Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

A month after Crowley moved into his new Mayfair apartment, after the rainforest worth of bureaucratic change-of-address confirmations came and went, after all his last minute decor purchases arrived with expensive priority shipping, he found a lone card in his mailbox.

When he first whipped open the latch, he assumed it was a flier. He didn’t order this, it wasn’t something he was waiting on, so it had to be junk mail. He barely gave it a second thought as he crossed over to the elevators and knuckled one of the call buttons, but the slow journey to the 13th floor left his eyes wandering over it, for a lack of anything better to hold his attention.

Crowley frowned behind his Valentino sunglasses. It was a postcard.

His first thought was bewilderment. Postcards still existed? People still sent them?

He flipped the card between two fingers to examine the picture side. It took him a moment to recognise the old building in the painting as Notre Dame, what with the impressionistic brushstrokes obscuring the cathedral’s finer details. His frown softened, but his eyes narrowed. Did he know anyone visiting Paris?

Even if he did, he definitely didn’t know a soul that would send an actual real life postcard.

The lift dinged and snapped Crowley out of his daze. He shouldered past the other tenants crowding the lift and hurried to his door, suddenly remembering how eager he was to kick off his shoes and sprawl out with a glass of wine.

It wasn’t until much later that evening that he remembered the postcard again. He lounged precariously along his firm and angular sofa, one hand swinging an empty wine glass by the stem while the other held up brush strokes of an historic cathedral for close inspection.

He spun his glass between two fingers and flipped the card over.

Dearest A, Forgive me for such delayed correspondence! I miss you terribly, but business has taken up all of my time thus far and I’ve barely had a moment to breathe. You were right (I know, you always are), Laurent’s is like stepping into a dream. I was not expecting to stumble upon such a well preserved 12th century bible under his roof, but alas I’ve yet to convince him to part with it. Please send all the luck you can muster, and any hexes you think may help. I’m off to Troyes tomorrow, and will write again if the trade goes smoothly. A.Z.F. P.S. Please do not actually hex anybody!!

Although postcards were a rather exposed method of communication, Crowley didn’t mean to read somebody else’s mail. Dearest A had him genuinely thinking it could be for him, and though he didn’t recall any trips to Paris or Troyes he should’ve been aware of, he also considered himself Always Right and a lucky bastard who could probably figure out a hex if he needed to.

But it only took one more read-through to realise he had no idea who A.Z.F was, and he wasn’t supposed to. The address written under the post mark was indeed his apartment, so he could only assume he was stuck in the irritating circumstance of receiving the previous tenant’s mail.

There was no return address, and even if he had some way to find and contact the last owner of his apartment, he wasn’t sure he could be bothered to expend the energy. It was just a postcard, after all, and it would be easier to bin it than concern himself with these French strangers any longer. But, of course, that annoyingly considerate voice in his head told him to set the thing aside, that it wouldn’t take any kind of effort for him to just hold onto it incase Dearest A came knocking.

Crowley sighed and frisbee’d it across the room with a tired flick of his wrist. He could only hope that A.Z.F.’s business would ramp back up and keep him from writing any more.

Crowley found another postcard four days later.

His mad rush to get to work on time came to an abrupt halt when he flung open his mailbox. He should have been thrilled to find the laptop adapter he’d ordered with express overnight shipping, but all his attention was on the high resolution photo of a cobblestone street nestled underneath it.

Too frazzled and caffeine-deprived to construct any kind of sensical thought, he snatched all the mail in one hand and stuffed it into his satchel, before continuing long and hurried strides out of the lobby.

After an obscenely large Americano, Crowley belatedly realised that there was no rush to decide what to do with A.Z.F.’s letters then and there, and he could have simply left it in his mailbox until he got home that evening. But when his lunch hour came around and he found himself desperately needing a break from all his screens, he was suddenly glad to have it.

It was different, he knew, to accidentally read someone else’s postcard versus intentionally perusing one in place of good newspaper over coffee. Crowley decided he was allowed that indecency, to balance out the good deed of safeguarding the mail in the first place.

He kicked his feet up onto his desk, scooped up the takeaway coffee that was brought around by their newest intern, and settled in to read some of the most densely crowded handwriting he’d ever laid eyes on.

My dear A, You’ve truly outdone yourself this time. The Chateau Mouton Rothschild was indeed exquisite, a well earned 8.27/10. I know this might disappoint you, but I promise a full score will come when it is well and truly earned. Gabriel was a twat as we expected.

Crowley guffawed at this unexpected turn, his feet slipping off the edge of his desk with the strength of his laugh.

Gabriel was a twat as we expected. I finalised the trade today, but not without an exhaustingly unnecessary back and forth that stretched things out an extra day. I’m well and truly relieved to have the Charing Cross Bible in my safe possession, but I would not be surprised if I wake up to the clicking of rocks against my window in the middle of the night for an attempt to renegotiate yet again. Otherwise Troyes has been lovely. It’s so picturesque here. I should like to stay another night to properly take in the town, and see what luck I have finding a 9/10. A.Z.F.

Crowley read the postcard twice more to pass the time. He was smiling by the time he finished his coffee, snorting with amusement as he tried to picture what sort of wine scale could result in such a specific rating (and in what world exquisite could be synonymous with anything less than a solid 10). He even woke up his computer to Google what a Charing Cross Bible was, and when that proved to be quite over his head, searched to see if any nearby stores stocked Chateau Mouton Rothschild.

He blanched at the price and quickly exited the window, suddenly very content sticking to £5 coffee for the rest of his work day.

Crowley startled himself at how startled he was to find another postcard two days later. A.Z.F.’s correspondence was clearly going to continue, but the increasing frequency had caught him off guard.

He flipped the card without hesitation, beginning to read before his mailbox was even locked.

Darling A, I had a triumphant thought today while I strolled Jardin des Colonnes: You had me agree I would send nothing longer than a postcard when I write to you, and I intend to keep this promise. But you did not specify how many, nor how often I could write! I had been fretting over how to fit so much onto such measly cards, but now I rejoice that it would not be breaking your rules to simply carry my thoughts onto a new card for another day.

Crowley grinned as he read, making no attempt to hide his mirth from the others in the elevator. Well, that certainly explained things.

Don’t bother pretending to be put out, dear. I’ve already purchased a good number of postcards with artwork I’m sure you’ll adore. Although I'm not sure how accurate this one is, or if “accurate” is even a thing that tarot can be. Do let me know if I chose well. A.Z.F. P.S. Chateau Pontet-Canet 7.3/10 - I expected more from you!

He flipped the card back over to examine the art on the other side, so eager to start reading that he hadn’t even noticed it. The illustrative style couldn’t have been more different from the impressionist oil painting on the first postcard he’d received; delicate line work covered the card with texture, creating detailed dips and shadows reminiscent of old intaglio etchings. Thicker lines bordered the image of a joyful looking satyr, and a well worn scroll labelled the creature as The Devil.

Crowley flipped the card over and back and over, comparing the downright satanistic imagery to the author’s elegant cursive and straining to see where the two connected.

He lowered the postcard just long enough to exit the lift and unlock his front door, but turned it back over to A.Z.F.’s handwriting once he was leaning against his kitchen island.

You did not specify how many, nor how often I could write!

Don’t bother pretending to be put out, dear.

I expected more from you!

