Chapter Text
“Hello, dear.” Aziraphale takes off his gloves, shoving them into the pockets of his warm, wool coat. He slowly unwinds his tartan scarf, then takes off his coat and places both the coat and the scarf on one of the tall bar stools. He climbs up onto the next one, shivering as he tries to shake off the chill that followed him into the pub. The weather is damp, cold, and unpleasant. It might be typical for the time of year, but that doesn’t make it any easier to deal with.
As he settles in, Crowley turns and gives him a smile. Aziraphale shivers again. This time it’s not from the cold. “Hiya, angel. What’ll you have?” Crowley steps up to the bar, his forearms on the sleek, polished wood, his face just inches away from Aziraphale’s. At this distance, Aziraphale can make out the tiny constellation of freckles that cascade across Crowley’s slightly crooked nose and prominent cheekbones. He can see the flecks of gold in his amber eyes, can smell his spicy, smoky cologne.
Aziraphale leans into the backrest of the barstool, away from his best friend who is, without question, temptation incarnate. Aziraphale finds it far too easy to forget himself when Crowley gets too close, and he makes adjustments as necessary.
“Something warm, I dare say,” Aziraphale says casually, as if his heart isn’t hammering. “What do you suggest?”
“Not going to serve you Earl Grey in a pub, angel,” Crowley smirks. “How about a toddy? It’s alcoholic but still old fashioned enough to suit you.”
“Yes, yes, mock me all you like, as long as you make me a drink,” Azriaphale grouses, but there is no heat in it, not when it’s accompanied by a fond smile.
They do make quite the pair.
On the one hand, there is Crowley. His auburn hair is pulled back in a low bun, tendrils loose around his face. Tonight he’s wearing a silky burgundy blouse surely made for a woman, tucked into tight black jeans, paired with chunky-heeled Chelsea boots. “Sex on a stick” is how Anathema had described him to Aziraphale just before she introduced them. He’s lithe and lean and, yes, very sexy.
And then there is Aziraphale. Stocky, solid, and as old fashioned as Crowley intimates. His outfit this evening is similar to most evenings: a wool jacket and trousers, a tartan waistcoat, an Oxford button-up with a bow tie. His Balmoral boots are of the same style first designed in the 1800s for Prince Albert. Aziraphale can’t imagine anyone has ever called him “sexy,” and the fact of the matter is, he’s never really cared.
Or, he never cared before. Not until recently.
Not until Crowley.
They met at Ana and Newt’s pre-wedding party, a combined bachelor party and hen do. “We’re not traditional, so we’re not doing it the traditional way,” Ana declared. She and Newt invited more than two dozen of their friends to one big, raucous house party held over a long weekend at Ana’s ancestral home in London. Aziraphale and Crowley were both introduced as longtime friends of the bride, and yet, somehow, they had never met. Aziraphale remembers being absolutely stunned by Crowley’s good looks—and mortified by his coarse language. That only lasted until they began a hilarious (and frankly unhinged) conversation about the intelligence of dolphins and whales, and something about the kraken, if memory serves. From that moment on, they have been nearly inseparable.
That was five years ago. These days, Aziraphale frequently slips onto a bar stool and keeps Crowley company for a few hours while he works a slow shift at an upscale Mayfair pub, and Crowley spends many a lazy day lounging in Aziraphale’s bookshop in Soho. On the nights when Crowley isn’t working, they often go to dinner or a show or simply enjoy one another’s company with takeout and a movie at one of their flats.
Of course, there are other evenings when Aziraphale is home alone, reading or, if he is being honest, wondering where Crowley is. Who he’s with. And what he and his companion are up to. But it’s none of his business, not really. Because he and Crowley are merely friends. They’ve never been more than friends. Never will be.
Of course not.
Look at him, he thinks now, watching Crowley make his toddy. Aziraphale has never wondered why their friendship hasn’t evolved into something more. Why would someone who looks like Crowley ever be attracted to someone like him? No, when Crowley wants to do more than drink a bottle of wine and talk (no matter how stimulating that talk might be), he puts on his tightest trousers and his silkiest shirt and goes out on the prowl.
