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ID: A bust of a clown named Pratelle Foure. They are wearing red frilled collars. They have paper white skin with bright pink curly hair, a matching clown nose, and three yellow eyes. Theyâre smiling mischievously with a sparkle as they poke their cheek with a cartoony gloved hand. End ID.
Summary: Anthony J. Crowley started working at Heavs and Hens, F.A., but they thought he asked too many questions, and frankly, he didnât like his colleaguesâ attitude. (Well. Except for one, but he never got the chance to get close to the blond cutie.)
So he left.
Now heâs working in a pastry shop and life is infinitely better. (Well. Most of the time, since neither his boss nor his colleagues are too often in the shop and heâs left to his own device, which is really for the best.)
Baking is fun, tempting customers is even better, and if there is a certain blond who keeps on coming back to the shop, well, Anthony is not one to deny himself that pleasure.
A massive, massive thank you to the artists who managed to create such beautiful art for this fic, to the mods who set all this process up, and to my betas for blessing this mess!
They say they fired him, but if you were to ask him, Anthony J. Crowley would tell you that he quit before they could.
Or, more accurately, he would tell you to bugger off and leave him alone, but if he felt like giving you an answer, that is the one he would give you.
Joining the financial advising firm was never his idea of a good time, really, but he did because he could and that it made his mother happy. But as weeks went by, Crowley discovered some things.
About himself, and about the firmâs ways, and both were inextricably in opposite directions.
He discovered that the more answers he found, the more questions he got.
That questions were not exactly welcomed, at Heavs and Hens.
That asking questions was the equivalent of lighting yourself on fire in the middle of a family dinner--a sure way to get everybodyâs attention, but at what cost?
That fairness and obeying to the idea of the law was not a top priority for the partners.
And that fairness was one of his major core value (along with curiosity, which, if you have paid attention, should tell you how bad an idea it was for Crowley to work there).
So he quit, not with a bang, but with a swagger.
(And a comfortable âkeep your mouth shutâ pocket money.)
Oh, Crowley doesnât hold any lasting feeling toward his former colleagues--especially not for Gabriel, that pompous ass who kept on stealing all of Crowleyâs ideas and notes for his own credit--but there is a, oh, how can he put it into words, a chance of something greater that was missed with one particular junior adviser.
The man must be approximately Crowleyâs age--old enough to be an adult, young enough to still have hope and energy--, with curly hair so blond Crowley isnât quite sure it is natural, blue eyes that remind Crowley of a Spring sky, and the perpetual shadow of a smile on his rosy lips.
Yes, Crowley could wax poetics about this angel of a man who passed his desk once, eyes on a pocket watch while Gabriel was berating him for being too soft with the clients.
Crowley also knows one thing about this former colleague of his, that could-have-been-something-more-but-wasnât, one thing that nobody else knows--if they knew, Crowley has no doubt about whether the man would still be working at the company or not.
(The answer is a resounding ânotâ)
The man, Mr. Eastgate is all Crowley knows to call him, is not as robotic as the other employees and, behind his soft smile and perfect attire, hides just enough of a dark side to be interesting.
How does Crowley know this to be facts?
Crowley saw a memo that miraculously disappeared from the system the following day.
A memo stating that while Mr. and Mrs. Godson would have been very interesting clients for the firm to acquire--read, very profitable clients who would have ended up with the clothes on their backs, if at all--, Mr A. Eastgate thought it best to tell them to invest their savings in a more secure venture, such as Apple shares or any other investment they could actually profit from in the future.
Which, if you werenât aware, goes against the grain for a financial advising firm.
Tells you a lot about the kind of ethic and the character of Mr. Eastgate, thatâs for certain, but where Crowley wouldnât have been able to resist the need to rub it in everybodyâs face, Mr. Eastgate apparently possesses much more diplomatic talents and decided to just âŠ
Swipe it under the proverbial carpet, and play dumb whenever asked about it.
Crowley has to admit it: he respects that.
In addition to his already unbearable crush on the guy for simply looking cute, thatâs the only reason he has a pang of regret as he leaves the firmâs building with his potted plant and his severance check.
So long, Mr. Eastgate.
đđđđđđ
Aziraphale may not be the best financial advisor in the company, let alone in the world, if only because he doesnât like putting people in harmâs way, and financial enterprises often lead to harmful conclusions.
But heâs good with numbers, and people listen to him, so, financial advisor it is.
When A.J. Crowley is summoned in the bossâs office and leaves with a smile on his (handsome, unusually handsome) face and a swagger to his walk, sunglasses firmly in place even indoors, Aziraphale feels something akin to regret to see him go--the man was probably the only of his colleagues Aziraphale could stand.
Sad to see him go, but delighted to watch him go, if you can catch his drift.
Good Heavens, what a sight.
Anywho, Aziraphale needs to get back to work, now, doesnât he?
After all, collecting books is one pricey hobby.
đđđđđđ
Plant in hand , Crowley lets himself stroll the streets down to the parking garage where he left his beloved car.
As content as he may be to be done with all of those self-righteous lunatics, a question keeps on nagging him:
What is he to do with his life now? Pester his neighbors until they want him blown to smithereens?
Not that he would particularly mind, Crowley delights in being a bother to his admittedly boring neighbors.
But there is a limit to the amount of little offenses one can come up with on a daily basis, isnât it? And staying idle is really not in his temperament; again, lounging in the sun and doing nothing is a fun past-time, but there always comes a time when his mind cannot stand the passivity.
No, there is no way around it: Crowley needs to find himself a new job, one that will not make him feel like needles are piercing his skin every time his values system is breached.
A quiet, nice job, with almost non-existent colleag--
Oh, look at that shop window.
All thoughts about his future, near and far, come to a standstill as Crowley pauses in front of a bakery.
âTempting Bitesâ, an interesting name for sure, but it is the content of the window that really gets his interest.
The cakes are all, indeed, bite-sized, but elegantly decorated--if a little on the morbid side, if Crowley is actually seeing what he thinks heâs seeing.
The pastry cannot be bigger than Crowleyâs index finger (sure, he has long, pianist hands, as his mother called it, but still, it is a size-reference) but the fondant is still delicately decorated to mimic granite, and the tombstone is engraved and, dare he say it, sculpted to perfection.
The woman behind the counter glares at him, raising one eyebrow when he replies with a smile.
Daring him to enter her queendom, no doubt, and Crowley has never been good at resisting a dare.
âGood morning,â she says in a deadpan tone, âmay I tempt you with one of our delights?â
The puff pastries are just, well, too tempting to pass, what with the black and red pearls of sugar decorating them.
âTemptation accomplished,â the salesperson says in a monotone, ringing his purchase. As Crowley goes to pay, he spots a sheet of paper behind them.
