Meet Me At The Coda

“Oh, my dear…this is utterly scrumptious.”

Crowley makes a noise consisting of exactly zero words that somehow still manages to convey vague acknowledgement, but he can’t possibly be blamed for his lack of syllables.

He’s busy.

The glitz and glam of the Ritz, a recognizable setting after this many years, is - as usual - completely lost on the demon. The sparkle of the chandeliers and tinkle of the piano player are utterly unremarkable in the face of his angel, sitting primly across the dining table, and tucking into some complicated honey-pear dessert with an appreciation that borders on obscene.

So, a typical night out, then.

It’s no less a spectacle for its familiarity and Crowley, with his chin propped on his fist and his wide, golden eyes hidden behind his dark lenses, is enjoying the sight with relish.

“Would you like a bite, my dear?” Aziraphale inquires politely, dabbing the spotless corner of his mouth with a napkin. “It’s really quite delicious…”

Crowley clears his dry throat enough to respond. “Nah, angel, I’m full,” he lies smoothly. “You just go ahead and enjoy…”

Aziraphale doesn’t put up a fight and Crowley settles back in his chair, reaching for his wine glass and taking a generous sip, happy as can be. Dessert is his favorite course to observe. And pears, in particular, are always especially meaningful to watch Aziraphale consume, only because Crowley has done just that countless times and places over the centuries. 

And he remembers every single instance.

There have been prickly pears on ice in Egypt, bought from noisy street vendors as the dusty desert wind blew their robes around their sandalled feet, and the chilly temperature of the fruit made Aziraphale wiggle his shoulders in an adorable shiver.

There have been poached pears in Italy, soft and cooked in cinnamon and sugar, savored under the shade of an olive tree with a bottle of limoncello between them, while Crowley lounged on the ground and tossed ripe, fallen olives high into the air and caught them miraculously in between his teeth.

There have been sliced pears on innumerable cheese boards in France, fresh fruit surrounded by soft brie and hard gouda, bowls of walnuts and almonds, and tiny jars of fig jam, nibbled on at quaint bistro tables with the Eiffel tower in the distance, the inherent romanticism of the city swirling potently around them.

I like pears, he’d said oh so wistfully, standing next to him in St. James Park, not far at all from where they are now, after Crowley had asked with no small amount of desperation for some insurance and passed him a slip of paper that he’d had no idea would rattle the angel to his very core -

But things are different now.

The world didn’t end and they abandoned all their pretenses and admitted their feelings and bared their souls and kissed, kissed, kissed -

“Are you ready to go, love?”

Unbeknownst to Crowley, who became thoroughly lost in his thoughts while staring wordlessly at his angel, Aziraphale has finished his dessert, placed his neatly folded napkin next to his immaculately clean plate, and is patiently waiting for Crowley to answer.

Yes, in many ways, they’ve changed irrevocably. And Crowley wouldn’t go back for anything.

(Because they have a quiet cottage just a short drive out of London waiting for them, full to the brim with books and plants, where Crowley can lick the sheen of honey off Aziraphale’s lips without fear or reservation.)

“Yeah, angel. Let’s go.”

Crowley pays the bill with a nonchalant wave of his hand, Aziraphale rises to chivalrously pull his chair out for him, and then they’re off. Instinctively and without thought, their fingers tangle together as they walk side by side through the opulent dining room toward the exit, with Aziraphale making sure to thank the maître d’ for a delightful evening on their way past. As they step outside into the cool, night air, a blatantly obvious couple for all to see, Crowley turns to find the moonlight shining in his angel’s adoring eyes, and can’t resist stealing a kiss.

(Although can it really be called theft when it’s so willingly given?)

So yes, Crowley affirms to himself, making a show of licking his lips and watching Aziraphale blush prettily in response, they’ve no doubt changed for the better. But, as the gifted taste of his angel reminds him, at least one thing has stayed the same, not likely ever to change…

Aziraphale still loves pears.

