Chapter Text
When the bell over the shop door jingles at half-past two, Leah looks up from organizing the remaining items of last season's stock in the clearance bin to size up the potential customers.
The woman that swaggers in is sixty percent sharply suited leg, thirty percent riotously curly ginger hair, and twenty percent red-painted smirk. Leah realizes, vaguely, that the percentages don't quite work out, but the wicked cut of the charcoal gray suit the woman is wearing makes her think that the specifics of numbers—chiefly, any to do with money—probably don't matter much to this woman.
The man that follows in her wake—who was, Leah realizes, just holding the door for the woman—is also wearing a suit but in the exact opposite direction. If the woman looks like she just stepped off a runway in Prague, complete with three-inch stilettos and designer sunglasses, the man looks like he just stepped off the stage of a Dickens production. He has an absently cheerful look on his cherubic face as he folds his hands behind him and peers around the shop, sunlight gleaming off the white froth of curls on his head. They look so incongruous that it's not until the woman nudges the man with her elbow and directs his attention to the corsets section with a jerk of her chin that Leah realizes they didn't just happen to arrive at the store at the same time but are, in fact, together.
"Welcome to The Boudoir," Maude greets from behind the service counter. She founded the boutique some thirty years ago with a firm belief in all shapes, all persuasions, and fair wages. Leah kind of wants to be her when she grows up. "Anything in particular we can help you find today?" she asks with the sort of twinkly smile that Leah had formerly thought only belonged to mildly scandalous dowager aunts in regency romances.
The man, who is wearing an honest-to-god fob watch on his velvet waistcoat, practically blooms into a happy smile. Leah feels she might need to blink away afterimages. "Oh!" he says, and then he wrinkles his nose up in a conspiratorial grin, "I should think so, yes." He rocks forward on his toes and back again and tilts his head up to beam at the woman next to him. And he does have to tilt up, because while she's a tall woman in her own right, she's practically towering over him in her pointy stilettos.
Despite herself, Leah is a bit charmed. Men coming in to pick out racy underwear together with their girlfriends or mistresses or—sometimes, refreshingly—their wives as a sort of awkwardly public foreplay is depressingly common. But at least here the man looks genuinely besotted with the woman and, judging by the little dimples tugging at the woman's cheek, she with him. They even look to be about the same age.
"We're going to browse, first," the woman drawls, tucking her hands in her pockets and swiveling her head around, taking in the contents of the little store. She still hasn't taken her sunglasses off. Leah pastes on a professional smile when the woman's gaze (presumably) pauses on her. The woman tilts her head consideringly, and suddenly Leah feels seen in a way she has not once felt in her long years in retail. It makes the hairs on the back of her neck stand up.
"Do let us know if you need any recommendations, or if you'd like to try anything on," Maude continues. "We provide professional fittings free of charge. We also have a sitting area where your young man can have a glass of bubbly while you try things on. A bit of modeling is perfectly fine, so long as everyone minds their manners." It's the standard speech Maude gives any couple that comes in, one designed to set boundaries early. She absolutely will (and has) throw people out who get too rude for the kind of a-bit-naughty-but-still-classy establishment she runs.
The woman's smile stretches a touch feral, and that spooky feeling Leah got earlier intensifies. "Oh, I think we'll be taking you up on that offer, but the glass of bubbly will be for me. He'll be doing the modeling," she says, draping a proprietary arm across the man's shoulders. The man in question shoots her the same sort of exasperated look Leah's mum gives her dad when he's being deliberately trying at a family function.
"Oh!" Maude says, and blinks, then blinks again for good measure, but to her professional credit simply says, "Of course. Forgive the assumption. You'll want to look at the racks in that corner over there, then. A bit friendlier for his shape." She indicates the corner with the exclusively full-figure brands they carry.