Oh, he doesn’t brag about it, doesn’t talk much about it at all. But Aziraphale isn’t stupid. If Crowley is going to be busy, he’s going to be busy on Friday or Saturday night. Weekends, it seems, are reserved for people who are up for more than conversation.
Happily, in all the years they’ve known each other, Crowley hasn’t found anyone he wants to keep around. It seems he only follows someone home, enjoys what is on offer, then slips out in the middle of the night, never to return again. Not that Crowley says as much, but this is the story Aziraphale tells himself.
It’s the only story he can live with.
“Here you go,” Crowley says now, setting the drink in front of Aziraphale. Although traditionally made with whiskey, Crowley has made Aziraphale’s drink with brandy, and the scent of the liquor along with the honey, lemon, and cinnamon, is soothing. He stirs the drink with the cinnamon stick Crowley added.
“Lovely, as always,” he says, then picks the glass up for a sip, closing his eyes to get the full effect. When he opens them, Crowley is staring at him, wide eyed, his mouth slightly open. When he sees Aziraphale looking at him, he snaps his mouth shut and turns back to the bottles and glasses behind him.
“So it’s good, angel?” he asks over his shoulder, busying himself with arranging glasses that are, as far as Aziraphale can tell, already in perfect alignment.
“It’s wonderful,” Aziraphale hums. He sits back and enjoys his drink, all the while watching as Crowley moves along the back bar, his eyes never leaving that pert behind in those tight jeans. He’s daydreaming about what he would do if he ever got his hands on that arse when he realises he’s being observed, and, looking up, he catches Crowley’s eyes in the mirror. He’s watching Aziraphale watch him, a sly smile on his face.
Aziraphale can feel the warmth as a blush spreads from his chest to his face. It’s humiliating, and there’s no getting out of it. His only hope is that Crowley doesn’t say anything, that he lets him maintain his dignity.
Not a chance.
“Enjoying the show, angel?”
“I’m sure I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Aziraphale says in the most proper RP accent he can muster, taking another delicate sip of his toddy. He very nearly puts his pinky out just to reinforce the image he’s trying to project.
Crowley’s laugh is deep and sultry. “No harm in looking,” he says, coming back to lean on the bar once again. Aziraphale knows he’s teasing, but it hurts a little every time Crowley does this, every time he plays with Aziraphale this way. Not that Crowley knows Aziraphale fancies him. Heaven forbid! Now that would be humiliating. Because they both know Aziraphale doesn’t have a chance in hell.
“Looking at what, dear?” Aziraphale asks as he finishes his drink. He needs to leave. This is much too awkward. He takes out his wallet and removes his card. Crowley waves a hand.
“On the house,” he says with a smile.
“No, I insist.”
“You can pay for the next one.”
“Oh, I’m not staying,” Aziraphale says. “I’ve um, got… plans. Seeing someone.” That’s the ticket. Crowley needn’t worry that Aziraphale doesn’t have other options, other friends.
“Are you?” Crowley asks, his eyes not meeting Aziraphale’s. “Anyone I know?”
In for a penny and all that. “Um, no. No one you know. Someone new. We, um, just met.”
“Tell me about it later, then,” Crowley says, still not looking at Aziraphale, busying himself at the back bar.
“Have a good night, dear.”
“Goodnight, angel.”
The bell over the bookshop door rings, and somehow Aziraphale knows it’s Crowley. He takes his time finishing the washing up in the back room, then strolls out to see the ginger already sprawled on the sofa behind the till.
“Comfortable?” Aziraphale asks.
“Quite. Last night was brutal. Bridal shower. Squawking and drinking, wouldn’t leave after last call, and then I had to get cabs for all of them. Drunk as a fart, they were.” He hasn’t taken off his sunglasses, and looks as though he plans to stay all afternoon.
“Do you work tonight?”
“No, thank fuck. Do you have plans?”
“I do not.”
Aziraphale moves off into the bookshop, wondering if Crowley will offer to spend the evening with him. It’s Saturday night, and since he worked last night, there is a chance he will have recovered and be ready to hit the clubs by the time it’s dark. He isn’t about to ask what his plans are. He doesn’t really want to know. He putters around, organising shelves and cleaning, then heads to the back room to make a cup of tea. When he comes out, Crowley is still on the sofa. Aziraphale sits at his desk, watching his friend sleep.