With a put-upon sigh, Aziraphale eases back from where he’s been hunched at his antique desk in the bookshop, pouring over his meticulously kept account books. He leans gingerly back in his plush armchair, removing his tiny spectacles and folding the arms so they can sit flat on the little dish he keeps on his desktop for just that purpose. Hastily, he miracles away the twinge in his neck from bending over and writing for hours on end, not wanting to give Crowley the excuse to tease him later over keeping redundant records of all the books he refuses to sell.

Unfortunately, he has a point. They are retired, after all.

(However, Aziraphale wouldn’t say no to the lovely massage that usually follows such fond ribbing.)

Looking around the empty bookshop for the first time in apparently quite a while, Aziraphale is surprised to see it’s getting on in the day, the last dregs of late afternoon sunlight filtering in through the large windows, onto the wide sill…

And directly onto the large black snake coiled there.

Aziraphale smiles to himself.

Since they averted the apocalypse and effectively moved in together, Crowley has taken to reverting to his snake form on Aziraphale’s self-imposed inventory days, taking advantage of the warm sun that pours into the main part of the shop and doesn’t make its way to his preferred human-shaped napping spot on the back room couch. He’s never been quite so comfortable around Aziraphale as to be in his other form before and the angel delights in the unspoken trust now being shown to him. 

Gazing across the room at his serpentine lover, Aziraphale tilts his head, peering at the way the sunlight glints off Crowley’s smooth, black scales, and detecting just a hint of another color he hasn’t noticed before. Frowning to himself, Aziraphale stands, stretches, tugs down his cardigan, and wanders over to the window. Crowley lifts his diamond-shaped head imperceptibly from where it was resting his coils and slits his pretty yellow eyes at Aziraphale in sleepy acknowledgement.

“You have green in your scales,” Aziraphale declares, apropos of nothing, finally breaking the content silence of the last few hours.

Crowley blinks at him as if to say: …yeah, and?

And it’s true. The closer Aziraphale looks, the more distinctly he can make out the most subtle hints of emerald green undertones, more prominent where the scales overlap each other, not unlike the iridescent green of a beetle’s shell or the underside of a hummingbird’s wings.

(Aziraphale suspects Crowley would like one of those comparisons more than the other.)

The elusive green winks and twinkles in the sunlight as Crowley begins to move, slowly uncoiling himself, finally appearing to fully wake. He lifts his head more and swings it around to look curiously up at Aziraphale and, as the angel watches the snake’s sinuously smooth movements with admiring eyes, Aziraphale spies a little flick of Crowley’s snake tongue, appearing and disappearing in the same second.

“And your tongue is pink!” Aziraphale cries happily, delighted by this discovery.

At that, Crowley hisses in a decidedly irritated fashion. It most certainly is not! he seems to say with his eyes, now wider and all the more golden for it.

“Yes, it is,” Aziraphale insists, unable to smother his grin. “Bubblegum pink, as a matter of fact…”

Crowley’s tongue flashes out again, this time more likely in annoyance at Aziraphale’s choice of description, but the better view only serves to support Aziraphale’s statement.

Best not to share that particular observation.

“Well, a very intimidating pink, I should say,” Aziraphale hastens to assure him, trying not to laugh. “Yes, very demonic, I assure you.”

Crowley manages to roll his eyes where they reside on either side of his head, before apparently forgiving him in one, easing forward instead to flick his still pink tongue teasingly against Aziraphale’s hands where they’re clasped in front of his belly.

“Snakes smell with their tongues, don’t they?” Aziraphale muses, outstretching his fingers toward Crowley questioningly.

Crowley gives him a look that clearly conveys: duh, angel.

“I wonder what I smell like to you…” Aziraphale ponders out loud, and Crowley’s only answer is to bump his head against Aziraphale’s hand, apparently in search of a pet.

Stroking the top of his head with a fingertip, feeling cool, smooth scales against his skin, Aziraphale finds he rather adores the thought of Crowley - dozing happily in the window - with his tongue flicking out to scent the air every time Aziraphale bustles by doing one of his mundane tasks. He imagines he must smell rather like paper and dust, or some other non-appealing combination, but maybe he’ll ask Crowley once he’s changed back.