âYou are hiring?â
They blink at him before sighing. âYes, we do. Do you have any experience in baking?â
âNone whatsoever.â
âDo you mind if the hours are long and the pay minimal?â
Crowley beams at her, leaning over the counter. âNot at all.â
âAre you a felon?â
âWould that matter?â
For the first time since he entered the shop, the hint of a smile appears on the personâs face. âNot at all,â they reply, âbut I have to ask.â They shrug, pulling a piece of paper from under the counter. âHere, fill this and send a picture of your I.D. to the number inscribed on top.â
âRight away, boss,â Crowley replies, giving them a jaunty salute with the piece of paper.
âCall me Beelzy.â
đđđđđđ
Okay.
If weâre going to continue with this story, there are a couple of things you need to know about Aziraphale Eastgate.
First of all, as previously stated, he is quite the bibliophile, collecting all first editions of British childrenâs books.
(Yes, it is a collection that requires a lot of time, care, and money.)
(Yes, Mother, heâs aware that he is an adult and that there are better things he could do with his money than chase after kiddy books.)
(No, Mother, he has yet to find a woman to marry and carry on the Eastgateâs legacy.)
((If only she knew.))
Second of all, but perhaps not entirely unrelated to the first point, Aziraphale considers himself an epicurean. A lover of good and beautiful things. A man capable of appreciating the finest things in Life, from a good book to a good meal.
After all, C.S. Lewis said it quite eloquently, âEating and reading are two pleasures that combine admirably.â
Third of all, as brave and smart as he vows to be on a daily basis, Aziraphale hates being confronted.
All three are needed to understand how conflicted Aziraphale has always felt about the bakery around the corner near the office.
(All right, so maybe the fact that he is a bibliophile is not particularly relevant to this part of the story. But presenting Aziraphale without insisting upon his love for books would be criminal, criminal indeed.
Back to the point.)
Because on the one hand, bakery! Provider of scrumptious cakes and food!
But on the other hand, the person usually behind the counter makes him feel like heâs about to enter a ring just to prove himself worthy of the cakes.
Oh, he has seen many of his colleagues and many people coming out of the shop with little black bags, so the confrontational attitude may just be in his head, but still.
For now, he has only savored the pastries with his eyes, for their aesthetics and satisfies his need for sweet goodness in other places.
(No one needs to know about this, but his favorite place is a little, how should he say, hole-in-the-wall restaurant near the Theater district that serves the finest sushis in all of London and got him addicted to crepe cakes. Di-vine, to say the least.)
That being said, heâs reconsidering his avoidance of the bakery.
The sight of a certain shade of red hair behind the window is most definitely to be blamed for this change of mind, but Aziraphale would never admit it, even under threat.
(It depends on the kind of threat. Though he tends to avoid it if he can, Aziraphale is more than capable to handle a little brawl, shall the need arise. But threaten his books or his closet, and chances are Aziraphale will fold like a ⊠well, like a crepe.
Oh, crepes.)
As it is, Aziraphale is not so easily tempted, so âTempting Bitesâ and his possibly newly hired and very tempting salesman will have to work a little bit harder at convincing him.
Or, to be more truthful, Aziraphale will need to be sure that it is his infamous former colleague who is now behind the counter, in order to ensure a fruitful encounter.
đđđđđđ
Crowley is many things, but he is not a liar.
When Beelzy asked if he had any baking knowledge, he did not lie when he said none whatsoever.Â
But. He is a very fast learner.
âCrowley!â
And. He has a lot of imagination.
âCrowleeeeey!â
Not necessarily a bad combination--he supposes it depends on who you asked.
âWhat. Is. That.â
Crowley beams at his boss and at his colleague.
âThat, my Lord,â he replies with a small curtsey, âis a pumpkin brioche.â
âA ⊠brioche.â
âYes.â
âA bit on the nose, Crowley,â Hastur drawls from behind him. âAn orange brioche, shaped like a pumpkin, and you flavor it with pumpkins.â
âTry it, Hastur.â
âNo thank you.â
âTry it before you ditch it.â
Hastur rolls his eyes at him but takes a knife from his pocket anyway, cutting two slices of the brioche.
Beelzyâs face barely shows any reaction, but then again, their face is usually expressionless. As it is, the slight uprising of their eyebrows is all Crowley needed from them.
Hasturâs reaction, in comparison, is far more immediate and satisfying.Â
âWHAAAAA--â
âYes, Hastur?â
âBut--! How--! Beelzebub, how did he do this?â
Beelzy takes another bite, waving the slice in the air. âWell, there are definitely spices in the dough of the brioche--youâve been too generous with the cinnamon, Crowley, curb your enthusiasm there--reminiscent of the infamous pumpkin spice latte, and there is the matter of the gooey center ⊠Citrus?â
âLemon zest and orange compote.â
They nod, swallowing the remains of their slice of brioche in two bites. âGood product. Weâll get the high school population and the office population tempted in no time.â
âOnly a matter of days until theyâre ours.â
Hastur recovered from his shock--or from his distaste of cinnamon, whichever sounds best--and is now smiling like he came up with Crowleyâs creation.
âIâm glad you approve of my idea, my Lord,â he simply says, pushing Hastur out of the way with a hip check.Â
Beelzy leaves the kitchen as the bell above the door rings and Hastur comes far too close for comfort.
âOne of these days, Crowley,â he croaks, âone of these days, youâre going to run out of ideas. And then--â
âAnd then weâll be more alike than ever, Hastur! Wonât it be wonderful?â
Hastur snarls one more time before pulling his phone out of his pocket--to text his boyfriend about all the things he wishes he could do to Crowley to make him suffer, no doubt.
Crowley picks up the last piece of brioche from the plate and nods to himself. Indeed too much cinnamon, but he lost track of his spices while he was preparing his test batch.
See, a certain blond head happened to walk by the kitchenâs window when Crowley was seasoning his dough, and, well.
Crowley preferred to follow its tracks than to follow his idea.
đđđđđđ
That is most definitely Anthony J. Crowley arranging small brioches in a basket in the bakeryâs window.
Aziraphale finds himself dry-mouthed at the sight of these long fingers carefully placing one delicate peachy confection after another on a checkered napkin, and he would have an awfully hard time telling you which of the two brings him to push the bakeryâs door.
âGood afternoon, how may I tempt you--,â Crowley starts, spinning on his toes before coming to a stop as he sees Aziraphale.
The way he stops and the way he gawks at him from behind his tinted glasses makes Aziraphale blush and preen.
â--today,â Crowley finishes his welcome, a small smile appearing on his face. âWell, well, well. Welcome, Mr. Eastgate.â
He knows who I am.
He knows my name.
Say something, Aziraphale, before he thinks you are under the influence of something illegal.
âHello, Crowley.â
There, short and to the point.
Oh, dear Lord, heâs leaning against the counter like some sort of Michelangeloâs sculpture.
âTempted by something, Mr. Eastgate?â
âOh please, call me Aziraphale, Mr. Eastgate is my brother Uriel.â
âAziraphale.â
Crowley repeating his name should not awaken such warm tingles in his lower regions, and yet, here we are, arenât we?