He really is quite beautiful, Aziraphale thinks. But he knows Crowley isn’t his to keep. He’s meant for others to enjoy in ways that Aziraphale cannot. He sighs, and that wakes Crowley from his slumber.
“Sorry, angel. Dozed off there for a bit,” Crowley says. “So, no plans?”
“No plans.”
“Want to go out? Get dinner, maybe go back to mine for a movie?”
Though Aziraphale’s heart is racing, he maintains the same calm demeanor. “Yes, that sounds possible. Shall I lock up early?”
“Yeah. I’ll just lie here until you’re ready to go.”
When no customers show up for the rest of the afternoon, Aziraphale closes the shop, and he and Crowley wander off into Soho. They end up eating sushi, one of Aziraphale’s favorites. Crowley eats a few bites and leaves most of it for Aziraphale, smiling indulgently the entire meal. Then they are bundling back up and walking to where Crowley parked the Bentley for the ride back to his Mayfair flat.
“Bugger, it’s cold,” Crowley complains as they take off coats and scarves and shoes. “I’m getting a brandy. You want one, angel?”
“Yes, please,” Aziraphale says as he heads into the lounge and straight for his corner of the sofa. He settles in, pulls a blanket off the back, and gets cosy. When Crowley hands him the brandy, Aziraphale takes it gratefully. The first sip burns going down, but the warmth in his belly spreads out to his limbs, and he’s soon feeling warm and relaxed.
“What do you want to watch?” Crowley asks, sitting at the other end of the sofa.
“Your choice.”
Crowley doesn’t reach for the remote, and after a moment he asks, “How about we just talk?”
“That’s fine, dear,” Aziraphale says, getting even more comfortable on the sofa as the brandy works its magic. He wishes Crowley were closer.
Crowley sips his drink and doesn’t say anything for a few minutes. Then, out of nowhere: “How was your date the other night?”
“Date?”
“After you came by the pub? You said you were meeting someone. Said I didn’t know him. It was new—” Crowley trails off.
Oh, drat. Aziraphale has forgotten about this small, white lie. And now it’s coming back to haunt him.
“Oh, we, um. It didn’t work out.. Crossed wires, you know. Hopefully we can find another time.”
“Are you interested? In dating him?”
“I don’t know. It would be nice, I think. To date someone.” What is this about? Aziraphale wonders. “What about you? Do you want to date? In general, I mean?”
Crowley sits and swirls the brandy in his snifter, watching the amber liquid go round in the glass. He looks a little lost. Then he looks up at Aziraphale, his eyes shining.
“Yes, I would, but not in general,” Crowley answers. “There’s… someone.”
“Someone in particular?” Aziraphale asks, the question nearly catching in his throat.
“Yes,” Crowley says, looking into his brandy again. Aziraphale thinks he looks almost shy. “Someone… special. Only I don’t know how to go about it. I’ve not ever… Well. You know how I am. I’ve not ever actually done it.”
“Done what?” Aziraphale tries to laugh. It sounds more like a cough. “Dated?”
“I mean, yeah? Of course I’ve taken people out. Gone to dinner or drinks or something,” Crowley says. “But I want to do more than that. I like him. A lot. I want to, you know. Court him?”
Aziraphale is astounded. And dismayed. Crowley fancies someone? Enough to want to court him?
“Why are you telling me this?” Aziraphale asks, his voice high-pitched and less controlled than he would like. He really doesn’t want to know anything about some man Crowley fancies. In fact, he’d like nothing more than to run off into the night and pretend he’d never heard any of this at all.
While Aziraphale plans his escape, Crowley finishes his brandy and sets the glass on the cocktail table in front of the sofa, then turns and looks at Aziraphale. Who is supposed to be his best friend. There’s a pleading look in his eyes, a kind of vulnerability he rarely shows, and Aziraphale knows that whatever he asks of him, he will say yes.
“Can you help me? You know what you’re doing, angel. You’re the one with the old-fashioned manners and the right words. I don’t want to fuck this up.”
And although his heart is breaking, Aziraphale agrees to help Crowley—the man he’s been in love with for nearly as long as he’s known him—court someone else.
Because, isn’t that what friends are for?