Meet Me At The Coda

“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!”

The café buzzes with early-morning energy, busy humans in search of caffeine and butter-laden pastries, all bustling around the cranky demon standing in line and struggling to fully wake up.

He’s just emerged from a week-long nap - something of a well-deserved celebration after the world didn’t end last month - but he promised Aziraphale he wouldn’t sleep through his alarm.

The angel seemed touchingly bereft to lose his company for too long.

(And Crowley can’t pretend that doesn’t make him extra eager to get to the bookshop.)

But first, espresso.

Automatically shuffling forward as the line swiftly advances toward the counter, Crowley suddenly realizes he’s the next unfortunate customer and has absolutely no idea what he’s getting. Fighting to shove a hand into his tiny trouser pocket, Crowley scrambles for his mobile and quickly types out a text to Aziraphale, updating him in the briefest possible terms - awake, on my way, at café, need coffee, pastries? - and pressing send.

But, as Crowley very well knows, Aziraphale is horrendously slow at texting, always insisting on proper grammar and punctuation, and there’s simply no way he’ll respond to him in time -

“Next!” the barista barks, far too loudly.

“Erm…” Crowley shuffles up to the counter, squinting in the bright, morning sunlight shining through the window and managing to hurt his sensitive eyes behind his dark glasses.

He looks desperately at his unhelpful phone.

“What’ll it be, mate? Haven’t got all day, you know…”

The people around him are chattering too loudly, the waiting customers in line behind him won’t stop heaving heavy sighs, and the young barista is waiting impatiently for his order.

This is ridiculous.

With a growl and a vicious snap, time suddenly slows to a barely perceptible crawl around him, with cups of coffee held suspended halfway to waiting mouths all around the café.

Crowley sighs in relief at the abrupt silence. 

Much better.

Now more at ease, Crowley ambles over to the shiny display case, cocking a hip and leaning forward to plant his palms squarely on the polished case with a demonic sense of satisfaction. He hopes the rude barista with the purple hair & nose ring is in charge of polishing.

Now…what should he get?

He hasn’t seen Aziraphale in a week and he’d like to treat the angel to his favorites…and maybe something special. 

Sweeping his gaze over the case, Crowley surveys his options. There are sugar-topped muffins, frosted cinnamon rolls, and buttery golden scones. Crowley hums to himself, stepping around a frozen patron, and approaches the other side of the case where the more promising options reside, his eyebrows raising as he considers what he sees.

Shall he get baklava, full of nuts and drenched in honey, so he gets to watch Aziraphale lick his fingers clean with a happy little wiggle?

(Honey…sticky like whatever it is that draws him back to Aziraphale time and time again, slowly but surely keeping them joined together in one another’s orbit, like lines of golden syrup stretching between them that just won’t snap.)

Shall he purchase a croissant, buttery and layered, just so he can witness Aziraphale delicately dampen a fingertip and gather the little flakes no doubt scattered across his waistcoat like fallen snow, concentrating with single-minded focus until he has them all, only to the pop the digit into his waiting mouth with a pleased hum?

(A croissant…layered and complex just like their history, woven in a tapestry worthy of Arachne over the many centuries they’ve passed on Earth, made all the more rich and satisfying by the multitudes it contains.)

And then…

Crowley’s gaze falls on the perfect treat and his thin mouth hitches up in a lazy grin.

Shall he select an apple danish, with puffy pastry and a decadent fruit filling, so his sharp snake eyes can hone in on the glob of apple that will no doubt teeter precariously at the corner of Aziraphale’s mouth, where Crowley can wait with bated breath for his pink, angelic tongue to dart out and rescue it?

(Apple…tart, sharp, and sometimes bordering on sour, his oldest trick and somehow bitterly reminiscent of all the loneliness of his decades-old, hopeless, yearning love -)

Well, Crowley reasons with a shrug, might as well stick to the classics.

And probably everything else as well…just for good measure.

Hard decisions finally made, Crowley reclaims his place at the counter and snaps once more, unfreezing time with a demonic flourish.

“Right,” he drawls, before listing his order in rapid-fire succession. “An apple Danish, two croissants, piece of baklava, two scones, a cinnamon roll, and the biggest muffin you’ve got.”

The barista blinks at him.

“Oh…” adds Crowley, as anything but an afterthought. “And six shots of espresso…in a big cup.”

He pops the ‘p’ and shows his teeth in a disarming grin.

“S-sure,” stutters the barista. “It’ll be, uh…just a moment.”

Crowley pays with a flash of his sleek, black, Hell-issued credit card and the barista stumbles off to fill his order, still looking a little dazed. He moves away from the counter and lingers in front of the pastry case while he waits, pleased to be obscuring the view for other customers. He happily passes the time by watching a baby wail for a sip of caffeine he’s far too young to ingest, a man accidentally dip his tie into his newly purchased drink, and a woman leave the restroom with toilet paper stuck to her high heel.

(Some days, it’s good to be a demon.)

By the time he collects his large box of pastries and cup of sorely needed espresso and clambers into the front seat of the Bentley, his mobile dings with a message from Aziraphale. Placing the pastry box on the seat where the Bentley won’t dare let it fall, Crowley digs his phone out of his pocket once again to read the predictably proper response, somehow still conveying Aziraphale’s excitement at Crowley’s imminent arrival.

(As if Crowley hasn’t completed this exact routine more mornings than not since they stopped the end of the world.) 

In answer to Crowley’s pastry query, Aziraphale has a simple response:

Surprise me. After all, you know what I like best, my dear.

Crowley huffs a rueful little laugh to himself, tossing his phone to land obediently on the seat next to the pastry box, before throwing the Bentley into gear and peeling away from the curb at top speed.

Don’t I just, angel, he thinks, with a shake of his head, before running a red light with gusto.

(And, perhaps even moreso, what he doesn’t.)