Leah finds herself reexamining the couple with renewed interest. They don't often get male clients, and when they do, they either come with a male partner or, if not, come alone and either refuse to make more than shy, slightly mortified eye contact while they hurriedly make their purchases or are the type that Maude unceremoniously kicks out the moment they begin making suggestive comments to Leah or one of the other women employees. The man has drifted toward a rack of the more retro, french silk numbers they carry, which tracks with vibe of his outfit. He reaches out and takes a corner of the knickers between fingers that, even at this distance, Leah can tell are immaculately manicured and sporting a pearlescent sheen over the nails.
"Oh, my dear, look at how pretty these are. And this silk is exquisite," he says, tone noticeable for its complete lack of nervous giggle or husky innuendo. He's admiring a pair of silk and lace unmentionables the same way Leah might consider a nice blouse.
"White, angel? Really?" the woman says, and plucks a wasp-waisted, black-and-red leather corset from a nearby rack. She twists it back and forth admiringly and then waggles it suspended from the tip of a finger in the periphery of the man's vision with a suggestive arch of her eyebrows. He glances at it, does a double-take, and levels her with a frown so disapproving Leah feels the sudden urge to start straightening something in mute apology.
"Be reasonable, darling," he starts, but then abruptly stops and looks from the corset to the woman with a small purse to his lips. "Unless. Are we shopping for you today as well?" he asks politely. "That would look rather fetching on you, though I can't expect it would be comfortable."
Interestingly, the woman, who up until this point has radiated cool smugness like a fine cologne, blushes a deep red and fumbles the corset back to its place on the rack.
"No, we're here for you," she mutters and, after a pause, says, "And leather chafes. Only worth it in a professional capacity."
The man nods seriously, like he's committing this bit of information to memory.
Who, Leah thinks to herself, the flippin' hell are these two.
.
.
.
Across the shop, Crowley's seriously considering giving this whole enterprise up as a bad job. In retrospect, it was foolish of her not to anticipate how quickly Aziraphale would be able to turn this back around to something designed to give her a heart attack.
Then, the sharp ache of desire cuts across her senses, and she cuts a glance from behind her sunglasses at the shop girl folding a pile of loose merchandise into size-marked bins in the clearance section. It's not the sort of desire Crowley might expect in a shop like this, especially for anyone eavesdropping on her and the angel's current conversation. There's nothing sexual to it. It's the kind of desire she sometimes feels from the angel when he's stumbled upon autobiographic historical accounts of a place and time neither of them experienced firsthand.
Crowley lets a self-satisfied smirk tug her lips. When they'd walked in, she'd unfurled a bit of demonic influence, seeing what sort of prospects there might be to inspire a bit of harmless lust in the shop occupants. The older woman woman behind the counter, though staunchly heterosexual, had nevertheless, under the inspiration of what one might consider infernal pheromones, cast a briefly appreciative eye on Crowley's legs. The younger one hadn't reacted in the slightest.
"Angel," she murmurs, drawing Aziraphale's attention from a suspender belt he's holding before him with a speculative gleam to his eyes.
He turns to her with an inquisitive hum, and she tips her glasses down just enough so he can see her cut a covert glance toward the young woman across the shop. Aziraphale, bless him, immediately swivels his entire body toward the woman, an expectant tilt to his eyebrows as he plainly looks her over to see what Crowley is trying to tip him off to.
"You are impossible," Crowley hisses quietly. But apparently he hasn't made a complete hash of it, because the young woman is headed their way. Aziraphale's completely unsubtle stare is being interpreted as an unspoken request for assistance. Which, Crowley supposes, is fair enough in a shop like this.
"Can I help you with anything?" the young woman asks upon approach, a service-industry smile fixed on her face. "Did you need to see any of those in different sizes or colors?" She gestures discreetly at the growing number of hangers suspended from Aziraphale's hand.
Crowley opens her mouth to craft an invitation, but Aziraphale beats her to it.
