Chapter Text
There were three things that Anthony J Crowley strove for in his day-to-day life. The first was a strict absence of clutter in his living and working spaces. How people could get things done with so much stuff around them was beyond him entirely.
The second, a well-planned routine. He needed to know what he was doing, where and how, at all times.
The third, a strong coffee at the end of the day. Some might have said that was the most important thing to him, and half the time, he wouldn’t disagree.
After finishing class, tidying away, and a quick meeting with a nervous student, Crowley went his usual route - onto the tube at Temple and off at Tottenham Court Road. Then it was a quick left turn onto Oxford Street and straight down on the left side of the pavement, past the construction works, and to the Whittards opposite the bus stop. On a good day the whole journey took no more than twenty minutes, but, well...London foot traffic and all that. It was one of the good days today, and Crowley stepped into the cafe at quarter to five on the dot.
It sounded quiet, minimal chatter, very little clinking of cups and silverware, but he suspected that would change soon given the hour. He inhaled deeply and sighed. There wasn’t much better in the world than the rich scent of roasting coffee beans after a hard day’s work. Sheer bloody bliss.
He tilted his head slightly at the rustle of cloth to his right, where he knew the counter to be. Heavier footfalls, slower gait, so…
“Hiya, Newt.”
A squeak and a muttered curse, then, “Bloody hell, AJ, how do you do that?” Poor Newt sounded startled. Crowley never got tired of scaring the shit out of him; worked like a charm every time. Newt placed something on the counter with a click as he came forward. “Your usual?”
“Yeah, cheers.”
“I’ll bring it over. There’s a seat free at the window.”
“Nice one. Bentley, left. There’s a love.” The young black labrador sat dutifully at Crowley’s feet immediately stood up and made her way through the chairs, stopping where the light became a little brighter through his dark glasses. “Good girl.” Crowley scratched behind Bentley’s ear, soft fur under his fingers, and felt her head turn, the wet rasp of an affectionate tongue against his wrist.
He sat down, arranged his lanky sprawl of limbs, and leaned back, eyes closing in relaxation. Nothing else mattered now. This was his time, his moment. Destination: double espresso.
Smash. Crowley winced at the sudden noise.
“Ah, fu- u-udge!” Anathema, Newt’s girlfriend, was most definitely in a flap. Her voice became louder as she hurried onto the floor, heels tapping. “Newt, give me a hand, will you? I dropped a load of jars.”
“Oh, dear,” Newt said sympathetically.
“I know, I’m an idiot,” she moaned.
“No, you’re not, and I’ll be with you in just a minute - hang on - Aziraphale, can you take this? Thanks. Just over there. Be back soon.”
As two pairs of footsteps clattered away, one more made its way over to Crowley’s table. Paused. A throat being cleared - a male voice, for sure. “Ah...excuse me? Where shall I, um…?”
Crowley turned in the speaker’s direction. He’d approached on smart-sounding shoes, Oxfords, probably, a hint of vanilla and old paper preceding him. His voice was soft and shy, but inviting, attached to someone either very well-educated or needlessly posh. Crowley hoped it was the former. He tapped the tabletop. “Anywhere’s fine, mate. I’ve got arms.”
“Oh, goodness, I didn’t mean - I just, um…” A gentle clatter of crockery on the table interrupted the speaker’s fluster. “I’m new, that’s all. First day, still finding my feet, as it were. Bit nervous. That smashing scared the living daylights out of me.”
“Sit down a minute,” Crowley said. “Nobody needs you right now.”
“How the - how do you-?”
“Haven’t heard the bell over the door ring since I came in and there’s no movement near the counter.” Crowley reached for his espresso, turned the cup so he could hook his middle finger through the handle, curved the remaining fingers around the bowl. “What did Newt call you?”
“Oh, um. Aziraphale.” God, this guy was practically a bundle of nerves on legs. “Old family name,” he carried on, his hand gestures creating tiny puffs of air over Crowley’s cheek. “Silly predisposition to name us all after-”
“Angels?” Crowley ventured, sipping his coffee.
Aziraphale heaved a sigh. “Yes.”
“No judgement from me, mate.” Crowley held out his free hand. “You can call me Crowley, and that’s Bentley there under the table.”
“Crowley? Is that your first name, or your surname?” Aziraphale shook his hand with a wide, soft palm.
“Can’t give all my secrets out at once, angel. Buy me dinner before all that, hm?” teased Crowley.
Aziraphale let out a scandalised gasp that had Crowley nearly spilling his coffee into his lap from laughter.
Then,
“Perhaps I will.”