Maybe itâs the way his tongue seems to hiss on the âzeeâ sound and curl around the last âelâ, maybe itâs the way he says it like Aziraphale himself is the delicacy about to be devoured.
âEarth to Aziraphale?â
Oh, right. He didnât enter the shop just to leer at his former colleague and ever-present fantasy-man.
âForgive me, Crowley,â he manages without a stutter, âI was, um, that is to say,â so much for not stuttering, well done, âyour buns caught my attention.â
An army of angels passes by, as Crowleyâs smile widens into a smirk. âDid they now? Flatterer.â
Aziraphale blinks at him until the words that left his mouth fully register. âOh! Not those buns! I--I mean! The edible buns! Brioches! In--in the window!â He groans, placing his hand over his face. âCan the floor swallow me now, please?â
âWhat a waste it would be,â Crowley says quietly, his smile less mocking and more ⊠gentle. âDonât worry, Aziraphale, your appreciation of all my kinds of buns will be my little secret.â
Aziraphale can literally feel the color of his face taking a turn for the crimson. âG-g-good to know.â
âNow, about the pastries in the window, would you care for one?â
Aziraphale relaxes with a deep breath. âThat would be lovely, yes, please.â
Crowley nods and goes to pick a couple of perfectly round orange brioches to put in a paper bag, and Aziraphale watches him carefully.
There is clearly more to Mr Anthony J. Crowley than meets the eye (and a sight it is already, look at those lines, those curves!).
What a pity that he didnât get closer to the man when they shared an office--now, if he wants to be better acquainted with him, Aziraphale will have to come to the bakery quite often, wonât he?
As he takes a bite of one pumpkin-flavored brioche at the bus stop, letting moans that scandalize and, or, amuse his fellow commuters, Aziraphale comes to realize that it wonât be much of a hardship to pursue a friendship with his former colleague, present favorite baker.
đđđđđđ
Crowley waits for Aziraphale to cross the street and turn toward the bus stop to fall to his knees behind the counter, one hand pressed against his heart.
So not only the man looks like an angel, but he decides to attack Crowley with puns, albeit unintended, and a delicious flush that Crowley wanted to follow under that crisp, white shirt?
Cruel, cruel, cruel.
Cruel and delicious torture.
đđđđđđ
As time goes by, Crowley comes to really appreciate his new job.
Sure the hours complicate his social life, but Crowley never really had a social life to begin with, and heâd rather be in the lab in the early morning to tend to his garden of herbs and berries and try new recipes than go out and, what, dance on a sticky dance floor in the hopes of finding someone who will only be second-best to the man he really yearns for ?
Heâs not that much of a dancer anyway.
And he has standards.
âIâm warning you, you better do as I say or there will be consequences.â
Luckily for him, now that both Beelzy and Hastur know he can hold the fort alone, they tend to mysteriously disappear and leave him to his own device.
All the better for Crowley to experiment to his heartâs content.
All the better for Crowley to enjoy the company of one particularly faithful customer, too.
Aziraphale comes almost every day now, several times on particularly gruesome days in fact.
By some kind of magic, the shop manages to always be empty when Aziraphale enters it, allowing Crowley to take a break with a man who is slowly becoming a friend.
Crowley doesnât talk much, not in his nature really, unless a bottle of strong alcohol is involved, but he is a good listener.
And there are very few things in this world as entertaining and satisfying as Aziraphale daintily devouring Crowleyâs cakes while ranting about his colleagues.
The man is made of contrasts, and Crowley âŠ
Well, Crowley loves it.
Him.
Whatever.
Youâre not in his head.
So what if he made a detailed mental list of all of Aziraphaleâs preferences in the matter of tastes, uh?
What about it?
So what if his heart tries to compete in the Gymnastics Olympics every time the doorbell rings?
What are you going to do about it? Mock him? Tell him that he is an idiot for pining after a man who, clearly, seeks his company?
(Well, you wouldnât be completely wrong about that, even Crowley would admit it. Not out loud, never out loud, but he would admit it.)
Trust him, he knows that this is bordering on ridiculous, this pinning and sighing and burying his feelings in yeast and flour whenever Aziraphale leaves.
Ridiculous, yet productive.Â
He just put a batch of his matcha, sesame and crushed hazelnut loaves out of the oven, right before the end of the working day, when Aziraphale comes in.
âHmmm, that smells heavenly.â
âThatâs the yeast fucking.â
The words are out of his mouth before he can stop them--he entirely blames Hastur for the phrasing (and his twisted mind for actually enjoying it)--and he looks up toward Aziraphale in alarm, with an apology on the edge of his lips.
Except that Aziraphale, while clearly startled by Crowleyâs words, seems to be even more enthused by them, if the beaming smile on his face is to be trusted.
Itâs blinding, truth be told, even with the protective sunglasses Crowley has to wear at all times to protect his sensitive eyes from any light.
âThe yeast f--â
âI mean, itâs the dough,â Crowley interrupts. Heâs not sure he would survive hearing Aziraphale actually curse.
Heâs already as infatuated as can be, there is absolutely no need to add another layer of hidden bastardry into the mix.
Aziraphale hums, his amused smile hiding possibly jokes that would kill Crowley on the spot.Â
âAnd what, pray tell my dear, did you do to make the dough rise so deliciously?â
A thousand arrows into the chest probably wouldnât hurt as much as this.
(Probably.)
Either Aziraphale has taken a secret vow to kill Crowley with innuendos while not doing anything about ⊠whatever is brewing between them, or he is really that oblivious and Crowleyâs mind just has a dirty filter.
Whatever explanation works, Crowley wouldnât have it any other way.
âGreen tea and roasted sesame seeds,â he replies before shimmying his shoulders. âAnd my personal touch.â
Aziraphaleâs cheeks turn a delicious shade of pink. âAs in âŠ?â
âAs in, thatâs my secret and you wonât get it, as angelic as you may appear.â
Aziraphale looks surprised for a moment, before turning bashful. âAn-angelic? Me? No, Iâm not, Iâm just... Iâm just me.â
Crowley cocks his head to the side, mentally listing everything he would love to do to the people who ate this manâs self-esteem.
Then he starts mentally listing everything he could do to restore said self-esteem, and, folks, it takes a turn for the graphic with the speed of light.
âYou are just you,â he finally says, leaning over the counter with his chin in his hand, âand thatâs all it takes for you to be angelic.â
The blush on Aziraphaleâs face darkens, but his smile is more assured already. âThatâs ⊠probably the nicest thing anyone has ever s--â
âOh shut up,â Crowley sneers as he straightens up, âIâm not nice.â
Aziraphale makes a show of zipping his lips shut, but his shy smile is still there when he leaves.
đđđ
When Crowley leaves the shop, not too long after Aziraphale, the skies have taken a turn for the gloomy and seem ready to open and throw a flood on them all.