(Later tonight perhaps, when he’s inevitably snuggled up behind the warm curve of Aziraphale’s back with his human-shaped nose tucked in his favorite place behind the angel’s ear. Hm. Perhaps he smells good to him in his human form, as well.)

Tucking the pleasant thought away for later in the evening with a private smile, Aziraphale turns his attention back to the swaying snake in front of him, and strokes his hand down the back of Crowley’s head once more and then further down his body, tracing his glossy, green-black scales with a reverent and gentle touch.

“You really are quite lovely, my dear,” he murmurs warmly.

Crowley visibly preens at the praise, slithering happily in the window before - to Aziraphale’s surprise and delight - he begins to wind himself around the angel’s wrist, slowly but surely working his not inconsiderable length up his arm to drape himself over Aziraphale’s neck. Once settled, he stills there with the snake equivalent of a heavy sigh, before tucking his snout just under Aziraphale’s ear, right where he usually does in his human shape, and Aziraphale feels his heart swell in his chest. It’s not unlike wearing a particularly heavy and affectionate scarf and Aziraphale immediately adores the feeling.

“Well now, isn’t this simply -”

The tinkling of the bell above the shop door interrupts him, signaling the arrival of a very unwelcome, late afternoon customer.

Heaving a resigned sigh much different than Crowley’s, Aziraphale turns to greet the customer reluctantly, not giving a thought to his snake scarf.

“Good afternoon, madam! How may I -”

But he doesn’t even get to finish his question before the woman gets one look at the massive black snake draped over his shoulders, lets out a piercing scream, and runs right back out the door.

The bell jingles merrily behind her.

“Well,” Aziraphale says, pleased. “Not only are you an incredibly fashionable scarf…you provide excellent customer service, as well!”

“Trick or treat!”

Giggling hordes of masked children parade down Whickber Street, buckets and baskets and bags of candy swinging merrily from their hands. They seem to be mostly the shopkeeper’s children, going from door to door to all the clearly participating businesses, with front doors still open despite the late hour and - more often than not - decked out in all manner of Halloween decorations. 

Nina’s coffee shop has a large paper skeleton hanging in the window, Justine’s restaurant (with a teenage employee assigned the duty of handing out candy by the sidewalk) is adorned with pumpkins stacked in every corner, and Maggie waits on a stool inside the doorway of her record shop with a bag of candy and a comically large witch’s hat atop her blonde curls.

By contrast, the door of Aziraphale’s bookshop remains dark and closed, lest sticky fingers find their way to the first editions.

(There is, however, a large, silver mixing bowl of candy that never seems to empty, sitting neatly on an antique end table on the other side, complete with a sign that politely requests only one sugary piece per customer. It’s one of the rare positive holdovers from the pandemic of which Aziraphale still wholeheartedly approves.)

The bookseller himself sits comfortably in his armchair in the front room, with the lights dim and a perfect view out the window to the cheerfully busy street, as well as a seasonally appropriate book of Edgar Allen Poe’s poetry in his lap.

It’s open to The Raven.

He’s waiting for Crowley, as it happens, to swing by in the Bentley, pick him up, and take them both to a special, Halloween night, dramatic reading of Poe’s poetry.

Naturally, he thought he’d study up first.

But Aziraphale finds his gaze drifting from the words he’s had memorized since shortly after their publication, wandering instead to one of the few Halloween decorations he splurged on inside the bookshop…

A classic jack-o’-lantern.

Despite the incident in the bookshop that resulted in his decidedly inconvenient discorporation, Aziraphale has always had a fondness for candles. He has some good memories of the times before electricity was invented and a weakness for the romanticism of candlelight. That, and Halloween - now considered in some cultures to be a satanic holiday - seems the perfect night to indulge.

(It also tends to remind him of a certain demon, his hellfire, and the tiny flame of it that he sometimes produces from a fingertip when a bit of light or warmth is needed.)