He did spill the coffee that time, though thankfully mostly onto the table, a few drops on his thighs. There was a flurry of shadowed movement as Aziraphale jumped up and started to clean away the spillage, stammering through profuse apologies. Crowley grabbed his arm, stilling him.
"I'm sorry," Aziraphale murmured. "Not sure what came over me."
"Hey, calm down. It's fine. Took me by surprise is all."
Crowley had the feeling Aziraphale's eyes were boring into his. "Did I assume wrongly?"
"No, but I'd be interested to know how you came to your conclusion," replied Crowley, steepling his fingers.
"Well, at the risk of stereotyping you...your fingernails are painted pink, and you're wearing a Progress Pride badge on your blazer."
Crowley felt at his lapel for the badge, the soft ridges of colour. "Forgot I had that, actually."
"It's very nice."
"Wouldn't know, can't see it for shit," Crowley grinned, sticking his tongue out. Aziraphale giggled politely and a warm rush of sudden affection bloomed in Crowley's chest. "You got a pen on you, angel?"
"Um…I did. A very nice one, actually. But…"
"Lost it already, have you?"
"...Gave it away."
"You what?"
"I gave it away!" cried Aziraphale, probably wringing his hands and everything. "She was in such a fluster, and she had a deadline approaching, so I said "here you go, fancy pen, no need to thank me, and don't let the sun go down on you here."
The warmth reached Crowley's stomach, a huge smile plumping his usually thin cheeks as he pulled out his wallet and felt for his business cards. "Forget the pen. Here." He handed a card over. "Got my full name on it and everything. Lucky you, saved a fortune on dinner."
Aziraphale took it slowly. "Dr Anthony J Crowley," he read out loud. "You're a doctor?"
"Marvellous what a bit of Equality and Diversity does for the old job prospects. Yeah, I'm a physicist at King's."
"Marvellous indeed." Aziraphale's voice had taken on a slight breathiness for a moment, almost reverent in delivery. "What does the J stand for?"
"Erm. S'just a J, really."
"Well," replied Aziraphale, tucking the card away, "I would still be very much amenable to dinner, knowledge of first names or otherwise. If...if that's okay."
"Course it is."
"Then I will be sure to call you. Find out when we’re both available."
Crowley tapped a long finger against his cheek. "You'd best get back to the counter. Someone's getting up and heading over."
"Ah. So they are." Aziraphale sounded reluctant; a shift of shadow and a scrape of wood against stone as he stood up. "Well, dear fellow...till next time?"
"Looking forward to it, angel."
"Tell me everything!" Anathema demanded as they closed up the cafe. "I literally require you to tell me every single little detail, I'm kicking myself that I wasn't there to see it!"
"I'm sure I don't know what you're talking about," replied Aziraphale primly, busy wiping down tables and steadfastly not meeting her inquisitive eyes.
"Newt heard you asking AJ to dinner, you sly bastard!"
Aziraphale and Anathema were old friends. They ran in the same literary circles, both eager curators of ancient prophetic texts, and she had been a regular at his old bookshop. A few badly placed candles and a completely unnecessary fraud investigation later, she had set him up at the cafe and given him her spare room upstairs whilst he searched for a new place to live. He had protested, of course; no, I can't impose on you like that, you have a partner now, you need your privacy…
She told him to shut the fuck up and accept the damn offer, so he did, and was grateful beyond words for her generosity, not so much her penchant for nosiness.
"He is quite handsome, isn't he?" smirked Anathema.
"Yes. Quite."
"Clever, too."
"Mm."
"And you know what they say about redheads in the sack, don't you?"
Aziraphale spluttered out an incredulous, "A-Anathema! Really!" He turned away and started straightening chairs. "This is highly inappropriate."
She threw an arm round his shoulders and squeezed him. "Nothing's inappropriate between you and me, Zira. Especially when it comes to your love life."
"You," Aziraphale sighed, leaning his head against hers, "are a meddling, godforsaken, downright intrusive little witch."
"I know. Love you too," she grinned.
"Get a bottle of wine into me and I'll talk."
"Deal!"
As a rule, Aziraphale was not a man who approached others. He had always been shy, preferring to withdraw into his books as a child rather than play outside with peers. Now in his early thirties, not much had changed, but he found it easier to make friends as an adult, provided they came to him first.
He had approached Crowley because he had to, of course; he was a customer, and Aziraphale had been asked to serve him. He wasn't, however, counting on the man being warm, open, funny, and devastatingly sodding attractive. Watching those long, delicate, pink-tipped fingers handle a coffee cup did all sorts of funny things to Aziraphale's stomach - and brain, obviously, since he had asked the man out almost on the bloody spot.