"As a matter of fact," and here the angel makes a show of reading the name tag affixed to the woman's blouse, "Leah, I believe I'd like to try a few things on, and Anthony here will be in need of her glass of something 'bubbly.'" He beams and pops the B on "bubbly" with too much enthusiasm for Crowley's nerves, but the woman—Leah—seems if not exactly charmed at least not put off by the ridiculous angel.
"Of course," she says. "I can take these back and get one of the rooms set up for you?" She holds out a hand expectantly, and Aziraphale transfers his selections with only a minor amount of fumbling.
"Oh thank you, my dear," he says, practically glowing with effusive thanks. Crowley's eyes are beginning to water. He's laying it on a bit thick, she thinks, but then he hesitates to speak, mouth opening and closing fractionally with anxiety. Oh, she thinks, and leans back to let her angel do what she's come to think of his version of a temptation.
"Leah, if I can be completely candid with you, I'm not well versed in selecting intimate things, and I'm afraid I'm not sure what would fit or look best." He flashes her a quick, nervous smile. "Might you or the lovely proprietress be comfortable with, er, assisting Anthony and myself?" He wrings his hands in front of him, a hopeful smile at war with the partially resigned cant of his eyebrows. Crowley inwardly shudders. Aziraphale's trick to get strangers to do what he wants more or less boils down to asking point blank and then letting the person see every vulnerable emotion roiling inside play out on his face. It's like trying to turn down an exceptionally sad-eyed golden retriever who is, after all, only asking you for a bit of a head pat. Magnificent bastard.
The performance—though Crowley knows Aziraphale would be affronted to hear her call it such—has the predicted outcome: Leah's eyes widen in dismay, and she rushes to assure them she'd be happy to help out, no trouble at all, right this way, and does he have any particular Looks he's trying to achieve?
Aziraphale natters on happily about foundation garments, loungewear, and more playful pieces.
"You see, I'm quite the fan of finer materials—how they look, how they feel," he's confiding to Leah as they lay out a few ensembles on the damask-covered bench in the changing room. Crowley lounges in the open doorway, glass of champagne dangling from her fingertips, admiring the way the angel's light draws the young woman like she's a nervously budding flower. "And while I've never felt bound by, well, the vagaries of fashion—" Crowley snorts, and Aziraphale shoots her an annoyed glance before turning his cheerful exuberance back on the young woman. "—I've always limited myself to a particular gender presentation. Anthony has been supporting me as I expand my horizons."
Leah glances back at Crowley, and the demon can practically see the cogs whirling in the poor thing's brain as she obviously yet again resets her assumptions about what sort of dynamic they have going on here. Crowley heroically resists raising her glass in an ironic toast of "fuck if I know any given day, so godspeed, sweetheart."
After some instructions and suggestions about what order to put the individual pieces on in and tricks to get them affixed when working solo, Leah backs out of the changing room and she and Crowley leave Aziraphale to put on the first ensemble. Crowley sprawls in one of the rococo-inspired upholstered chairs in the private lounge facing the three small changing rooms. Leah leaves and returns quickly, having fetched a few bustiers from stock that should be the right fit for a man-shaped ribcage and the angel's generous belly.
She passes them over the top of the changing room door, with an admonishment that if Aziraphale has any trouble with the hooks to give a shout. He reassures her he's getting on all right, and Leah retreats to the space next to Crowley's chair. The demon can feel the weight of her curiosity like a decadent port on the back of the tongue. Still, this is retail, and Leah has so far presented as quite professional, so Crowley figures this is one of those instances where she'll have to pop the bubble of tension.
"On a scale of one to ten, how high do we rank on your list of weird clients?" Crowley murmurs, tipping her face up with a sympathetic sort of smirk.
Leah blinks down at her, obviously startled to be addressed directly, since thus far Crowley's been content to let Aziraphale carry the conversation. She visibly wars with whether to answer professionally or honestly, and Crowley let's a bit of her real grin leak out in invitation.
"Oh, no higher than a seven," Leah says after a beat, a small flush rising on her cheeks.
