphale tries a different approach. “Yes. Well. Just, hypothetically speaking - as a thought experiment possibly — you understand?”
Crowley nods, slowly.
Undeterred, Aziraphale marches on. “How would on be able to pick out a demon in a crowd of people - or, say, a group of angels? Purely as a question of casual musings.”
“Oh! Well”, Crowley swings back on his feet, looking around and takes a deep breath. “You know that I can generally feel them. It's like a change in the atmospheric pressure.” The demon catches himself before going into a ramble. “Nevermind. You could, possibly, simply - ask me. Or, if you preferred, I could let you know when our former associates are around, if you're - curious about that sort of thing, y'know?”
Aziraphale's face finally relaxes a bit. “Would- would you do that - for me? I don't want you to feel like you have to be available for me.”
A smirk passes over Crowley's face as he shrugs. “Sure. Any time, angel.”
Crowley reaches up and puts his index fingers against his temples. He's deeply focused, his eyebrows drawn together and eyes closed.
Aziraphale stands waiting beside him looking to Crowley then up the street and back down again, searching.
“We're clear”, Crowley says and after the uncertainty in Aziraphale stays, he elaborates, “there are no occult or ethereal beings around, aside from us two. And I'll keep my feelers out for it. Just leave it to me.”
Aziraphale takes a moment to search Crowley's face for any insincerity. Finding none he lets his shoulders relax and nods with a reassured, confident smile.
“I was just on the way to acquire a new book. Would you, possibly, like to accompany me on that errand? I still have some exquisite wine in my cellar for when we return.”
“Why not?”, the demon agrees with cool shrug and waits for Aziraphale to point them the right way and saunter off by his side.
June
On a sunny day a Bentley shoots through the streets of Soho and stops abruptly in front of an old bookshop. A slender, smartly dresses redhead slides out of the driver seat, rounds the car and enters the building with a skip in his step.
“Are you ready?”, he yells into the empty space. Empty? His eyes scan the place starting at the desk - covered in papers and knickknacks, as always - continue over the high shelves packed with books and scrolls, until they finally fall onto a gap that isn't usually there. The shop is in fact empty of life but he hears a shuffling sound emerge from the area behind the gap. Ah!
With a few quick steps he crosses over to find the being he's looking for - in cloud of dust. “Wha-”, he coughs, “are you-” - another cough - “doing?!” He holds onto a bookshelf and coughs some more.
Aziraphale turns around to face him, waves his hand to disperse the dust, and beams at him. “I am organizing my new books into a modern display.”
Pleased with that announcement he turns around again and spreads his open hands demonstratively at the space in front of him.
Quietly, Crowley takes in the scene. There are statically questionable stacks of books pilled up on the floor, interspersed with scrolls, maps, more books, lace blankets and couple of what seem to be antique figurines. All of that is crowned by a heavy wooden shelf from the Victorian era. The angel is standing in the middle of this mess, rubbing his hands like a giddy school boy.
“You what? And, why?”, Crowley asks trying to grasp why this couldn't be done by miracle.
“A modern display - to show off the new books; but not too modern. I want to show them, not invite people to buy them.” He shakes his head and makes a disapproving face at the mere idea.
“Obviously,” Crowley agrees. “Did you still want to grab lunch, or?”
“Right, lunch. Yes, of course.” Aziraphale’s hand shoots out and lands on Crowley's forearm in a reassuring gesture. “Just give me a moment to finish up over here and I will be with you in two shakes of a lamb's tail.”
Too stunned by the sudden contact, Crowley simply nods; eyes fixed on Aziraphale's face.
“Why don't you take a seat while you wait?”, Aziraphale suggests and motions towards the sofa on the other side of the shop.
Crowley is still too distracted by the feeling of Aziraphale’s hand on him to protest and follows the motion towards the familiar sofa - the familiar sofa that seems to have gotten new pillows and a soft looking blanket. Well, new to him. By the looks of it they are from the last century or the one before that. Regardless, the change isn't bad and he flings himself down and relaxes into a comfortable lying position, appreciating the ideal softness of the pillows to support his body just so; and making him feel like he's lying on clouds. Not bad at all, he thinks to himself.
Pretty good spot to stretch out for a bit, if he's being honest. Crowley hasn't lied down since he had to give his flat - and his bed - back to hell. So he enjoys having this comfort here - near Aziraphale. He passes a hand over the spot where the angel’s hand had just rested moments ago, still feeling the gentle warmth of it.