Now, several glasses of chianti later, he was spilling all his convoluted emotions to a smirking Anathema, who sat opposite him on the couch in their shared flat, feet tucked up beneath her as she greedily lapped up every last drop of rambling, half-drunk information.
"-and honestly, what demon did he sell his soul to to even fit into trousers that tight? Positively indecent, my dear. It should be illegal to, to, to look so good like that. Soon as I saw that badge I was done for, wasn't I? I didn't stand a chance. And on the job, too!" He put his head in his hands and groaned. "Lord in heaven, why did I just throw myself at him like a starving bloody mutt? He's already got one of those, he doesn't need me as well."
Anathema rested her head on her hand, eyes sparkling. "Holy crap, you really are smitten."
"Why am I like this, Anathema?" Aziraphale pitched forwards, sporting a sulking pout as his head landed in her lap. "Why am I a complete mess?"
"To be fair," she reasoned, and started petting his hair, "he is stupidly good-looking, so I don't blame you for going all Casanova. Even Newt thinks he’s cute." She giggled at her tipsy rhyme.
"I thought I was going to offend him constantly. You know. The whole, you know. The thingy."
"Stop worrying so much, dammit. Let yourself have nice things for once in your life." She bent over to kiss his cheek. "Call him over the weekend. You'll have had a few days to think it all through then."
Aziraphale twisted onto his side, gazing up at Anathema. "You give the best advice."
She grinned. "Not bad for an intrusive little witch, eh?"
"Is there more wine?"
"Oh, hon, you bet your ass there is."
Crowley would be the least of Aziraphale's worries come morning, if the impending hangover had anything to say about it. At least he had the day off work.
Crowley always found he was more productive in his office on campus than at home. It might have been to do with the fact the coffee machine in his office was only a few steps from his desk, or that his computer was a bit faster than his home laptop; if asked, though, he would probably tell you, “Well, I made the mistake of giving all my students my personal phone number, and once they all start texting me in a panic about whatever, I’d rather already be here to help them out.”
So, there he was - in his office, on a Saturday afternoon, marking essays with the lights off and the blinds drawn. His reader, Tracy, had already checked them over in the week for punctuation and grammar, and then the documents came to him, ready for his scrutiny of general content and structure. They tended to check references together, though. He could easily do it himself, but it was a good way to keep them both working together, in a physical sense. They’d meet up after classes on the coming Monday. For now, he was alone, save for Bentley who was snoozing on the floor at his feet.
Productivity, however, was practically at a standstill, and it was all the fault of one rather fussy angel who had given away his very fancy pen. Crowley hadn’t stopped thinking about him since they met. His polite demeanour, soft voice, the scent of esoteric knowledge that surrounded him. Crowley had very set interests, and dating usually wasn’t one of them, but Aziraphale had managed to turn that on its head with one short meeting and a slight spill of coffee.
He hadn’t called yet. Crowley really fucking hoped he would. And like magic, his phone went off. Bentley lifted her head, snuffling against Crowley’s calf as he reached for his phone with a smile.
“Yeah, this is Crowley.”
“AJ!” Nope, that definitely wasn’t Aziraphale. His heart sank a little. “Are you around? We need to talk about the dissertation.”
“Yeah, I’m in my -” He frowned in the direction of the door. “You’re right outside, aren’t you.”
“Yup.”
He sighed. “Right. S’unlocked, just flick the-”
“-Lights on as you come in?” Adam Young came through the door with his usual casual, loping stride, turning on the lights as he went. The shuffling behind him almost certainly meant that Pepper, Wensley, and Brian had piled in as well. The four of them never went anywhere alone, like girls using the bathroom (Crowley had once jokingly said that to Pepper and she’d made a sound very much like someone wanting to throw a punch. He didn’t make that mistake again).
The Them - the silly name their group had been given almost from Day One - took their usual seats on the well-worn couch perpendicular to the desk, and Bentley immediately jumped on them for slobbery, “I’m-not-working-so-you-can-pet-me” kisses. Crowley couldn’t help but crack a smile at the delighted squeals and laughter. “Right then, you lot,” he said. “What’s bugging you?”
“Actually, it’s not so much bugging as something we were considering,” piped up Wensley.
“We’ve exhausted most of our options,” Pepper interjected. “Seems like everyone else has chosen what they’re going to write about, and here we are, stuck at square one still.”
“What is it you’re considering, then?” Crowley asked, scratching an itch beneath his glasses.