Crowley grinned and smacked the postcard down with the others, the satyr smiling up at him. He may not have been a devil, but A.Z.F. was certainly a bit of a bastard, and Crowley knew there was no point denying how eager he was for the next arrival.

Dear A, I had been dreading the journey to Montpellier, but the train was so much more enjoyable than my dreadful drive to Troyes! It took half as long as it would have by car, and I was able to relax and read the entire time. I certainly romanticised the idea of driving myself back and forth across the countryside, and will be glad to change all my future trips to train and public transport instead. The bar car also served a Sauvignon Blanc that was remarkably palatable at €4.40 a glass! 6.84/10 A.Z.F.

To My A, I’ll be needing more of that luck, my dear, for today I cross the border to Barcelona. My Spanish certainly isn’t what it used to be, but I’m putting on a brave face. For the books! At least writing off the four translation guides I’ve just purchased should be much easier than trying to claim wine as a travel expense. A.Z.F. (Domaine Leflaive Clavoillon - 8.74/10)

My Lovely A, It’s tremendously lovely down here; I’m sure you’d find it most comforting, but I rather think I’ve had enough scorching sunlight for the next year at least. I’ll be eager to return to the cool embrace of Paris once my business here is concluded, and back to London’s dreary slog before long. Do you miss California? The M. Chapoutier Ermitage 'L'Ermite Blanc' is certainly a new favourite of mine, a confident 9.29/10 from me. A.Z.F.

Darling A, I ordered myself a chai tea today, and the waitress did not switch to English as soon as I opened my mouth! We must celebrate my successful intermingling with the locals. You may break into my shop to retrieve the Lafite and we shall share in a glass across the channel. A.Z.F. (Please don’t really)

A, I finally visited the famous ‘The Abbey’ English bookshop in Paris today. It was beautiful just like you said it would be, and a reprieve I didn’t know I needed. Unfortunately it’s also left me feeling so very homesick. I do hope my silliness about sending so many letters hasn’t upset you. But, I also understand you are a busy woman, and that if something was wrong, you would tell me outright as you always have done. I really hope to hear from you soon. A.Z.F.

Crowley froze, and his office fell silent without the restless creaking of his chair. He turned the postcard over in the foolish hopes that he would find more on the other side, but there were no words hidden between the art nouveau filigrees.

No wine rating. No Darling Dearest. No pre-emptive bickering or curly y’s. No happy glow that usually radiated off the page.

Crowley hurriedly withdrew his legs off the desk and propped the postcard against his lamp as he usually did. He stared at the card for a long moment, and A.Z.F.’s curt signature stared back at him.

On second thought, he reached out to flip the postcard so the filigree was facing him instead, then set his eyes back on his monitor. It wasn’t much better.

When Crowley returned to his apartment building that evening, a bagged bottle of wine in one hand and a lead weight in his gut, he stopped by his mailbox out of sheer force of habit.

He might have secretly hoped for it, but the last thing he actually expected to find was another card so soon. He only wasted a moment to stare at it in disbelief before snatching it up and rushing to the lifts. He forged a plan immediately: unload his bag, strip off the day, and soften all his edges with a generous helping of wine before finally sitting down to read the damage.

The elevator made it two floors up before he caved in and held the postcard up to the light.

Dear A, It only occurred to me after I sent my last letter that you may have misplaced my Paris address. This is you we’re talking about, so I know that’s actually rather unlikely, but I suppose it’s better to be safe than sorry. I’ll attach it below. I’m off to Zürich first thing tomorrow morning, then the business in Frankfurt. A.Z.F.

Crowley held the postcard so firmly that the corner began to bend in his grip. He clumsily flattened it against his chest to smooth it out, and only then did he notice the stained glass artwork of an angel on the back of the card, brighter than any of the artwork he’d collected so far.

For the first time in his life, Crowley read the label on his wine bottle. Rather futilely. He knew he’d never understand what any of it meant, but he just longed to find something familiar. One word would do. A sauvignon or a chateau, anything to indicate he was listing in the right direction, something he could write down and not sound like a total idiot.

His tastes had certainly evolved over the years, growing exponentially once he found his success as an esteemed copyright lawyer. Tastes tended to do that when you were suddenly flush with cash but had nothing, no one, to spend it on. He could certainly tell the difference between a cheap wine and expensive one, but that’s as deep as his knowledge went. It was all just a numbers game.

Since A.Z.F.’s postcards had been arriving, Crowley had the craving for something better. He didn’t know what, exactly, but the sheer hedonism that oozed from the writer’s experiences had Crowley itching to follow suit, to live a little, to dig into his dusty savings and treat himself better than he usually thought he deserved.

It was no Chateau Lafleur, but the bottle he’d lugged home was a good hundred pounds more than he’d usually spend, and that was nerve wracking enough on its own.

With the foil torn and his first glass poured, Crowley sat stiffly on the edge of his sofa and spanned his eyes over his coffee table. On the far left: his bottle, his glass, a mere ornament of ruby refractions while it oxidised before his first sip. Then, laid evenly across the length of the layered glass panels were each of A.Z.F.’s postcards. They sat in a neat grid, ordered from left to right, handwriting face up. And most daunting of all was the blank postcard that sat directly in front of him, waiting beside a capped fountain pen.

Crowley threw himself back against the sofa into one of his trademark slouches. This kind of tension didn’t suit him.

What the fuck was he actually doing here? Confessing to a stranger that he’d been collecting and reading his mail, like he was following a character from a television show? The window of plausible deniability had long since passed, since he’d made zero efforts to even try asking his realtor about the previous owner. This had been all for him, a few sentences of entertainment to juice up his work day, with no concern for the actual humans waiting at the mercy of the postal service.

And what good would it do? A.Z.F. had sounded so dejected, so sad, and made a clear request for some kind of familiarity to ease the homesickness — and Crowley was a stranger, not a friend, just because he lived in London and read words not meant for him did not mean his presence would be any kind of comfort to the mysterious sommelier-slash-bible-dealer.

He tugged a hand through his hair and urged himself back upright. He’d just about talked himself out of it, and snatched up his glass to celebrate the simultaneous decision to burn all the postcards and pretend this had never happened. That shrinking voice of consideration urged him to savour the wine before he sculled it, but he simply shoved it back and noted that there would be plenty more glasses to follow.

Crowley gulped an unsightly mouthful and sat back again. The alcohol clawed its way down his throat in an unpleasant rush, but when the burn subsided, he blinked at the earthy tang that settled on his tongue.

Oh, that was good.

He looked disbelievingly at his glass before trying again, taking a smaller sip that he held in his mouth before swallowing.

Earthy wasn’t quite right. It was sharp, but somehow round, sinking heavily into his pores from the inside out and pinching his tastebuds in the aftermath. It had the tartness of berries but lingered like a cigarette, leaving him wanting more but wanting to pace himself through it.

He’d never really had the words to put to wine before. But he’d also never bothered to invest in one that warranted them.

With a nervous glance at the postcards sprawled across his table, he reached for the bottle to pour another glass.

Fuck it.

Hi,

My name’s Anthony

Nope.

So, my name starts with an A too.

No one calls me that but I read your first postcard and thought it was for me.

I

Crowley scratched another line through the words until the postcard was an unsalvageable mess of scribbles. Good thing he’d bought a multipack.