Sighing deeply, he smiles and notices the calm that's spreading through him. He turns his head towards the window. The weather is nice today. Only a few clouds are speckled across the otherwise blue sky and a ray of sunlight shines onto Crowley, warming his body and making him even more comfortable. The sound of Aziraphale shifting something around comes from the other side of the bookshop but aside from that it is quiet. One might even say - peaceful. He sighs in contentment and sinks further into the pillows, his muscles relax and his mind quiets.
It hasn't always been like this. A few months ago they stop the apocalypse from happening, even prevented an all out war between heaven and hell - or at least helped with that - and now their former head offices are off their backs and they can enjoy themselves — making life more worthwhile bit by bit because that's what life is all about.
Still, he can't help but worry: What if something were to happen? What if the occult forces were about to launch an attack on them? What if they were simply waiting for an opportunity? For them to feel save? Bollocks! They're not that smart or deceptive. They're also not concerned enough about them to launch an all out attack or anything. That would be ridiculous! Unimaginable!
A loud crack resonates through the silence. Crowley's eyes shoot open. A window shatters. Glass shards rain down onto him. A brick hits a bookshelf and splinters the wood. A burning torch flies overhead. It lands on a desk covered in old scrolls igniting them instantly. Crowley is on his feet in but a moment.
He follows the way the torch came flying with his eyes and sees an unsavoury figure, half their jaw missing. “Demons! Fuck!”
He turns around, his heart racing as he dashes towards the other side of the bookshop. “Aziraphale!”, he shouts as a burning bookshelf crashes down right in front of him and he stumbles backwards. He barely manages to cover his face from the flames but knocks his glasses off in the process. The fire is too bright, the smell of burning paper too sharp, the heat stinging in his eyes and lungs too much.
How did the fire catch this quickly? Why hadn't he noticed? Why did he let his guard down? And where the heaven is Aziraphale?
He was distracted for a couple of minutes and now his whole world was on fire and falling apart - again.
“Aziraphale, dammit, where are you?” The shout echoes through the space, the only response being the crackling of burning books and shelves. One of them comes crashing down next to him, sparking flames into his face. He turns away and smells burning hair. His eyes shoot up, frantically searching for his angel.
He jumps over smouldering stacks of unrecognizable books towards the other side of the shop where he had left the angel to build his book display. Why did he leave him alone? Idiot!
“Angel? Please tell me-”
A mass covered in beige and light brown clothes lies buried under a mountain of books. The fire creeps steadily and rapidly closer towards a flock of light blond, curly hair.
His blood runs cold. He failed. He was too late to safe Aziraphale. Always too late…
“NO”, he screams as he jolts forward.
His chest hits something solid. “What? No!”
Something solid and soft at the same time. “No, no! Angel!” He hears his voice crack still fighting his way forward towards the pile of books that buried Aziraphale.
Strong arms wrap around Crowley’s body, hands hovering close, ever so slightly rubbing his back.
“Crowley, I'm here.”
It takes him another breath for the realization to settle in.
“Aziraphale?” his head jerks back and he's looking into the blue eyes of his angel - unharmed.
“Wh- wha- what- happened?”, he stammers.
“I think you might have had a bad dream”, Aziraphale guesses, “You looked so terribly frightened. I tried to wake you.”
“A nightmare?” Crowley is still breathing heavily. “There was fire. An attack on the bookshop. Everything burned. And you-” he broke off.
“Let me reassure you, I am just fine.” Aziraphale added a confident nod to ascertain his point. “Also, the bookshop is still an embassy of heaven. No one would just attack it like this. As long as you're here with me, you're safe.”
And sitting this close to Aziraphale, their eyes interlocked, he does, in fact, feel safe. But..
“What if you just let me fire proof the bookshop? Get you some more fire extinguishers — just in case?” Crowley suggests.
“Well, not a bad idea”, the angel responds, “I do believe it is about time to invest in electric candles as well, wouldn't you agree?”
December
Aziraphale is carrying two steaming mugs towards his desk in the shop, sets one down onto it and hands the other one to Crowley.
“Here we are - my special hot chocolate.” He winks at the demon as he says the word ‘special’ and sits down in his chair, taking his own mug, inhaling the fragrant smell and closing his eyes in delight.
Crowley eyes take in the display of apparent bliss and decides this is as good a time as any to indulge. He picks up the mug and takes a measured sniff. “Special, you say? And what makes it so? Is it the cinnamon?”