“Well,” said Brian, “we thought maybe-”
“We wanna do it as a group.” Adam had a bit of a ringleader’s reputation and an unfortunate habit of cutting off his group, but they never seemed to mind too much. Now was no exception, judging by the noises of agreement they all made.
After a slight pause, Crowley held out his hands. “Go on.”
“See, here’s the thing,” said Adam, “we work better together, you know that. Just like you work better in the dark. That’s just how it works for us. On our own we’re struggling, but together we’ve come up with loads of ideas for what we could research if we can do it as a group. There’s other unis that do it. My sister went to Huddersfield and all their Human Sciences students pool together in one big-”
“Alright, I get it,” Crowley jumped in. “You got these ideas to hand so I can take a look?”
“I’ll email them to you now,” said Brian.
It was true, the Them did work better together, and he couldn’t see any reason why they couldn’t go ahead with their proposition. Crowley’s computer pinged and he turned to read the sent document, fingers moving quickly over the braille terminal in his lap. He didn't use the thing often, preferring the software on the computer that read everything out to him, but he had quickly learned that students were easily embarrassed hearing their own works read out loud by a silly robotic voice; ergo, he used the braille terminal around students, pain in the arse though it was. When were the RNIB going to see the potential in Moon Type?
The abstracts the Them presented were sound and well thought-out, especially the one concerning the effects of Betelgeuse going supernova in the near distant future. Wasn’t entirely his call to make, though. He frowned, tongue between his teeth. He’d have to take it to the Dean. “Right. I reckon I can-” His phone went off and he reached across the desk for it, holding up a finger in the Them’s general direction. “One sec, guys - just lemme - yeah, it’s Crowley.”
No immediate response. His frown deepened further. “Uh. Hello?”
“Oh, goodness me! I’m sorry. Got a bit nervous there for a minute. It’s, um. It’s me. Aziraphale.”
“Angel! I was wondering if you’d call.” Crowley spun his chair around a little in hopes that the Them wouldn’t see the overjoyed smile running rampant across his face. “How are you getting on?”
“Well enough, dear fellow. Can you talk?”
“Yeah, I’m not busy,” he replied, ignoring Pepper’s indignant noise behind him. “What’s up?”
“Well, I know it’s short notice, but are you available tonight?”
“Absolutely, angel. So,” and he allowed a little sultriness into his voice, “where are we going?” He suppressed a chuckle at Aziraphale’s resulting squeak.
“U-Um. Have you visited “Hush” before?”
“Can’t say I have. Heard good things, though. Not far from home, either. Convenient.”
“For us both,” Aziraphale said, a clear smile in his voice. Crowley ignored the wadded up ball of paper that hit him on the head as Aziraphale continued, “I actually reserved the table yesterday. Got a bit ahead of myself, really. But I’m glad you’re agreeable.”
“For you, angel, course I am. Shall I meet you there?”
“Yes. I don’t drive, you see, otherwise I would happily pick you up.” There was some distant shouting on Aziraphale’s end, and he suddenly dropped his voice to whisper, “I’m sorry, my dear, but Anathema is calling me. I have to go - reservation is for 9! Pip-pip!”
The phone went dead, and Crowley slowly put it down, brows furrowed so hard they might as well have joined together. Who the fuck even said “pip-pip” like it was a normal thing? And why was it so fucking cute?
He turned back towards the Them, who had suddenly gone very silent considering they had been throwing things at him the whole phone call. “Sorry about that. Right. So, your dissertation, yeah? Your abstra-”
“No!” shouted Adam suddenly, prompting Bentley to hop down off the couch and slink back under the desk. “Nononono! You do not get to just organise a date right in front of us and not give us the deets!”
“AJ, you have to,” Brian pleaded.
“You actually do,” agreed Wensley. Pepper just laughed over the top of all of them.
“Fuck.” Crowley took off his glasses and rubbed sourly at his eyes. “Remind me never to take phone calls in front of you lot again. And it’s not a date, so shut up.” The Them spluttered in objection. “Not that it’s any of your bloody business, anyway, you nosy buggers!”
“Not a date,” mused Adam. “Right...just two guys, having dinner, sitting five feet apart ‘cause they’re not gay?”
“But they were boyfriends!” chimed Pepper.
“Oh my god, they were boyfriends!” chorused Brian and Wensley.
“I do not get paid enough for this shit,” Crowley muttered to Bentley, who licked his knee without a care in the world. Not for the first time, he wondered if he should have gone on to teach actual children.
They were right, though.
It was totally a date, and his heart was singing with joy at the thought.