He scrunched the first postcard into a ball (frustratingly difficult to do with cardstock) and threw it aside. He could litter all he wanted in his own home.

Crowley pulled a fresh postcard from the plastic and set it down in the last one’s place. Lined up evenly with the edge of the table, parallel to his pen. He took a sip for courage and balanced the glass on his knee and considered his words before putting anything to paper.

A.Z.F.,

I’m so sorry

He finished the glass. Poured another, and wrote slower to ensure his scratchy handwriting still held up.

A.Z.F.,

I’m so sorry. Your friend A no longer lives at this address, and I read your postcards. I have an A name too, but I have no excuse for continuing to read your letters beyond the 1st one.

Crowley shook his hand to relieve the cramp, embarrassed that his grip was already sore from so few words. When was the last time he wrote anything on paper?

I know this is a ridic invasion of privacy. But I have the driest possible job and all your notes have brightened my day so much you wouldn’t believe. So I also wanted to say thank you. & sorry again.

A sounds like she(?) has all the recs you could possibly need, but I bought something new tonight and thought you might like it. A wine scale with that many decimal points is terrifying so I’m not gonna even try, but I give it a solid 9/10. That’s probably like a 7 on your palate. It’s called “VIETTI LAZZARITO”

Sorry & thanks again

Crowley

He capped his pen and stared down at the unsightly jumble of letters, wincing at the uneven slant of his hand writing and admonishing the way his lines cramped together towards the bottom of the card. Surely he could do better, but his hand was screaming for a break after so many years of nothing but thumbs tapping against haptic glass, so it would have to do.

He’d already written A.Z.F.’s address on the side of the card, but self consciousness had him digging through drawers until he found an envelope to stuff the card in, to hide it away and keep it safe on its journey. He carefully rewrote the address on the front of the envelope, lined a stamp against the crisp white corner, then set it gently in the centre of the coffee table.

Crowley had never checked his mailbox so many times in a single day.

It went on like this for a whole week, seven days that stretched on like seventy, while his five gruelling lunch hours left him restless enough to want to jog home and check his mail in the middle of the day.

He refrained, but only just. In exchange, he managed to dream up every nightmare scenario that could be occurring over the channel, what A.Z.F. must have thought when he received Crowley’s correspondence, and how his horror might manifest in Crowley’s mailbox, if at all. The prolonged silence might have been the worst part.

No— Sunday. Sunday was the worst part.

But it was always darkest before the dawn, and Monday morning brought a full mailbox of bills, catalogues, fliers, and a single A6 photograph of the Eiffel Tower.

Crowley all but sprinted back to the lifts (did you think he stood a chance at waiting until it was time to leave for work?) with the unimportant stuff jammed into his armpits while he clutched the postcard devotedly in both hands. He’d never liked to wait, but stared only at the photo of the tower until he was safely behind his apartment door.

Crowley,

His heart did not skip. This still had time to go so, so wrong. But to be acknowledged, to be an intentional part of this bizarre little story he’d been following, it made him wonder whether he was really still asleep in his room.

Crowley, My dear, you do realise the point of a postcard is that it doesn't require an envelope?

His heart absolutely skipped.

It's no matter. Your letter was not at all what I expected to receive from London, but I must thank you for writing to me. I'm sure it was not easy to do. I'm just relieved that my silly anxieties about Anathema's silence were completely unfounded. I'm sure she'll find this whole situation as amusing as she finds me exhausting. I'm still in such disbelief that a stranger could happen upon my blatherings and find joy in them, so you can consider me rather flattered. I have yet to find your Vietti, but rest assured am on the hunt for it. We shall see how your 9 fares against my nefarious decimal places. Also, thank you for the London themed postcard. I appreciate it more than you could possibly know. Aziraphale Z. Fell

Chapter Text

Crowley had one remaining postcard in the gaudy multipack of London landmarks, but no time to write a response. He begrudgingly tore himself away from a sixth reread in order to jump in the shower, but even as he shaved, dressed, stormed the lobby, braved the tube, and finally ordered some coffee, his mind was rattling with questions to ask in his next letter.

He had no shortage of them, that was for certain, but he hesitated to disrupt the unspoken status quo of letter writing. In all his postcards, Aziraphale had barely asked anything of his friend Anathema, and Crowley stressed whether that was intentional. Would it be bad form to ask what he did for a living, how long his trip would be, or how he and Anathema knew each other? He had about a thousand other queries, ranging from mild curiosities to the inappropriately personal, and spent the entirety of his morning staring at a blank computer monitor while he mentally sorted through them all.

In the end, he decided to file away the heavy hitters that had been drifting around his head since the second postcard. He’d start with something cordial, something safe, and take it slow. He was, after all, a stranger to Aziraphale, and the last thing he wanted was to make the traveller so uncomfortable that he stopped writing altogether.

After a late evening at the office and a quick stop for some takeaway, Crowley finally sat at his kitchen island with a blank postcard and his favourite pen poised.

A.Z.F, The way you hide your names behind initials makes you seem like a private guy person, I thought you would appreciate the privacy of an envelope. Or maybe I’m trying to bring down the world’s rainforests one unnecessary slip of paper at a time? I’ll never tell. On that note, you can write me a letter if you want to. No need to box yourself into postcards on my account, I won’t tell Anathema if you don’t. I hope your business is going well. I’d love to know what you do, if you ever want to share that with me. All I’ve gathered so far is wine and bibles, so maybe a drunken priest. A very rich drunk priest. Am I hot or cold? I should probably talk about myself now but I’m running out of room. Please tell me if I’m doing this wrong. I don’t think I’ve written this much since school and have half a mind to send you my email address instead (jk this is nice) — Crowley

Crowley screwed up his face with the effort of cramming his name into the bottom corner of the postcard, then threw down his pen with a sigh. Black ink spat across his countertop but his letter was thankfully unscathed.

He wasn’t sure where on earth that had come from; he’d filled the card in what felt like a single breath, not once pausing to stretch his burning hand nor sip the wine that was already poured and waiting for him. The words just flowed, like good conversation, even though it meant he’d skipped over everything he’d planned on asking.

It was an odd and unfamiliar feeling to have finished a page but still have so much more to say, especially as someone who typically peaked in fleeting verbal conversation that ebbed and flowed around some kind of liquor. Suddenly Aziraphale’s enthusiasm for sending multiple postcards in quick succession made a lot of sense.

Still, at least he had something to send, which meant he’d soon have something to look forward to.

Two days passed before he found a new postcard in his mailbox. His urgency to snatch it up before anyone could take it away had finally faded, making it easier to simply slip it in his satchel with the intent to save it for his lunch hour. Crowley thought he’d be waiting longer to receive something thicker, but if another postcard meant he only had to deal with two short days of silence, he had no complaints.

He propped it against his desk lamp while he worked, glancing up at the glossy photo of a neon lit Paris street whenever his motivation started to wane. When the artsy serif digital clock on his wall flashed over to noon, he hurried downstairs to collect some food, before finally reclining in his office chair to read.