"A seven," Crowley echoes and clucks her tongue, bringing her glass up to her mouth but not taking a sip. "Must be losing our touch. Or else this place isn't as classy as the Yelp reviews led me to believe." She keeps her tone gently teasing, hoping to draw the young woman out a bit. Crowley finds inspiring the queer ones she runs across particularly satisfying. Aziraphale would call it a kindness, helping them be braver in their true selves, but Crowley insists it's about the chaos of leaning in to deviance, damning the man, blowing up the establishment, et cetera.
Leah grants her a small, real smile. "How long have you been together?" she asks.
Crowley bobbles her head consideringly. "Depends on how you define together, I suppose. We've been partners—friends—for what feels like forever. We've only been doing more intimate things the past few months."
They're interrupted by the click of the door opening and Aziraphale stepping out, looking shyly pleased with himself. Taupe-colored seamed stockings are held up by garters attached to an elaborately appliqued silk-and-lace suspender belt that gently encircles his belly. Matching knickers peek out from beneath. The look is completed by a matching longline bra with a column of lace climbing the silk from his belly all the way up to the cups, where the fabric becomes completely sheer. The overall impression is refined, practical, but still potently risqué.
"Oh, well done, you two," Crowley says approvingly. "Give us a spin, angel."
Aziraphale pinks but obligingly pivots around on his toes and looks back over his shoulder with his hands on his hips. It's such an obvious pose that Crowley can't help a delighted cackle. The knickers and bra are sheer in the back, showing off the angel's full bum, and the garters create pleasing dimples along the backs of his thighs where they grasp the tops of the stockings. Crowley traces the seams of the stockings with her eyes, down over Aziraphale's shapely calves to the pleasing arch of his feet. A covert glance at Leah reveals a small, stunned-looking smile, but when Crowley breathes in through her mouth she doesn't detect any hint of lustful pheromones. Definitely one of theirs, then.
"This feels absolutely extraordinary," Aziraphale enthuses, and ruins whatever mystique he was going for with the provocative pose by puttering over to the angled mirrors at the back of the lounge and stepping up on the short pedestal to admire himself more fully.
Leah follows behind and helps adjust the angel's bra straps, encouraging him to lean and wiggle while she holds the top edges, "so everything settles in properly." Aziraphale performs an admirable shimmy, as instructed, and Crowley heads off the fond guffaw that tries to burst free as a result with a glug of champagne.
"Oh, that is better," Aziraphale says. "And what exquisite craftsmanship! Leah, my dear, I'm so glad you recommended this one."
"Of course," Leah replies, sounding a bit flustered and returning closer to Crowley's chair.
"You're as pretty as a picture," Crowley says, sufficiently recovered that she can raise her glass in an easy toast. Aziraphale finds her gaze in the mirror's surface and gives her a besotted smile.
"Thank you, darling," he says, so much naked affection in his tone it calls an unexpected blush to Crowley's ears.
"All right, no need to get soppy," she snarks and hides behind another sip of champagne. The glass obligingly refuses to dip below half full.
"I don't think I've worn stockings and garters, let alone shapewear, since Victoria's court," the angel continues blithely. "I'd forgotten how cosy they can feel when fitted properly." He runs a contemplative hand over the curve of his belly. "Though I must say, I do appreciate what they're able to do with elastics these days."
"Were you in a historical production?" Leah asks with polite interest.
"Er," the angel says, freezing and throwing Crowley a discretely terrified look in the mirror.
Crowley thinks he likes Leah, so he takes pity for her sake. "No, he's just one of those types who's popular in those circles—what are they called—where everyone dresses up like it's the turn of the bloody century—not the one with frosted tips, the one before that." Crowley throws her head back in satisfaction as it comes to her: "Reenactors—that's them. He has a whole wardrobe full of unfashionable rags."
Aziraphale turns around properly to scowl at her. "I'll have you know, everything I own is..." He loses steam as he waves a hand vaguely. "Well, I believe they call it 'retro.'"