Crowley allows himself a moment of self-pity. Even if he takes the bus instead of walking home like he intended to, there is no actual bus-stop.
Hence no shelter.
Hence his new boots getting soaked and his evening ruined.
Raising his head to the heavens just as the first drops fall, he mouths a heartfelt âwhyâ before making his way to the aforementioned bus-stop.
Only to find a blonde head and a beige trenchcoat waiting under the most Aziraphale-Esque umbrella possibly conceived.
âAziraphale?â
The man in question looks startled before beaming at him. âCrowley!â
Without another word, he lifts the umbrella higher, giving Crowley some room to shelter himself from the downpour.
âWhat are you doing here? I thought you had dinner plans for the evening,â Crowley says, digging his hands in his pockets to keep himself from doing something stupid.
Like, on the top of his head, snake his arm around Aziraphaleâs waist.
That would be a terrible, awful idea.
A deliciously awful idea.
Aziraphale shrugs. âI did,â he replies, looking at Crowley from the corner of his eye, âand then decided I would rather be at home, with a nice cup of cocoa and a book--and some secret bread someone just created.â
His bus comes and leaves and Crowley cannot be bothered to leave the cocoon of warmth that the umbrella provides.
âWhich bus are you taking?â Aziraphaleâs voice is muted as if the umbrella really shelters them both, not only from the rain but from the rest of the world.
âI--I think it just drove away.â
Aziraphale looks at him more directly, a crooked smile on his face. Not mocking, no, just âŠ
A smile that speaks a thousand words.
A smile that says, âI know what you did, and I know what it tells me about you and about us, but I wonât say it aloud. For now. Because this is comfortable and nice too.â
Or at least thatâs how Crowley reads it.
âLooks like mine is delayed,â Aziraphale simply says. âHow do you feel about breakfast for dinner?â
Crowley smiles, tired but content. âWhat do you have in mind, Mr. Eastgate?â
âIf there is enough cocoa for one, there is enough for two, my dear Mr. Crowley.â
đđđ
For the life of him, Aziraphale doesnât know what he was thinking.
He entirely blames Crowleyâs tight pants and warm smile and--and ...Well, he entirely blames Crowley for being Crowley for his enthusiastic yet unplanned invitation to go to his place.
If he has to be completely honest, Aziraphaleâs place is ⊠Not somewhere you invite someone without careful planning beforehand.
(Especially someone who could potentially see more of the place than any random guest, and is possibly someone Aziraphale would like to see in the said apartment more often than not.
Possibly.Â
As in, always and forever.)
Because, and not that it is a piece of information that is absolutely needed but it bares being told at least once, Aziraphale is messy.
âOoooooh,â Crowley starts, low under his breath the moment Aziraphale lets him in, an amused look on his face. âYouâre messy.â
It does bare being told twice, to be honest.
What puzzles Aziraphale is the sheer delight in Crowleyâs voice. He glances around the living room, slash, kitchen, slash, dining room, slash, personal library, and tries to give it an objective look.
There are empty, dirty mugs in the sink, but otherwise, the kitchen area is clean-ish.
There are ⊠oh dear Lord, there are dirty clothes on the couch where Aziraphale came home last night, too tired to get to his bed but not tired enough that he didnât feel like indulging in a little one-on-one session with himself and his thoughts before succumbing to sleep.
(If said thoughts involved the very person now standing in said living room, well, thatâs for Aziraphaleâs shame to feed on.)
Three books are opened, stacked in a precarious pile on the coffee table.
At least Anathema is nowhere in sight. With any luck, sheâs asleep on Aziraphaleâs bed and wonât bother sniffing around.
(Aziraphale feels like introducing Crowley and Anathema would bare more consequences than introducing Crowley to his family.)
Some shoes and ties create a parkour-worthy arrangement around the room.
On his shelves, itâs not a mess. Itâs the perfectly organized chaos Aziraphale has chosen as his way of putting his collection together.
All the editions of one book together, naturally, arranged per publication date, of course.
So it looks a bit in disarray in relation to the sizes and the conservation states.
That doesnât bother him in the slightest, but he can see how, added to the rest of the room, his shelves give a distinctively chaotic vibe.
Still, Crowley is not running for the hills or making fun of him as some other people did in the past.
(Gabriel is a judgmental asshole who wouldnât make the difference between a sketch by E.H. Shepard and a napkin at the bottom of a dump, and he can suck on his minimalistic design for all Aziraphale cares.
Still hurts when he makes fun of Aziraphaleâs prized possessions.)
No, quite the contrary. Aziraphale can only gulp when he spots Crowley strutting, really, the man is strutting in his living room, caressing the back of Aziraphaleâs chair or browsing the shelves, the same delighted look on his face softening as he goes.
âOh, Aziraphale,â he says suddenly, voice barely above the sound of the rain hitting the window. âHow did you get your hands on this one?â
Aziraphale forgets all of his embarrassment at the state of his home to see what caught Crowleyâs attention.
âSendak?â
âNot just any Sendak, you little minx. Quite the controversial item, isnât it?â
âOh!â Aziraphale can tell that his cheeks are now matching some of his books binding. âWell, no respectable collection--â
Crowley snorts and raises one eyebrow.
âNo collection would be complete without Sendakâs entire body of work, now would it?â
âDreaming about baking in the nude, Aziraphale?â
Aziraphaleâs brain flies out the window and into the gutter. âI--you--but--â
Crowley snickers, reaching for the copy of âIn the Night Kitchenâ.
Aziraphale takes it first, clutching it to his chest. âYou demon! Do you enjoy making fun of me?â
Crowleyâs smile slowly melts away. âI am not making fun of you, honest. Itâs just âŠâ Crowley looks frustrated, searching for his words and that alone appeases Aziraphale. âI like finding out that there are more layers to you than what you usually let people know, okay?â
Itâs raw and honest and, frankly, adorable.
If Aziraphale wasnât so worried about losing Crowleyâs friendship, he would jump in his arms right there and then kiss the sarcasm out of him.
(It would take a while. Maybe even a lifetime. That doesnât bother him. Heâs willing to spend that time on this task.)
As it is, Aziraphale simply puts the book back on its shelf before clasping his hands in front of him. âOh.â
âYeah, oh.â
Aziraphale chances a look at Crowley, who is busy pretending he finds the pattern on Aziraphaleâs floor mind-riveting.
âHow about that cocoa to go with your loaf?â
Crowley visibly chokes on air.
âOf bread! Your loaf of bread! That I bought!â
â... Right.â
Aziraphale all but runs to the safety of his kitchen where he gently smacks his head against a cupboard.
âAre you all right, Aziraphale?â
âY-yeah, of course, why wouldnât I be?â Aziraphale closes his eyes one moment before letting out a deep breath. âDo you have a milk preference? And do you want some sugar in your âŠ.?â
Crowley appears next to him. âI wouldnât mind if you have sheep milk--easier to digest.â Crowley takes a step that puts his hand almost on top of Aziraphaleâs. âAnd I think I have all the sweetness I need.â
âAh.â Aziraphale is absolutely not using his countertop as a crutch to keep himself upright while Crowley is standing so close to him.