Dear Crowley, Thank you for the offer of switching to letters. To be honest, I’ve grown rather fond of this method of communication, especially for how fast one can write and receive a reply. I should like to continue this way, as I can be terribly impatient when I have my mind set on something. Not to mention all the trees I’ll protect from your evil plans. Apologies for failing to introduce myself properly. To catch you up to speed: I am indeed a “guy”, 53 years old as of February, and my usual residence is in Soho. I have no qualms revealing my occupation to you, but now you’ve started guessing, I wonder how close you can get. “Drunken priest” is lukewarm at best, but not a terrible start. Please ask and tell whatever you like. You’re doing wonderfully. Aziraphale

When he finished reading it through, Crowley felt himself reaching for a pen that wasn’t there. He cursed himself for leaving his stationery at home, until he remembered he’d already worked his way through his postcards and would need to buy more either way. There was no chance the post office would be open by the time he finished for the day… So, really, his only option was to pop over there and peruse their selection during his lunch break.

He was back out the door before the thought had even finished forming.

Aziraphale, Did you just A/S/L me? Very well: I’m 49, he/him, and you already know where I live. And I’m telling you right now that I’m a lawyer who specs in trademark and copyright suits bc I’m not putting us through a whole guessing game for such a dreary ending. Thank god you sound almost as impatient as me. Almost. Otherwise you would have heard of this neat invention called e-mail or, god forbid, a telephone. Crowley P.S. Satanic librarian P.P.S. Any good wine lately?

Crowley, Nothing about your job sounds dreary! I can’t imagine how clever you must need to be to keep up with all those complex laws. My brand of bibliophilia keeps me quite on the sidelines to that sort of thing, but I’ve always wanted to learn more about how it all works behind the scenes. Satanic Librarian— I’m furious to admit that’s a much warmer guess. Practically spot on for my dear friend Anathema, though she has threatened me with castration if I am ever to use “satanist” in place of “occultist” again. Wine— I had an extraordinarily disappointing glass of Sauv Blanc with my dinner that I wasn’t even going to bother rating, but receiving your latest postcard has cheered me up considerably. Perhaps I can manage a 3/10. Aziraphale P.S. Eye-Mail? Am I saying that right? You’ll have to show me how this fandangled contraption works.

Aziraphale, I think you’re the first person to ever respond so happily about copyright law. I am starting to doubt your sanity and will be sending a Rorschach print postcard as soon as I can find one. They have to exist, right? Your French postcards are way prettier than the ones I’ve been finding here, so maybe you can keep an eye out and send me one — with a full psych eval on the back. Ta. What the fuck is an occultist librarian? Crowley

Crowley, I’m so glad you like the recent postcards. Part of my enthusiasm for writing was in finding designs I knew Anathema would enjoy, but I know so little about you and your tastes, I’ve been guessing rather blindly. Any hints would be much appreciated. Today’s card was procured in a town I passed through on a day trip to Blois, depicting a quaint little bookshop that reminded me so much of my own. I browsed it far longer than I meant to, and treated myself to an espresso from a cafe next door before leaving. I usually enjoy sweeter drinks, but the coffee here is far too enjoyable to dilute. Anathema is a librarian that specialises in the occult. Shall I redact my last statement about your cleverness? Aziraphale

Aziraphale AH HA! You have a shop! So you’re a shopkeeper. But how does that tie into satanism and wine? Can I have 1 more little clue? And if your shop is anything at all like the picture on that postcard, maybe you’re less of an axe murdering psychopath and really some mysterious forest fae. No wonder you’re so against me clearing all your trees. That would explain the weird effect you’ve your postcards have been having on me. Here I am, minding my own business, suddenly craving hot chocolate. Yesterday I wanted to go to the library. I don’t even know where the library is! This craving for cosiness is entirely out of character for me and I demand you release me from your spell. P.S. Stopped by the pub for a drink tonight and randomly tried a glass of Clos des Chenes (Madame Veuve Point). Total slap in the face. Going back for more tomorrow — 8/10 Crowley

Crowley, The game is hot and cold, my dear, not twenty questions. No clues. I’m sorry to hear that you’re so afraid of embracing true cosiness. If I’m honest, I don’t think it’s off-brand for you at all. You may present yourself coolly, but here you are writing snail mail to a total stranger just to try and bring him comfort. And succeeding at it. The cosiness lives within you. Marroneto Madonna delle Grazie this evening — 9.49/10 Also, you can’t have a P.S. before you sign off. That’s what postscript means. Aziraphale

Aziraphale Alright, fine. My final answer: You’re an antique book dealer, restorer, and collector, who specialises in misprinted bibles and esoteric non fiction. If I had to guess, I’d say you’ve owned your storefront since the early 90s, but still haven’t figured out how to list your opening hours on google maps, leaving poor students pulling their hair out and venting bad reviews all over Reddit. Crowley P.S. I’m just like Shakespeare, making things up as I go along. Soon everyone will be doing it.

Crowley You fiend. Google is cheating. Aziraphale

Aziraphale, I have NO idea what you’re talking about. If that little French bookshop made me so desperate for a quiet comfy afternoon that I searched up every book store in Soho (16 btw) and stumbled upon A.Z. Fell & Co by total accident, that had nothing to do with our game, and made no influence on my excellent guessing skills. Though I was disappointed you’ve shut the shop while you’re away. I was kind of hoping to have a poke around and learn a little more about you. Counting down the weeks, Crowley

Aziraphale, It’s been a few days since I heard anything from you — I hope all is well. I hope I didn’t cross a line. I hope When  If you Where are you off to next, then? My suggestion is for somewhere nice and warm, so you can tell me all about it and I can pretend it hasn’t been raining for four days straight. There are little rivers in the gutters and everything. No idea if there are good books in warm places, but you said yourself this is a working holiday, and I don’t think I’ve heard a single thing about the holiday part yet. Sav blanc for dinner tonight, hope it’s better than your 3/10! C

My Dear Crowley, I’m still terribly cross with you for Googling me. But my silence was totally accidental and I apologise for leaving you in the lurch. I completely forgot to mention I had an overnight trip to Munich, which turned into a long weekend when the book dealer I was scheduled to meet got food poisoning. I did not mean to worry you. I can only hope you managed to avoid that dreadful photograph of me that the realtors refuse to take down from their website. Aziraphale

Aziraphale It’s a nice picture. Food poisoning aside, how was Munich? Your dear Crowley.

Crowley exhaled through his teeth and pressed his face into his hands. He knew he was pushing it. He couldn’t stop pulling up the photo of his last card (he’d started taking pictures before sending them, so he wouldn’t forget things he’d asked and lose track of conversational threads), the endearing sign off still taunting him as it had from the moment he scrawled it out. Aziraphale had never addressed a postcard to him so affectionately, so surely it was intentional? Surely it meant something? Surely it was okay for him to respond in kind?

Believe it or not, Crowley didn’t want to push. He just wanted to acknowledge. I saw that, he wanted to say. This is okay with me. But even a response as gentle as that had the potential to scare Aziraphale away if he wasn’t already wanting it.

It wasn’t Aziraphale’s fault that Crowley flocked to confident affection like a moth to flame. The traveller’s endearments had hooked him from the start; at first it was appreciation from a distance, enjoying the way he spoke to his Dearest A and only very quietly wishing he could hear the words aloud. He had no idea when that had turned into a firecracker that lived in his chest and hissed to life whenever he so much as glanced at Aziraphale’s blue cursive.