"They do not," Crowley says, baring too many teeth in a red-slicked smile. "Leah, tell him."
"I'll just fetch that set in the blue like you were asking after and some more champagne," Leah says, and flees. Aziraphale gives Crowley the angelic stinkeye.
The angel tries on three more ensembles in varying shades of cream, peach, baby blue, and taupe. Each are varying levels of naughty, though nothing that would be uncomfortable to wear under his clothes or to lounge in.
"I think this is my favorite," Crowley pronounces as Aziraphale steps out in a pair of blue French silk knickers that reach mid thigh and sport embroidered white flowers and a dainty, lacey fringe. The matching camisole skims over his soft belly, with just enough flare that it flutters nicely when he turns this way and that in the mirrors to get a better look from all sides.
"I thought it would be," Aziraphale says with smug satisfaction as he steps down from the mirrors and pads close enough that Crowley can reach out and take the hem of the camisole between the tips of her fingers and get a firsthand feel of the soft texture.
This is, by far, the tamest set the angel has tried on, and Crowley can feel Leah's curiosity thrumming beside her like a living thing.
Aziraphale surprises her again by taking the initiative in the conversation.
"It's her favorite because it's the one she'll find most comfortable snuggling up to," Aziraphale confides to the young woman, his grin downright puckish. "The rest are for me alone—well, I suppose Anthony does like to look—but this one is for the both of us. We're neither of us very sexual creatures, but we are quite sensual." Of course, then he completely crosses the line by capturing Crowley's hand and bringing it up to press a chaste kiss to her fingertips.
"For Someone's sake, angel, not in front of the kid," Crowley splutters. The soft faces he makes sometimes when he looks at her. Someone should outlaw them.
Beside them, Leah sounds like she's choking on either a laugh or a scream, so at least Crowley isn't alone in finding Aziraphale a Bit Much.
Crowley uses Leah's reaction as an excuse to determinedly turn her face away from where Aziraphale is still gently holding her hand and rubbing his thumb over her knuckles. She catches Leah's eye and arches a brow. "You've practically got a question mark hovering over your head. Go on. Ask what you want to ask." Another few seconds and she thinks she'll have just about convinced the blood in her corporation to go back about its normal damn business.
Leah startles and darts wide-eyed looks between the pair of them for a full two seconds before asking, quietly, "Are you both... on the ace spectrum?" Her face pinches in a preemptive cringe, no doubt unsure whether apparent people of their apparent ages will be familiar with the terminology. Unbeknownst to her, one of them invented internet forums and the other is a voracious reader.
"Just so!" Aziraphale exclaims with all the verve of a professor pleasantly taken aback by an insightful question raised in his lecture.
"Oh!" the young woman says, mouth rounded in transparent surprise. "That's nice," she follows up with, eyes going round with what Crowley's pretty sure is mortification.
Aziraphale, bless him, has literal eons of experience in powering through an awkward moment and replies, "Yes, I certainly think so," with angelic sincerity, and then announces he'll be popping back into the changing room to put on his normal clothes.
Crowley slouches even further back in her chair and tips her head back against the backrest, angling her face up at Leah with an easy smirk on her face. She's not above relishing in another person's social discomfort, but she's also making an effort to keep her body language reading as relaxed and approachable.
Leah fusses with a few garments she has hanging over her forearm that Aziraphale has rejected, resetting straps and smoothing out wrinkles. Crowley waits patiently, stock still except for the gentle sway of the foot she has propped up on her opposite knee. Finally, Leah flicks a glance back at her, flushing a little when she realizes Crowley's openly staring at her.
"Did you both know you were asexual when you got together, or did you..." she trails off with a shrug.
"Happen to get lucky?" Crowley finishes for her easily. "Well, we didn't have the same words for it back then that are trendy today, but, eh, yeah, we knew how we were fashioned. Doesn't mean we weren't also extremely lucky that we ended up fitting together half so well."