Dear Lord, he smells like a cologne-scented pastry, and that is more appetizing than it should be.
âPerhaps if you mixed some honey in it, though âŠâ
Aziraphale canât help but beam at Crowley. âNow thatâs an excellent idea, my dear! Go, sit, Iâll be with you in a jiffy.â
Crowley frowns at him, silently muttering âa jiffy?â but still complies with the command.
Aziraphale focuses on preparing their drinks, cutting slices of the delicious green tea loaf and putting them on a clean plate--more of a feat than youâd think--before joining Crowley.
And thatâs when he almost drops the tray.
Because Crowley is not sitting on the couch, oh no Sir.
Crowley is sprawled on the couch, spread on the pleather like caramel on a crĂȘpe.
âCom-comfortable, I believe?â
âHm-hm.â
Aziraphale straightens up and bumps his hips against Crowleyâs feet. âLeave some room for me, will you?â
Fussing over the cups and saucers, Aziraphale completely misses the fond look Crowley addresses in his direction as he sits more properly.
đđđđđđ
âWhat are your plans for the weekend?â Crowley asks, wondering if today is the day heâll finally get brave enough to ask Aziraphale if heâd like to--
âWould you care to accompany me to the auction I texted you about? Afterward, we could go get some sushis âŠ.â
âWhy do you need me, exactly?â Crowley cuts in. âItâs not like I know anything about books.â
(This is a blatant lie, for once. Crowley knows it, you know it, his shelves of astronomical and botanical books and romance novels know it. Aziraphale, however, does not. This will have to wait for Aziraphale to actually come to Anthonyâs place, and, well, sorry dears, but Crowley is not there yet.
Pace yourself and enjoy the moment, will you?)
Aziraphale toys with the paper napkin, wringing it into oblivion. âWell, if I remember our brief moment as colleagues, you always seemed to be the ⊠responsible, shall we say, um, perhaps, the sensible kind of fellow.â
Crowley barely resists the need to bark a laugh at that. As it is, he keeps it to a smirk stretching his lips as he leans back in his chair.âHardly.â
âNow come on, dear,â Aziraphale tuts, oblivious to the way Crowleyâs eyes widen at the term of endearment, âyou would do a fantastic wingman to contain my enthusiasm.â
Crowley briefly raises his eyes to the ceiling--dear God, there is no way his former-colleague-turned-friend-could-be-more is not doing it on purpose, is there?--before sighing. âWhy is there a need to contain your enthusiasm?â
Aziraphale gives him a look.Â
âNo, seriously, Angel,â he continues, this time being the oblivious one to the stunned look on Aziraphaleâs face at his choice of words, âyou do make a decent living, working for those vampires, why would you need to, um, contain your enthusiasm?â
âBecause thatâs the ⊠reasonable, err, thing to do?â
âScrew reasonable, Aziraphale!â Crowley exclaims. âYouâre not harming everybody, you are not going to spend all of your money during an auction. After all, there is only one book fitting your collection--â
âOh. You looked at the catalog I sent you?â
âOf course,â Crowley shrugs, mildly offended. âSo if youâre only looking to buy one book, why not splurge a little?â
âWhen you put it that way âŠâ
âTreat yourself, Angel!â
âClever tempter.â Aziraphale tries to look angry, but it only comes out as unbearably cute.
Crowley lets himself smile as fondly as his heart desires at Aziraphale. âNot much to tempt when itâs already what you wanted to do.â
âSo?â
âSoâŠ?â
âSo, will you come with me, Crowley?â
Oh, right, he never actually gave an answer did he? âI guess. If nothing else more interesting comes my way.â
âUh-huh.â
âWhat? I may have hundreds of invitations waiting for me to give them a reply.â
âDear,â Aziraphale says, his voice just lower enough to awaken an unidentified heat in Crowleyâs stomach, âyouâre the one who asked me if I had plans over the weekend.â
With a pat on Crowleyâs knees, Aziraphale is up and already at the door with a wave. âSee you Saturday on New Bond Street, Crowley!â
Crowley is left stunned in his chair, looking after the blond curls bobbing down the street.
The little devil.
đđđđđđ
To be completely honest, Aziraphale wasnât sure Crowley would show up.
After all, it is his only day of freedom before going back to a job that is far more physically demanding than Aziraphaleâs. Aziraphale would completely understand if Crowley decided to just sleep it away.
(He would understand. He would be disappointed and sad, but that would be for him and for his pet to know.)
But no.
Next to the entrance of the auction house, in all his glorious lankiness draped in black, stands the man starring in a lot of Aziraphaleâs dreams lately.
Oh, kindly get your mind out of the gutter, not all those dreams are of the pornographic variety.
(The key-word here being ânot allâ.)
Crowleyâs hair is out of his usual messy bun, flowing in crimson rivlets around his angular face. Sunglasses firmly in place even though it is a cloudy day in London.
As for the rest of his attire, one would call it âpunk chicâ if one even dared to try and qualify Crowleyâs âŠ
Well.
Crowley as a whole is inqualifiable, isnât he? Almost âŠ
Ineffable.
And here he goes again, waxing poetic over Crowley while being too shy, awkward, afraid, to do something about it.
Would that be so hard? âHey Crowley, thanks for coming, after the auction, would you fancy some dinner? No, not like the hundreds we already shared, no, this one would be special. A date. Iâm asking you on a date. No? Preposterous? Oh, alright, back to business as usual then, see you Monday at the bakery.â
See? Not that hard. Hardly more than a band-aid ripped from oneâs skin.
⊠Right. As if that simple mind simulation didnât rip Aziraphaleâs heart out of his chest, stomped on it before putting the beaten pulp back for him to heal.
âRight on time, Angel.â
The pet name never fails to cause more aortic gymnastics and Aziraphale beams at Crowley. âIf right on time means half an hour before the auction, then, yes, right on time.â
Crowley digs his hands in his pockets, face turned to the ground. âI know you want to find a good spot to observe without being observed,â he mumbles as they enter the auction house and are directed toward the room. âHalf an hour to do so sounds reasonable.â
âI appreciate the effort,â Aziraphale says lightly, lighter than he really feels. âI thought reason was your kryptonite.â
A crooked smile appears on Crowleyâs face, and he pulls his glasses down just enough for Aziraphale to see him wink. âAmong other things, Angel.â
Crowley takes two strides as Aziraphale is glued on the spot.
That--that was flirting, wasnât it?
It has to mean something, doesnât it?
Aziraphale is going to lose his darn mind trying to read between Crowleyâs lines.
(And he loves every second of it, donât get him wrong.)