There were too many missing puzzle pieces, too many things he didn’t know. Who was Anathema? For all the affection he had come to adore, she was more likely a romantic interest than anything else. Crowley had flipped urgently through his stack of postcards for mentions of the woman and gasped triumphantly when he pulled out the art deco painting of some historic Paris hotel. My dear friend Anathema, he had called her, but that wasn’t enough to confirm anything. Crowley was still a stranger at that point (practically still am, he chastised himself), so what obligation did Aziraphale have to blurt out the details of all his relationships?

He had my dear friend, but he also had a dozen my, darling, dearest, and lovely’s to muddy the waters. As far as Crowley could tell, he was at even odds for flirting with a taken man.

“Counting down the weeks” and the five days of silence that followed it had nothing on the anxiety that this stupid sign off was causing him.

C I spent most of my Munich trip in a bit of a daze, I’m afraid. Last minute change of plans put me in such a tizzy, even on the best of days. I did secure a new volume for my collection, which is what counts in the end! I’m certainly going to have my work cut out for me once the time comes to secure all these fragile tomes for the train home, but I’ve decided not to think about that until I absolutely have to. ███████ ██ █████ ████ ██ Tell me dear, what does a day in the life of a dreary trademark lawyer look like? A

Atizzyraphale, Can’t believe you’re having me waste a card on this when you’re out here galavanting about Europe hunting for eon old books and sampling luxurious wines, but here goes. I’m usually up 7:59 to get out the door at 8 — Tube to the office, no point driving such a short way — Coffee from a cart outside our building (Americano 9.5/10 every time) — Lock myself in my office for 9 hours, usually parsing contracts and revising upcoming trials — Walk thru the park to get home — Usually takeaway for dinner + watch whatever Netflix recommends to me — 50/50 chance I pass out at 9pm like a grandpa. What’s your favourite place you’ve eaten at in Paris? C

Crowley You are a truly awful storyteller. There’s so much you left out that I’m dying to know! What is your office like? Which park do you walk through? I’m particularly fond of bringing my lunch to St James, but it’s been a while since I thought to pay a visit. I adore exploring for hole-in-the-wall establishments and have found some true gems, but it’s difficult to pick a favourite. I’ve narrowed it down to a tapas bar in Odéon and a crepery in Bastille near where I’m staying. I will keep you updated as deliberations continue. Aziraphale P.S. My goodness I only just realised what you called me in your last postcard

A My office is ok. It’s nice, but in a sleek/glass/minimalist or maybe brutalist architecture kinda way, not much to describe. Your postcards are the only bit of colour in the place. Shockingly similar to my apartment now that I think about it. My day is just one shiny concrete building to another, with some caffeine and salt in between. I love St James. That’s the one I pass thru. I bet it’s lovely in the afternoon, I’m only there in the evenings, lurking around to catch a whiff of nature before I’m back to concrete hell. Christ, I sound like I hate my life. I’m just overdue for some cosy, but someone’s bookshop is closed. I’m having wine rating withdrawals. Tell me what to buy at the bottle shop this weekend. C

Dear Crowley, Apologies for keeping you so in suspense. Yesterday’s Paolo Saracco Pinot Nero was a dismal 6.42/10. I’m nearing the end of Anathema’s wine list, but will try and remember to keep notes of anything I order with meals. If you’d like. (I had assumed you were just humouring me). I didn’t realise you kept my postcards with you at your desk. That’s very sweet. It does sound like you’re in need of a “self-care day”, as Anathema would call it. Have you done anything unapologetically cosy lately? Aziraphale

Aziraphale Course I do. Loved that last one btw. Thank you for the extra bit of colour. You’ll be pleased to know I went and had a cosy weekend just so I’d have something to report here. 10/10 should do that every week. Earl grey for breakfast (used to drink EG every morning, why don’t I do that anymore??) in a cafe round the corner, then hit up the markets for expensive organic groceries and made a homecooked pork & sweet potato souvlaki for lunch. Was going to eat it in the park but the rain came back, so I had a bath instead. Speaking of keeping me in suspense, how go the restaurant deliberations? Crowley

Dear Crowley, Your weekend sounds marvellous and I’m so proud of you for finally going after what you clearly wanted. I wish I ███████████ could have a day like that myself. Do you enjoy cooking? Aziraphale P.S. I’m delighted to announce that Monsieur Rossignol’s Crepery is the clear winner. I went back for lunch twice since you asked, and I’m tempted for a quick dessert on my way to the post box. I wonder how well they would keep if I ordered some for the train home?

Dear To Aziraphale, Would you be furious with me if I said I’ve never had a crepe? At least I don’t think so. Maybe I have. I’ll have to look up creperies nearby to give it a go (since not all of us can afford to go buzz around Europe whenever we like). And yeah I do — like cooking, I mean. I don’t really do it anymore though, can’t really be bothered when I’m always cooking for 1. No one to impress, so might as well order in, you know? Do you? Crowley

Dear Crowley, I could never be furious over such a thing! But you simply must — but if you can wait until I return to London, allow me to send my recommendations before you dine out. Nothing compares to an authentic Parisian crepe, but there are a few establishments around Soho that have my seal of approval, and I would hate for you to experience anything less than the very best. How disappointing to hear you cook so rarely nowadays. I’m sure you’re an excellent chef. I can find my way around a kitchen if I need to, but prefer to dine on food made with care by someone who actually knows what they’re doing. Aziraphale P.S. Sampled a delightful 8.19/10 Matias Riccitelli Semillon with my lunch today.

Aziraphale, MY LOCAL HAD THE MATIAS RICCITIELLI SEMILLON!!! I’ve just cracked it open while I wait for my food to arrive. We can finally compare scores! And set up some kind of translation guide in case my 9 is your 4 etc. Are you ever going to tell me how your ratings actually work? What is the 2nd decimal place for? Fuck that’s good. Delightful for a white, like you said. Covering up your rating with my other hand so I don’t cheat. I’m not usually one for Semillon, so keep that in mind — 8/10 from me. Oh shit, no translation necessary. Go us. Crowley P.S. Excellent chef? You have absolutely nothing to base that off. Full of hot air, you are.

Dearest Crowley, I’m afraid I don’t have nearly enough paper to explain all the points on my wine scale. Besides, we seem to be perfectly in tune as it is. As for your cooking, I’m doing the very best I can with the information I’ve got. I can hardly taste it for myself from all the way out here. I’m despondent to report that some last minute business dealings have started taking up most of my day, and this working holiday is once again skewed in the working favour. I might take a leaf from your book and enjoy a nice long bath tonight. Aziraphale

Dear Aziraphale, My apologies, o lord of leisure. I’ll be sure to remedy the situation with London’s finest express shipping service. Would you prefer spaghetti pomodoro or a slice of galette?* (*I take no responsibility for the state of my food upon arrival) I like where your head’s at. Baths are good. I can picture you now, crown of bubbles and a miraculously dry paperback in one hand, glass of bubbly in the other. Pinky out. Definitely candles. Rubber duck y/n? I also assume your “business dealings” look like back alley mafia meet ups, where some body builder in a tuxedo slides a suitcase over to you, but instead of money it’s full of coffee stained Penguin books. Instead of a gun you’re armed with a letter opener shaped like a little sword. Don’t ruin this for me. Crowley

Dearest Crowley, I booked my return train ticket today, and am relieved to report that I’ll be back in London on the 27th. Be a dear and hold off the rain for me, Aziraphale