"Do you really think so, dear?" Aziraphale asks, stepping out of the changing room and still looking quite scandalous with his cuffs and collar undone, bowtie a limp bit of ribbon around his neck and jacket draped over one arm. Crowley wordlessly stretches out a hand, and Aziraphale hands the jacket over to her care. He does this little flick with his arm to align his cuffs so he can set the cufflinks one-handed, and it gets her every time.
"Of course I do, angel," Crowley says, and then, with irrepressible laughter in her tone, "Oi, watch it. You are literal pornography right now. Don't get us kicked out."
Aziraphale looks at her blankly for a moment before his eyes twinkle and he flips up his collar with exaggerated casualness to begin tying his bowtie with a lot more sensual flair than is really called for. "What nonsense are you on about now, Anthony," he says, vowels going nearly velveteen.
Crowley lets out an exaggerated sigh and turns back to Leah, raising her eyebrows to convey "Do you see what I have to deal with?" Leah, for her part, is looking equally amused and flustered. Angelic charisma tends to have that effect, especially when Aziraphale can be arsed to make an honest effort at it.
"I don't know that I would call it luck, my dear," Aziraphale continues, folding down his collar behind the newly crisp wings of his bowtie. "There's rather too much poetry in how we met. How we continued to keep finding one another. Sometimes I find myself wondering if it wasn't preordained."
Crowley thunks her head back against the chair and groans. "Angel, you're going to have her thinking she should just leave finding a partner up to fate."
The angel scoffs and practically snatches his coat back from the demon to shrug it back on. "Oh, like trusting to luck is of any more use." He turns a beatific smile on Leah. "My dear, may I shake your hand?"
Looking a little punch drunk from having that much divine happiness blasted at her, Leah nods wordlessly and holds out her free hand. Aziraphale, because he single handedly invented the kindly grandperson with butterscotch candies in their jumper pocket archetype, grasps her hand in both of his and brings it up to chest level like he's cradling a baby duck.
"Take heart, dear child. You may have a few heartbreaks in between, but I know you will find a partner that is your match before too long." He says it with just enough of a chime to his tone that Crowley knows he's put a bit of divine influence behind it.
Leah blinks rapidly with a suspicious sheen to her eyes and nods shakily.
Aziraphale beams. Crowley takes an intense interest in the wainscotting.
Later, as they settle in the Bentley, several bags of tissue-wrapped unmentionables tucked in the backseat, Crowley fixes the angel with a speculative look over the rims of her sunglasses.
"Did you really just miracle lingerie girl a guaranteed partner?" she asks, not truly expecting a yes but ready to imply an improper use of divinity if she thinks it might get the angel's dander up.
Aziraphale casts her a censorious glance out the corner of his eye. "Really, my dear."
"Well, what did you do, then?"
"I simply shored up her hope. She's a bright, kind young thing—I have no doubt she'll find a good match, eventually. But, oh, it can be ever so difficult for the ones on the margins to find each other, and I wanted to help her keep her chin up so she'll keep trying."
"You're a soft touch," Crowley says, starting up the car.
"And who was it who singled her out? And so sweetly encouraged her to ask questions?"
"I don't know if you've noticed, but singling out young women and encouraging them to ask questions is a bit of a thing I do, angel."
"Oh, hush, you ridiculous creature." Aziraphale chuckles, and reaches over to lay a warm hand on her thigh. "Thank you for today, Crowley."
"Yeah, all right," she grouches, but she threads her fingers through Aziraphale's and squeezes tight, keeping their clasped hands tucked against her belly.
Back in the shop, Leah finishes tidying up the changing room and doesn't fight the happy grin tugging at her mouth. The shop is no stranger to the queer community, but this is the first time she's helped another asexual person, much less an older ace couple. And if those two absolute weirdos found each other, then maybe Angel was right and she'll figure it out too. Feeling inspired, she resolves to dust off her online dating profile when she gets off shift.