âNow, do you prefer to sit in the back, or somewhere in the middle? Iâd prefer somewhere where we can talk without disturbing anybody, even if the walls have ears,â Crowley is rambling, strutting--there is really no other way to put it--strutting his stuff back and forth across the room where the auction will be held. âDo books have ears?â he mutters, to Aziraphaleâs complete delight, before snickering in a way that can only be described as adorable, as much as Crowley denies being anything approaching âadorableâ, âcuteâ ou even just âniceâ. âThough I suppose they can be eared.â
It requires a lot of focus on their surroundings and a massive amount of self-control for Aziraphale to keep himself from throwing himself at Crowley and kiss the living daylights out of him right then and there.
âGet it?â Crowley insists, his smile far too much for Aziraphale to handle. âDog-eared?â
âI get it, dear,â Aziraphale says, willing his cheeks to return to their normal, pale complexion. In a very satisfying turn of event, his blush seems to transfer to Crowleyâs cheeks, too. âVery funny, and contextually appropriate. Kudos.â
Crowley gives him a little curtsey before pointing at different seats. âSo? The choice is yours, Angel.â
Oh, Aziraphale knows that there is a slight percentage of Crowleyâs choice of pet name which is vaguely mocking. He knows.
He does love being called âAngelâ by a man who looks like one himself, only in a more lustful way.
(Can angels be lustful creatures? There is a probably a whole moral and theological debate to have there, but heâll keep it in mind for their next date-not-a-date-God-he-wishes-it-was-a-date.)
âRight this way,â Aziraphale points to two seats in second to last row, somewhere around the middle. âPerfect view, perfect to bid.â
As if summoned by magic, a paddle seems to appear in Crowleyâs hand. Aziraphale eyes it warily as Crowley twirls it in the air. âPlanning on bidding, dear?â
âYep. You should get yours too.â
âSeriously?â
Crowley looks over the rim of his sunglasses to look at Aziraphale. âDeadly.â
Aziraphale attempts to glare a him as he stands, taking a double take to make sure that his companion is not pulling his leg. When Crowley has the audacity to make a âgo onâ motion, Aziraphale huffs and puffs all the way to the paddle counter.
âAnd what, pray tell, do you plan on bidding on, exactly?â
âSomething awfully overpriced, just to make some idiots pay more than they should.â
âOh, be serious, Crowley.â
The room fills up one person at a time, but as far as Aziraphale is concerned, itâs just the two of them.
âIf you must know,â Crowley replies, a faint blush appearing on the apple of his cheeks (and on the tip of his ears, that is just ⊠Aziraphale has no words), âwhile browsing the catalogue you sent me, I spotted a copy of a book that could look good on my shelves.â
âAs in âŠ?â
âAs in, wait and see, good things come to those who wait, for Peteâs sake!â
Aziraphale smiles crookedly at that, as discretely as he can manage.
Or maybe, just maybe, he only lets Aziraphale sees under all that nonchalance to show his true self.
That possibility almost makes him faint.
âLadies and gentlemen, if I can have your attention,â the auctioneer calls with a too-white smile. âLetâs begin with the first lot of this English literature, History science and Childrenâs book auction, shall we?â
đđđ
Itâs not that Crowley is a bibliophile--far from it.
He simply has a profound respect for books and the answers they can provide to all the questions in the Universe.
And sometimes, just for the fun of it, he likes to splurge on books which show how far Humanity has come, in terms of knowledge.
The irony of it all, and, though heâll never admit it, the hope that lies between those lines.
If humanity is capable of growing out of a pit of superstitions and darkness, the future cannot be as bleak as it looks, can it?
Which leads us to the present moment, to the book he spotted in the aforementioned catalogue and wishes to purchase if it fits his splurging budget.
Rachel Bell Maidenâs âThe Canape Bookâ.
The small book doesnât look like much, on its podium, barely held upright by the handlerâs gloved hand.
And yet, Crowley wants it like he doesnât often want for things.
(A look on his left tells a different story, but a, this is not the place nor the time, and b, Crowley himself doesnât want to admit to himself that he yearns.
Humans can be stupid like that.)
The green binding is pretty unique, or so Crowley has learned online, and he really, really ...
âStarting the auction at 200 pounds, do we have a bidder, I have an offer at 250 pounds âŠâ
Crowley raises his paddle like a sword in the air.
â300 pounds to paddle 666. I have an offer at 325?â
One more lift.
â350, 350 to paddle 666. What about you, Sir, care to raise the stakes? No? On the phone?â
The auctioneer looks around the room and Crowley starts sweating. As it is, with the fees, and everything, the book is going to be right on the verge of extravagant for his budget.
But it is a good purchase, if only to find recipes to try with Aziraphale, sandwiches and cocktails that will make for splendid afternoon and fantastic evenings, perhaps a prelude to more if they--if he ever gets himself together.
âGoing once, going twice âŠâ
âCome on,â Crowley mutters between gritted teeth.
âAnd sold to paddle 666, congratulations sir.â
âYesss,â Crowley cannot help but hiss as he puts the paddle away.
Still in the rush of the auction--and yes, it was a rush, shut up--he slides his hand over Aziraphaleâs next to him.Â
And Aziraphale doesnât move it away.
Oh, no, quite the opposite actually: he turns his hand to clasp Crowleyâs firmly and doesnât let go.
âCongratulations, dear,â he whispers, close enough for his breath to tickle Crowleyâs skin. âI hope to be as successful in my own endeavor.â
Crowley smiles bashfully. âThank you, Angel.â
The fifty or so lots after that go by without Crowley noticing them.
A not so small part of him wishfully thinks that Aziraphale doesnât pay much attention to it either.
When Aziraphale straightens up in his chair, paddle at the ready, Crowley turns his attention back to the room.
The big lot of the sale isnât up yet, but a few heads are turning toward the three tan-leather bound books.
âNow, lot 69, a 1840 printing of Charles Dickensâ Oliver Twist, in 3 volumes, signed by the illustrator George Cruikshank, we have a lot of interest from buyers over the phone, letâs start this auction at 1200 pounds. 1200, 1300, thank you Sir, 1400 for you Emma, 1400 over the phone, 1500 for me, 1600 over the phone with Tang, 1650 for me, 1650, do I have more bidding?â
Aziraphale raises his paddle and Crowley can feel his heart beating faster in his friendâs behalf.
Well, âfriendâ.
Whatever they are.
â1700 pounds for the paddle 29472, thank you Sir. 1700 in the room, not with me, not on the phone.â
Aziraphale wiggles in his chair, a proud smirk on his face.
âAnd 1800 for the paddle 75005.â
Aziraphale and Crowley snap their head toward the part of the room pointed by the auctioneerâs hammer. A smug looking person raises one eyebrow at them.
Aziraphale scowls at them and lifts his hand.
â1900, paddle 29472.â
â2000, paddle 75005...â
Crowley glances back at the catalogue when Aziraphale reaches 3000.