Aziraphale Oh, wow. Really? That’s soon. Great. Good, to know. For the PO box and whatnot. I’ll hold off from sending any spaghetti your way. I can’t imagine not having your postcards to   I’ll miss your   What should I In case this is the last card that has time to reach you, thanks for all the chats. It’s been great. I’ll do what I can for the rain, but no promises. Crowley

Dearest Crowley, Thank you for all you’ve given me these last few weeks. I can’t imagine this trip without your correspondence and it will be sad to go without it. I Imagine you’ll be far too busy to keep up with a pen pal indefinitely, especially when I no longer have interesting stories to share about my travels. I’m terribly sorry to admit that £250 glasses of wine are not a regular weekly occurrence for me. But I’m looking forward to returning to normalcy, sunshine or otherwise. I’ll likely be locked in my bookshop for the next few weeks while I unpack and catalogue the latest additions to my hoard, and then there are some volumes that require careful cleaning, and rebinding in one extreme case. Before I lose myself to work entirely, I think I’ll take my lunch in the park. The weather report suggests this Saturday should be perfect for it. Yours, Aziraphale

Chapter Text

Aziraphale knew he had a tendency to hide behind pleasantries and periphrases. It was terrifying to say what one truly felt, truly wanted , even when drafting those thoughts out on paper (several times, in fact, tearing through multiple postcards until he was satisfied with his facade of composed confidence). And that was only if one could figure out what one wanted in the first place.

He thought his invitation had been perfectly clear when he was writing it. Now that he sat alone on a bench by the pond in St James’ park, Aziraphale wasn’t so sure.

It had only just gone twelve thirty. Perhaps Crowley enjoyed a late lunch? Even if he’d arrived right at noon like Aziraphale had, it might take him a while to find the right bench with the right blond on it. So, Aziraphale wasn’t sure, but his sushi would keep, and he could wait.

Crowley had been standing stock still by the park entrance for a solid fifteen minutes. He’d entered St James’ slowly, but had halted suddenly enough to scuff his scaled shoes.

Aziraphale’s flash of white blond hair was impossible to miss.

After those initial fifteen minutes, where not a single coherent thought managed to materialise beyond there he is , he opted to lean his weight against one of the wrought iron fences with the feigned relaxation of his usual slouch. The only thing that gave away his facade were his knuckles, the sharp ridges as pale as Aziraphale’s fluffy curls from the intensity of his grip around a metal picket.

There he is , he thought again, just as uselessly as the first time. 

The excitement that fizzled in his chest was undeniable. The yearning was palpable, the push that listed him forward off the fence, urging to get closer to the angelic creature sitting in a lucky streak of sunlight — or perhaps it was really a pull , for his buttery bones felt less like they were moving of their own accord, and more like he was falling into orbit. 

The panic, also, was undeniable. His whitened grip kept him anchored.

Aziraphale sat squarely in the middle of a bench, head turned towards the pond and hands folded neatly in his lap. He had food in some container, and he seemed to be watching the ducks in earnest. Crowley noticed right away (after first noticing the glow of sunlight that bounced off his hair and swarmed him like a halo) that he had actually come to eat his lunch, and that realisation made the panic widen inside him.

The thought was not lost on him that Aziraphale had never specifically invited Crowley there. It sat front and centre, actually, from the moment Crowley rolled out of bed to spend the entire morning fretting over hairstyles and outfits. He’d managed to look past it as he made his way downstairs, smiling tightly and avoiding eye contact with it like a doomsdayer sayer in the street while he sauntered through Mayfair to St James.

It looked at him squarely, now. Impossible to avoid. He had no choice but to look right back at it, to acknowledge the growing possibility that to join him would be to impose. This thing of theirs was so undefined, so fragile, so nebulous, his only option was to err on the side of caution. To protect it, lest he grip too hard and break it instead. 

So, Crowley wasn’t sure, but his heart wouldn’t keep, and he left.

The main thing that had carried Crowley home on Saturday afternoon was the irrefutable fact that Aziraphale still had his address. If he got it wrong, it could be fixed. Aziraphale could write again and ask what had held him up, maybe have the decency to finally offer some kind of phone number, or at least a return address in London. If he wanted, he could even curse Crowley out for his cowardice, chastise him for misunderstanding, even berate or abuse him in that charming blue cursive. 

Anything would be better than the two weeks of silence that came instead.

It needn’t be mentioned how many hours were in fifteen days, nor how many of those hours Crowley spent pacing, nail biting, sneering, and slamming doors and mailbox latches with excessive force. Crowley certainly wasn’t going to mention it.

He also wasn’t going to mention the fifteen whole days it took before he realised that he did have an address for Aziraphale in London, even if it wasn’t one for mail.

Soho was close enough to walk, but far enough that the stroll would give him too much time to talk himself out of things again. Taking his Bentley meant his attention was fixed on shifting gears amidst city traffic rather than his own thoughts, and that he could sit in the parked car for a good half hour to work up the sheer nerve he needed to cross the street. From his place behind the idle wheel, he could stare longingly at the cornerstone of A.Z. Fell & Co, not unlike a month ago, when his grip was relaxed around the steering wheel and the flutter in his chest was soft and distant. Now, the lights inside the building were on, and his heart hammered loud and unapologetically behind his temples.

As soon as he noticed the urge to just be inside already , he flung himself out of the car before he had a chance to change his mind. Crowley stormed the front steps—

And came to an abrupt halt at the chime of a doorbell.

The tint of his sunglasses obscured the figure that approached from the other side of the door’s glass panelling, right until it swung open and they were standing nose to nose. Crowley skidded to a stop and nearly tumbled back on his arse from the sheer force of it, but Aziraphale’s gravity kept him on his feet, orbit close intact.

The bookseller startled backwards at the unexpected obtrusion, his eyes wide and a hand clutching his chest as if to hold his breath from spilling out of him. With his hands tucked snugly into tight jean pockets, Crowley had no such protection. His exhale fell out in one heavy gust; even his oxygen pulled towards his new cosmic centre.

It seemed that even in his tense state of shock, Aziraphale up close was literally breathtaking. There might have been some credence to Aziraphale’s detest of that “dreadful photograph” online, for it didn’t do him the slightest justice. Weeks of endearments flooded Crowley’s mind and washed out any remaining scraps of panic, leaving him on the precipice of doing something monumentally stupid — until he finally saw past the beauty of Aziraphale’s face and noticed the expression on it. It was only then that he realised, that he remembered , Aziraphale didn’t have a clue who he was.

“I’m terribly sorry, I just have to pop out for a tick.”

Aziraphale reached behind him to rap a knuckle on the glass pane where the closed sign had been flipped. Crowley stared, not at the sign, but at his mouth, and the extraordinary voice that fell out of it.

It was exactly how Crowley had pictured him to speak, and yet richer than anything he could possibly dream up. His vernacular matched his crisp accent, but the musical rise and fall of his tone had Crowley flitting through his favourite written lines all over again, desperate to hear them played through those lips.

“Ngk.” He tried, truly, but sound stood no chance of escaping his throat.

Aziraphale was eyeing him carefully now, his smile tight and his eyes wavering. His look was piercing, growing impatient, wondering where this stranger’s propriety had gone to leave him blocking such a narrow doorway on a public street.

“So…” Aziraphale attempted, making a show of looking over Crowley’s shoulder, then faintly wiggling the hand that still hovered over his chest.