The angel scoffs and shakes his head. “Oh no, my dear. Anybody can add cinnamon to their hot chocolate but that's common and simple.” He takes a sip, savours it and sighs. “It has a fair amount of spices in it, yes - and my secret ingredient.” The blue eyes sparkle mischievously. He leans back in his chair, gaze focused on Crowley. “Try it”, he says.
Crowley smirks at the offered challenge and takes a sip. It's good, undeniably, spiced hot chocolate with all the common winter seasonings; but then a warmth spreads from his stomach through his body and a pleasant fiery sting encompasses his mouth and lips. That clever angel!
“Chilli, is it? Not bad!” and he nods approvingly while Aziraphale’s smile turns into a grin, proud of the special little treat he could present his very dear friend.
“Quite so. It gives the drink and extra bit of - pep.” His eyes twinkle and he wiggles in his seat.
”Pep? Well, it certainly has that”, Crowley barks out a laugh but can't contain a fond smile. Their eyes meet and lock for what feels like a short eternity, luxuriating in the mutual unspoken warm feeling of closeness before Aziraphale’s eyes widen, as if he just got a splendid idea.
“Oh my! Do you know what would go ever so well with this? Those new pastries you brought from the café. You know, the ones with the forest fruits? Let me just…” and with those words Aziraphale is up and shuffling towards the back of the bookshop.
Crowley takes another sip, then readjusts himself on the sofa, leaning back to take in the familiar, warm sense of peace that always engulfs him when he is here with his very close friend.
A gush of wind pierces the bookshop. The sound of something hitting the floor and smashing to pieces breaks the quiet followed by the sound of crackling paper.
Within a split second Crowley is on his feet, hot chocolate spilled and forgotten as he turns to rush towards the sound, his entire body tense - wound up like a spring ready to snap.
In the next split second he hears Aziraphale’s raised voice spilling towards him.
“Oh dear me, the wind! I shouldn't have left the window open!”
Crowley stops mid movement. Aziraphale does not. He continues into the backroom further exclaiming, “I wanted to let in some fresh air because the room was so stuffy after making the hot chocolate and now the window pushed over my precious tea cup and ruffled up my papers. What a clumsy mess!”
Crowley lets out the breath he had taken in and then forgotten about. He smiles to himself. Just the wind. Alright! Everything is all right in the bookshop.
Now he notices the spilt hot chocolate and cleans it up with a quick miracle, feeling another miracle being cast in the backroom. The angel must have quickly fixed his tea cup, too.
When Aziraphale returns with the pastries Crowley has already moved back into a comfortable position on the sofa and watches the storm outside. After taking in the scene, confirming that Crowley is his usual cool self, Aziraphale joins him.
They watch the wind rushing through the streets. It seems truly dreadful outside - cold, wet and windy. Good thing they're not out there.
Aziraphale picks up one of the pastries and takes a healthy bite of it before chasing it with the hot chocolate, followed by a delighted hum of pleasure prompted by the sweet treat.
“You really should try this, Crowley. It is simply scrumptious.”
“I'll leave the pleasure to you, angel”, he says barely able to contain his warm smile.
“Don't mind if I do”, Aziraphale responds before doing a little wiggle and picking up another piece with pointed fingers.
“Look, it's snowing”, Aziraphale notices.
“It sure is”, Crowley says with a knowing wink. “Thought it would be more seasonal. We could go for a little walk later when the wind has let up, if you like”, he offers.
Aziraphale scrunches up his face, lost in thought.
“No? No bundling up all fuzzy like the humans do? We could go to one of those markets you like so much”, the demon continues trying.
“With the weather like this I sincerely doubt any kind of bundling up would be enough. I have to be honest with you.” he nods vigorously clearly attempting to convince Crowley and himself. “Let's just stay inside for now until the storm passes. What do you think?”
“Yeah, don't really want to be outside in this weather.” Crowley mumbles on and although it is hard to make out the rest of the rant Aziraphale thinks he can pick up the words ‘cold’, ‘wet’ and ‘bloody freezing’.
Aziraphale interrupted his thoughts. “Very well then, what are you in the mood for now?”
That's a good question. Crowley has an excited answer for that. “Alcohol! Quite extraordinary amounts of alcohol.”
“Perfect weather for a good bottle of red wine in pleasant company, if you ask me”, Aziraphale says, all too eager to agree.
“That’s exactly what I was thinking, angel.”
And what could be better than spending a snowy day in the best company each of them could imagine?