âAngel,â he whispers, âyouâre at the higher estimate.â
âThese books are mine,â Aziraphale growls back, and while the sound goes straight to Crowleyâs bloodstream, it may be time for this whole affair to end.
Glaring at the back of Mx. 75005âs head, Crowley waits for them to lift their paddle, again, and turn to smirk at them, again.
Which they do--so predictable.
Crowley discreetly brings his thumb to his throat and hisses.
The person seems appropriately taken aback.
Aziraphale lifts his paddle one more time, bringing the auction to 3500 pounds.
â3500 pounds for paddle 29742, do you wish to continue, Sir?â
The person hesitates, glancing at them one more time. Crowley lowers his glasses to glare them into submission.
And then they shake their head.
âWeâre at 3500 pounds for the gentleman with the paddle 29742, do I have any more bidder? Going once, going twiceâŠâ
Aziraphale is the one reaching for Crowleyâs hand this time around.
âAnd sold. Congratulations, Sir. Now, moving on to lot 70 âŠâ
âUnless you wish to stay for what most of these people consider to be the important lot of this sale,â Aziraphale whispers, his hand still clasping Crowleyâs, âwe can take our leave.â
âDo you want to see how it goes?â
âNah, Iâll check the final results online.â
âSure?â
âSure. Letâs go. I feel peckish.â
âPeckish.â
âIndeed. How about some crepes?â
âLead the way, Angel.â
đđđđđ
âWell, wasnât that fun?â Aziraphale says happily, hands clasped in his back as they walk down the street.
âIt was fun,â Crowley replies, a crooked smile on his face. âEspecially to see that side of you, Angel.â
âWhich side, my dear?â
âThe feisty, slightly bastardish side, of course.â
Aziraphale wants to protest, he does, but even if he felt like lying to Crowley, he couldnât possibly procede. And he can admit that he did let out his ⊠inner bastard.
âRight. Well. Iâm glad you enjoyed that.â
âYou have no idea.â
Crowleyâs voice catches Aziraphaleâs attention. Itâs soft suddenly around the edges, almost tender, almost fond.
Almost smitten.
Aziraphale searches Crowleyâs face for more clues, but beside this smirk that has indeed softened into a grin, his blasted sunglasses block Aziraphaleâs âreadingâ.
âCrowley âŠâ
âAngel âŠâ
They both start at the same time but Crowley shakes his head before Aziraphale can tell him to go ahead. âNever mind that. Where are you taking us?â
Aziraphale considers pushing it, once and for all--speak your mind and heart, damn you, so I can snog you senseless in the middle of Oxford Circus--but Crowley is not the kind of man you can push into confession, that much Aziraphale knows now.
âTo my secret spot.â
Crowleyâs face instantly matches the crimson lining of his jacket. âCool. Do you take all your dates there?â
âI never brought anyone there, Iâll have you know,â Aziraphale replies over the pitter patter of his heart at the mention of this afternoon being a date. âBut I--I want you to be my guest there.â
They reach a crossroad and Aziraphale brings his hands in front of him, nervouser and nervouser as Crowley remains silent.
Until, that is, Crowleyâs hand enters his line of vision.
âCrowley?â
Crowley is not looking at him, but he still wiggles his fingers, prompting Aziraphale to take it.
âI would love to see your secret spot, Angel,â Crowley finally says, voice barely covering the hubbub around them. âI am--I am honored.â
Itâs only because he knows the way so well that Aziraphale doesnât lose them both in the streets, floating as he is on his very own cloud.
âThis,â Crowley says with as much doubt as he can put in a single syllable, âis where you take me to have crĂȘpes?â
âIndeed it is.â
âThis restaurant? Really?â
âDonât pass on such a hasty judgment,â Aziraphale tutts. ââFor by your words you will be acquitted and by your words you will be condemnedâ.â
Crowley groans as he follows him inside the tiny Japanese restaurant. âQuoting scriptures at me now? Why, oh why would you do that?â
Aziraphale salutes the owner before taking âhisâ seat, inviting Crowley to join him. âIf only to make you admit that you knew the source of my quote, you fallen soul. And to gently ask you not to say another word before you have a chance to try their desserts.â
âFine, fine, I suppose I can put my judgmental side on hold for a moment with you.â
Oh. Wow. Thatâs too much, too fast, wow.
All Aziraphale can do on the outside is clearing his throat and pulling the menu in front of him.
âI mean--â Crowley starts, but Aziraphale cuts him short.Â
âShould we split one plate of crĂȘpes, or should we share two plates, I donât know, I--I, um, I know I have built an appetite with the adrenaline and all, but how do you feel?â
Crowley shrugs, pulling off his glasses to clean them with his scarf. âYouâre the connoisseur, you decide. Iâm putting my faith in you, Angel.â
But all of Aziraphaleâs knowledge and appreciation for the crĂȘpe cakes on the menu flew out the window the moment Crowleyâs eyes came into view.
Theyâre such a peculiar shade, a mesmerizing golden amber Aziraphale could bask in for all of Eternity.
â-raphale?â
âUh? Sorry, my dear boy, I was--I was lost in thoughts.â
âPure, happy thoughts?â
âEnough to make me fly if I had any fairy dust.â
Crowley opens and closes his mouth, the smile left behind enough for Aziraphale to gather that he has a joke on the tip of his tongue and is refraining out of the goodness of his heart.
âYou were saying?â he asks instead, folding back the menu to focus on Crowley, now that those jewelled eyes are once again hidden.
(What a shame, but what a relief for his poor heart, too.)
âI was asking you what was your favorite cake?â
âDepends on my mood,â Aziraphale replies, more comfortable on the subject of food. âA good vanilla crĂȘpe can do the trick but when I feel like treating myself properly âŠâ
âYess?â
âChestnut and chocolate is my go-to.â
âAn interesting combination.â
âA scrumptious combination!â Aziraphale claps his hands. âOh, that makes my decision easier. We must simply try that.â
Aziraphaleâs favorite waiter approaches and they exchange a few words in Japanese before Aziraphale places his order.
As he leaves them to it, Aziraphale turns back to Crowley who is gawking at him.
âWhat?â
Crowley clears his throat and chuckles awkwardly. âYou--you speak Japanese?â
âOh, yes, I do, donât I?â
Crowley cocks his head to the side, fingers drumming on the tablecloth.
Aziraphale starts fidgeting under such intense scrutiny. âWhatâs so special about it, anyway? Iâm sure you speak other languages, too.â
It comes out a bit more defensively than he really intended to. There is just something about Crowley that reveals his darker side.
Crowley smirks, still drumming on the table. âI speak Scottish, if that counts.â
âOf course it does.â
âAnd I suppose I can manage with French, but nothing as ⊠exotic as Japanese.â
âFrench?â
âTout Ă fait.â
Isnât it funny, how we sometimes discover things about ourselves late in life?
As it is, until this very moment, Aziraphale had no idea that a few words uttered in French could affect him as it does.