Crowley’s eyes dropped down to it when the gesture brought his attention to a pale cream rectangle. Aziraphale was clutching an envelope.

“Post office?” he somehow managed to choke out.

Aziraphale huffed out a breath then forced out another pinched smile. He nodded, held the letter up to show it off, then quickly dropped it back down. It had been enough for Crowley to see the flash of Mayfair in slanted blue ink. 

He felt his eyes widen behind his glasses, then he tumbled over his precipice of stupidity by reaching a thoughtless, eager hand for it.

Aziraphale snapped back, guarding the envelope so tightly against his chest it creased the paper between his fingers. His polite smile was cast aside in place of a stern frown, his eyes widened beneath his furrowed brow. Excuse me, his expression screamed. How dare you.

Crowley quickly withdrew his hand, but couldn’t tear his eyes away from it. There he is , he thought so loudly he couldn’t believe Aziraphale didn’t hear it. Two weeks of hesitation (on both of their parts), but there it is.

His mouth was agape when he finally dragged his gaze back up to meet Aziraphale’s eyes. 

That’s mine, he should have said.

It’s me, he wished he’d shouted.

But ineffectual as he was to the whims of orbital gravity, he simply stared at Aziraphale and let him take take take every breath that fought to muster into a sound.

Crowley could only watch as Aziraphale’s face journeyed through a dozen flickering expressions. His frown deepened, his eyes narrowed, his chin even tilted ever so slightly up. But then shoulders squared and his lips parted, pinched at the corners until his eyes blew wide, and before he knew it, a similar gust of air was wrenched out of him. Suddenly his eyes were frantic, darting millimetres in every direction, until his shoulders slumped so far back he fell back against the door with an unflattering rattle of the latch.

Crowley knew the feeling. He was still engulfed in it.

Aziraphale drew another breath and his lips were shaking. His knuckles were white, blending into the pale paper they creased.

“Would you care for a cup of tea?” he asked carefully, slowly reaching for the door handle.

Crowley had wanted this to be perfect, had wanted to be perfect, but he couldn’t help but stare. First at Aziraphale, then at the expanse of his shop once he finally set his foot inside. 

Aziraphale faded into a shuffling of footsteps as Crowley paced and cast his gaze around the tall ceilings and towering shelves. Inside the shop was everything he could have dreamed of, everything he’d been craving, and yet it was indescribable to finally wander it. Like the description of rain versus the fresh smell of it. He inhaled deeply and let the dust motes carry his stress away with them.

“Bit cluttered,” he drawled. “Oh, nevermind. I can see a bit of floor over there. You’re all good.” 

It was a meek attempt to regain some of his decorum, to brush off how deeply affected he was to finally set foot in the dream he’d been tossing and turning over for weeks. He turned around in a graceful arc, channelling as much of his calculated composure back into his movements as he could, but it stuttered when he saw Aziraphale smiling back at him. It was a tender smile, his whole face soft around it.

He had already bared his soul to this man, already admitted how badly he needed this. The realisation that he had no mask to hide behind was a cold and terrifying one, but Aziraphale’s smile helped warm him quickly. There was nowhere for him to hide. And, he noted belatedly, no need to.

Aziraphale had just finished shucking off and neatly folding his coat to reveal a smooth caramel waistcoat and mist-blue button down. He only broke eye contact long enough to set it down on a low table with Crowley’s letter perched atop, before he was looking back at him with his hands folded neatly in front of him.

Crowley finally sauntered over to the table that stole his attention away from the books. 

“Can I…?” He bent to pick up the letter, but Aziraphale snatched it up with a shaking head and crumpled it in one hand.

“No need for that now,” he muttered weakly. 

His hands were shaking. Why were his hands shaking?

“I should make a start on that tea,” he added, still smiling, but it twitched to match his trembling fingers.

Crowley could only watch as Aziraphale turned to walk deeper in the shop, pausing to haphazardly tuck the crumpled envelope in a desk drawer, and disappear into a back room. Then Crowley thought fuck that , fuck the sudden wall of nervousness that had sprouted up between them, and made four long strides to join him through the door.

Inside was another couch, more books, and a humble kitchenette with a sink and electric kettle. Aziraphale was just setting the kettle into its cradle when Crowley slunk up beside him, and spun to give him a look of delighted surprise. His smile settled a little more calmly on his face as Crowley leaned against the counter, close enough to brush, and watched him pluck two teacups out of a cupboard. He made no attempt to lean away from Crowley’s closeness.

“How do you take it?” He asked softly, the jittery self consciousness replaced with a quiet affection.

Crowley briefly wondered if Aziraphale shared his same bone-deep desire to know every inconsequential thing about him, from how he took his tea to whether he slept with socks on. Unimportant details that mattered more than anything he’d ever studied.

Aziraphale had pulled forward a tin of sugar and a box of teabags. The box was a familiar shade of cream and yellow, and when the bookseller popped it open, Crowley saw it was filled to the brim with Earl Grey bags. A fresh box, barely touched. Crowley allowed himself to smile.

“One sugar,” he murmured back to match Aziraphale’s volume. “And milk.”

“How much?”

“Too much.”

That got a smile out of him and Crowley’s heart somersaulted. While Aziraphale spooned out their sugar (two for himself, Crowley noted, watching the process with an eagle eye), Crowley turned to the fridge to fetch their milk.

“Oh, thank you dear,” Aziraphale cooed. Crowley’s eyes lingered on the fridge door as Aziraphale plucked the carton out of his hand.

The fridge held a cluster of magnets, less than half of which held anything to the door. A receipt with ink that had long since faded from the paper; a polaroid photo of an unfamiliar young man and woman sitting shoulder to shoulder in a diner booth; the photo side of one of Crowley’s postcards; and a worn tarot card depicting a naked woman bent over knee deep water, a bright night sky above her.

The Star sobered Crowley just enough to remember a rather crucial question he’d left off his list, which he’d better let jump the queue. The kettle clicked off and he slid his way back to Aziraphale’s side, watching as he poured the water.

“You never told me how you know Anathema.” What is she to you? he didn’t have the courage to ask.

The room fell silent when Aziraphale stilled the kettle to hold back the trickle of water. He turned his head to Crowley with a curious lift of his brows.

“My librarian friend?” he probed.

A few words started and stopped in Crowley’s throat, before he finally elaborated, “You regarded her very fondly in your initial postcards.”

Stray drips of boiling water scattered over the counter as Aziraphale’s shoulders jolted with relaxed, unabashed laughter. Crowley watched him curiously as he finished setting their tea and put the kettle back in its place.

“I keep forgetting she never actually read those,” he chuckled to himself, then turned to give Crowley his full attention. It was almost too bright, and he was suddenly grateful for his glasses. “She’s a good friend. A mentee, if you will. But she’s a right devil. The affection is really just to annoy her.” There was a smugness on his face, if only for a moment, as he pursed his lips and turned back to their tea. 

“It wouldn’t annoy me,” Crowley thought. 

Only, no. 

The sound of his own voice caught both of them off guard and he blanched, mortified at his own tongue. 

Aziraphale looked at him suddenly, his eyes wide and open. Not physically, not tangibly. But somehow everything was there, open and bare. For a split second he was confused, but the fondness soon swallowed it up. Swallowed Crowley up.