Aziraphale will extinguish the jack-o’-lantern before Crowley arrives, of course, but he’s also miracled the thing fire resistant, out of an abundance of caution.

And he has a fire extinguisher next to his chair, just in case.

But, sitting here in the dim light on All Hallows’ Eve, Aziraphale finds himself fixated on the very real, flickering flame framed by the pumpkin’s cut-out eyes, nose, and mouth. The unlit depths of the gourd where the illumination doesn’t reach, and the resultant shadows that fall harsh and sudden around them, are pitch black. As is its nature, the contrast of the darkness gives more definition to the light of the flame.

(Charcoal black like the predominant color of Crowley’s wardrobe, giving emphasis to his long lines and sharp angles, lending him a certain air of intimidation, something that usually frightens others, but has only ever served to draw Aziraphale in like a moth to a flame.)

The darkest, outer edges of the small, licking flame are red, dancing and jumping and constantly in motion around the innermost fire, an ever-changing, protective perimeter around the heart of the heat.

(Crimson red like Crowley’s hair, his most transformative aspect, adapting with the times in style and shape, but always the same ruby color, and seemingly begging for the caress of Aziraphale’s fingers.)

The innermost center of the flame is yellow, the hottest part, that remains a fixed point around which the other colors burn with vigour, steadfast and sure.

(Canary yellow like Crowley’s pretty, pretty eyes, all slitted pupils and closely guarded secrets behind dark lenses that Aziraphale loves nothing more than to see removed and set down for a long, lovely evening in his trusted company.)

And then there’s the orange of the surrounding pumpkin and the liveliest, most prominent part of the flame, intermixing with the other colors and never dormant in its intensity, the only color of fire detectable from a distance, and the greater sum of red and yellow and Halloween itself.

(Pumpkin orange like the deeper color Aziraphale sometimes imagines is lurking behind Crowley’s eyes when his gaze is uncovered and intense, watching him eat or wax poetic about a book, something sizzling and warm and intoxicating that dares him to plunge his fingers into the depth of the flame and see what it feels like to burn -)

A loud, familiar roar interrupts Aziraphale’s spiraling, poetic thoughts - naturally, he blames Poe - and he turns his head just in time to see the Bentley round the corner and hurtle into the spot right outside the bookshop that remains miraculously free, no matter the holiday. He watches as the door is thrown open and Crowley leaps out, somehow already in motion and striding toward the bookshop door before he’s even fully upright…only to be accosted by a small, approaching group of young, elaborately costumed trick-or-treaters.

Aziraphale feels a prickle of demonic energy and, by the time the children get a good look at Crowley, he’s got a red, plastic headband atop his crimson locks, complete with devil horns. They crow in delight, no doubt assuming his dramatic black garb is the accompanying costume and not his normal, everyday attire, and eagerly thrust their overflowing buckets of candy toward him.

With another subtle shiver of satanic energy, apropos for this particular day, Aziraphale watches Crowley miraculously produce a bag of candy from behind his back and dump far more than one piece each in all the proffered baskets and bags.

Closing his unread book, Aziraphale smiles softly to himself. Crowley has always liked children, ever since the beginning. And Warlock always adored him in return.

(Nanny Ashtoreth’s tame, understated Halloween costumes - purely for Warlock’s enjoyment, she had tersely assured him - always managed to drive Aziraphale to distraction, his favorite being the simple cat ears and tail she wore a few years in a row, an image he covetously admired in silence from behind the rose bushes and hedge rows -)

The bookshop door opens with a bang.

“Happy Halloween, angel! Ready?”

(No…no, not quite yet.)

Finally abandoning his prop book on his desk, Aziraphale stands, tugs his waistcoat down, and waves a hand to hastily transform the flame inside the jack-o’-lantern into an artificial candle, just as Crowley rounds a bookshelf, fake devil horns still in place.

“Certainly, my dear,” he announces brightly, shoving aside his musings with an ease that speaks of centuries of practice, and shrugging his suit coat on at the same time. “Poe awaits, after all! Let us be off!”