“I would hope not,” Aziraphale eventually murmured.

A delicate porcelain teacup was placed into his hands, and Aziraphale turned his whole body towards him as he lifted his own to his lips. They just stood there, hips leant against the counter, a mere breath of proximity between them as they sipped (Aziraphale) and merely looked at (Crowley) their tea. A mouthful probably would have helped to ease the tension growing in Crowley’s throat, but he already felt so hot and flustered that a single sip might have melted through his ribcage.

“Can I see what you bought on your trip?” he asked, amazing himself with the coolness of his request when he felt like a supernova inside.

“The—The books?” Aziraphale stammered, clearly surprised. His teacup clinked back into the saucer that he held in his other hand and he stared up at Crowley with — somehow — even more fondness before. 

Crowley took a sip of perfectly brewed, perfectly mixed tea. He was melting anyway.

“When it’s done, it’ll look like— hang on a moment, I’ll go fetch it.”

Aziraphale flung himself out of his armchair to go and poke around for a book at his desk. Crowley sat forward off the couch to set down his empty teacup and pluck up the teapot. It was an old, ornate thing, the ceramic so heavy that he couldn’t tell how full it was until he tilted it on its side. He tipped, waiting, then tipped some more. The blasted thing was empty.

Crowley sat back against the couch, tealess, and oozed into the fluffy tartan blanket that had been swathing him. He’d finished a whole pot of tea on his own. At some point, Aziraphale had offered him the tartan monstrosity, and his sunglasses had come off. He didn’t need them anymore anyway: the sun had set and it was growing steadily darker outside.

The truth of it was startling, but Crowley couldn’t help relaxing a little heavier into the bundle of blankets that surrounded him. He’d never gotten so comfortable in someone else’s space before. He’d never gotten so comfortable in his own.

He was staring out the front windows, the decreasing flow of traffic turning to a steady blur as his eyes glazed over, when Aziraphale returned. Crowley was slow to realise and looked up at him after a beat; Aziraphale had followed Crowley’s eyeline through the window, and was regarding the dim street with a crease between his brow.

“Oh dear,” he mumbled. “It’s gotten quite late, hasn’t it?”

His fingers fidgeted around the cover of a book he held in both hands. Crowley watched as Aziraphale regarded him with another montage of micro expressions. He didn’t release his book, nor sit down. Eventually, he gave Crowley an unconfident little shrug.

“I understand if you want to… I wouldn’t want to keep you, is all.”

Crowley sank a little more purposefully into the couch, slouching even further down. He didn’t have any of Aziraphale’s postcards there to reference, but he knew them well enough for all the times he’d read them; he’d dedicated the last two weeks in particular to analysing all of Aziraphale’s subtle invitations and euphemised requests, studying up on the language he hadn’t been so fluent in before.

It was Aziraphale’s boldness — trying to invite himself to try Crowley’s cooking, to take him out for crepes, to know the inside of his apartment — that gave Crowley the confidence to look at him head on and shrug.

“You know exactly what you’re keeping me from, angel.”

Uninteresting Netflix specials. Passing out at 9 o’clock when he was still so abuzz with energy. A colourless evening. Concrete hell.

The bookseller’s shoulders swelled and his face brightened with delight. There was still a twinge of hesitation on his face, but it would be easy to brush away.

“But it’s dinner time.”

Crowley frowned at him, just for a moment, before his eyes glinted mischievously and he kicked a leg out to make himself even more comfortable. 

“I forgot, you’re unfamiliar with the technology of our time. Food can be delivered now, you see.”

Aziraphale’s eyes sharpened on him — it wasn’t so much a glare, but it was close. The only thing stopping it was the haughty smile that was struggling to stretch wider than he was allowing it to. 

“Can it really?” he asked airily. Crowley burst into a grin as Aziraphale bent to gently place the forgotten tome down on the table. “Well, you’re the expert; any recommendations?”

Crowley all but dove forward to fish his phone out from his back pocket. He tapped open the first delivery app he saw (then changed his mind and switched to another), and only had to scroll a page and a half before his eye caught on a restaurant that made his stomach twitch with agreement. Eager to order, but more eager to please, he turned the phone around and held it out for Aziraphale’s approval.

He leant over the table to see, steadying the phone with the lightest graze around Crowley’s fingers. He hummed, delighted and keen at the prospect.

“Imagine that with a good red,” he noted, regarding Crowley shyly from beneath his lashes.

Crowley was still learning, but he was fluent enough to get by. Another secret invitation; one that he would tear open gladly.

“You’re the expert,” he parroted. “Any recommendations?”

There was no point in discerning who started what. The difference between Crowley inching over on the couch and Aziraphale stepping up to it was miniscule, a photo finish, and the details of how their dinner began were insignificant compared to how it ended up.

Somehow, over the course of the gradually darkening evening, Aziraphale joined him under the blanket and leaned the whole of his weight against Crowley’s shoulder. Somehow, Crowley’s arm had drifted from around the back of the couch to around the warmth of Aziraphale’s shoulders, and along the way, their thighs shuffled up together, equally as eager to meet. They each sipped their third glasses of Merlot into already full bellies, and let soft hair brush softer cheeks when they occasionally dipped and tilted their heads to meet each other’s eye. Somewhere in the shop, a gramophone crooned. In his arms, an angel giggled.

“What’s your first name?”

“Anthony.” Crowley let his opinion of it known with an exaggerated grimace, and Aziraphale got the picture. “What’s your favourite season?”

“Winter,” Aziraphale answered immediately. “I do love Christmas time. It’s always a treat to explore the countryside when the weather is at its most picturesque — oh! What kind of car do you have?”

“A vintage Bentley,” Crowley preened at Aziraphale’s dazzled look. “A lot of work, but she deserves it. Did you go to uni?”

“Linguistics,” Aziraphale nodded simply, but he kept his head tilted up, his cheek pressed into Crowley’s shoulder. Comfort had long been sacrificed for the sake of watching each other’s answers.  “Never did finish my doctorate, though. What kind of pyjamas do you wear to bed?”

Crowley gave him a drunk smile that had nothing to do with the wine. “Want to find out?” 

A hand smacked his chest with no force behind it, then decided it lived there. Aziraphale beamed. Crowley couldn’t help leaning even closer, a mere spectator to the laws of gravitational pull, and let their noses brush together.

“What’s your favourite book?” Aziraphale mumbled.

“...James Bond,” Crowley answered just as quietly, honestly picking the first thing that came to mind.

He felt Aziraphale’s breath against his lips, then heard the sharp whoosh of an inhale as Aziraphale wrenched himself out of Crowley’s grip to sit upright.

“James Bond?” he shrieked.

Crowley’s head fell back over the arch of the sofa as he laughed, loud and free, and still surrounded by the warmth of Aziraphale’s hand that pushed himself up but dared not leave his chest. In one fell swoop Crowley managed to deposit his glass on the table so he could capture Aziraphale’s hand and keep him anchored there.

“I told you I didn’t know where the library was,” he snickered.

“My dear,” Aziraphale admonished. “I’ll gladly take you.”

And that was a wrap on Crowley’s self control. He squeezed their fingers together and lunged forward, and though the distance should have been a little more awkward to cross, he met Aziraphale’s lips all at once with no strain to his neck at all. As if Aziraphale had seen it coming, and closed some of the gap himself.