Crowley stops in his tracks and looks at Aziraphale over the rim of his glasses. âFrench, or baking?â
âBoth?â
Oh, itâs not that Aziraphale doesnât see how either lesson could turn into an apocalyptic sort of disaster. He does, he absolutely, with great clarity, does.
But on the other hand, this kind of apocalypse would inevitably lead to him and Crowley spending more time together, getting closer, until Aziraphale would be able to whisper his freshly acquired vocabulary into the meat of Crowleyâs skin.
So, yes, Aziraphale would take the risk of an apocalypse of embarrassment for the reward of successfully wooing Crowley.
âThat could be fun,â Crowley replies just as the crĂȘpes land on their table, his hand suddenly covering Aziraphale in a sneak attack. âIf you teach me something in return.â
Oh, boy.
âWhat would you want me to teach you?â Aziraphale asks.
âYou could teach me Japanese,â Crowley replies, taking his hand back--both a blessing and a curse. âOr fencing.â
Aziraphale freezes. âHow do you know I fence?â
Crowley sits back in his chair, cup of tea in his hand as he slouches. âSomething in your posture, Angel,â he replies, gesturing in Aziraphaleâs direction. âIt was either fencing or horse riding.â
âAnd how do you know itâs not horse riding?â
âHard on the buttocks, horses. Bit of a flaw in the design, if you ask me. But you donât strike me as someone who would inflict such pain on his buttocks.â
Such a sentence promptly produces images of Crowley thinking about the comfort of his buttocks, which, if you are in Aziraphaleâs mind, doesnât take too long before derailing into Crowley taking care of his ass.
Not that Aziraphaleâs mind needs much prompting to go in that direction nowadays.
Even when they are average, they are the superior dessert, snack and culinary creation altogether.
Aziraphale takes a moment to enjoy his first bite. Much like a French philosopher, Aziraphale thinks that as enjoyable a thing may be, nothing can surpass the happiness brought by the first bite, first sip, first encounter.
The crĂȘpes are thin yet soft, with a delicate crispy ring on the edges. In the center, the pieces of chocolate are on the verge of being completely melted, but not yet, while the crushed chestnuts are bringing some texture to the whole plate.
Aziraphale hums in his delight, before pushing the plate toward Crowley. âWhere are my manners? Youâre the one who has to try this for the first time.â
Crowley picks up a fork, turning the plate so he can face an untouched part of the crĂȘpe. Aziraphale carefully watches his face for his reaction.
His mind takes another turn for the gutter at the way Crowley flicks his tongue at the fork before closing his lips around it, but then.
Then.
Crowleyâs eyes widens, visible even from behind the tainted lenses and he lets out a soft, heartfelt moan that seems to fly directly through Aziraphaleâs veins and straight to his heart.
âThatâs--â Crowley starts, a pink flush appearing on his high cheeks. âItâs delicious!â
A small part of Aziraphaleâs mind takes pride in making his ⊠friend discover such a pleasure, but most of it is entirely consumed by the way Crowley looks at the moment.
Amazement colors his features, and the largest smile Aziraphale has ever seen on his face stretches his lips.
If Aziraphale thought he had a crush on the lanky man before, that is nothing compared to the rush of, well, Love he feels right now.
âI can understand why you kept this place a secret, Angel,â Crowley says, picking a second piece of the crĂȘpe cake. âThis is truly a slice of Heaven.â
Aziraphale lets out a short giggle before smothering it with a forkful of cake.
âAziraphale.â
âYes, dear?â
Crowley removes his glasses completely before cupping his face in his palm. The sight of those golden eyes, with their oh so particular shade, short-circuits Aziraphaleâs brain.
Particularly because of the fondness warming them.
âMay I tempt you for dinner?â
âT-tempt me?â
Crowley cocks one eyebrow at him. âWell, asking you for dinner on my terms means making you leave work early, thus tempting you away from them all.â
âThem?â
âThe parasites who used to be my colleagues.â
And just like that, the warm feelings in Aziraphaleâs chest melt away. âParasites?â
Crowley must hear the change of tone in his voice. âWell,â he straightens up while managing to still slouch in his chair, âyou know. Gabriel, Michael, all those who act all holier than thou.â
Aziraphale feels hurt--he isnât quite sure if he feels attacked or if itâs just a sense of professional duty. âArenât I one of them too?â
Crowley puts his sunglasses back on. âYou work there, yes, but you are not one of them,â he replies emphatically.
âHow so?â
âI know so.â
Aziraphale swipes his face with his hand. âI know I should take your words as a compliment, but what makes you so sure that Iâm not like them?!â
Crowley smiles at him, blinding and, and, loving, yes. âI know you would never take advantage of the people who have faith in you,â he replies simply. âAnd that you are more layered than any of those buffoons.â
âOh.â
âAnd given the chance, you wouldnât work for them.â
Itâs Aziraphaleâs turn to raise an eyebrow at Crowley. âOh really. And what would I rather do?â
âI think that you would be way happier if your job involved books and making people happy.â
Aziraphale blinks at the image those words paint.
Far too appealing an image. He needs to stir the conversation away from it.
âTo answer your earlier proposal âŠâ
âHmm yes?â
âI would love to let you tempt me.â
âGreat.â Crowley beams at him. âMeet me at the bakery around 5pm.â
âWhere are we going?â
âYouâll see.â
đđđđđ
The thing you need to know about Crowley is that heâs a perfectionnist.
Oh, maybe you already gathered as much about him from the rest of the story already.
But anyway, that is to say that in preparation for his date--because yes, this is officially a date, if the previous day wasnât already one--, Crowley spends the night trying to figure out the best sweets to treat his angel to.
No, he doesnât. Maybe later, once they will have dated for a while, for a special occasion perhaps.
No, for now, Crowley needs to blow Aziraphaleâs mind and tastebuds.
(No, Crowley is absolutely not considering blowing anything else. Who do you take him for?Â
⊠If the mood seems right.
Maybe.
Possibly.)
The rest of the meny is fairly simple: Crowley knows Aziraphaleâs tastes now. Fresh, quality ingredients, some fancy ones but nothing that can take him away from the ultimate prize that is the dessert.
So he decided to start with oysters (which doesnât require a lot of preparation, juste the mignonette sauce).
Pros: itâs easy, fresh and aphrodisiac.
Cons: the shells. But Crowley will deal with them later.
For the main dish, Crowley goes with a pancetta and butternut squash risotto.
Pros: he can prepare it in advance and simply reheat it when needed (and he totally prepares it while considering his dessert options).
Cons: well, there are ways to fail at making a risotto, but this is not Crowleyâs first risotto. He knows where the potential failure lies, and he sidesteps it like a pro.
And now back to the dessert.
If everything goes as well as Crowley wishes, thinks, hopes it will go, then by the time they get to dessert, they will both want to get closer.
Maybe kiss.
Maybe hold each other.
(Oh, to feel Aziraphaleâs soft body pressed against his. Now that would be his treat.)
In order to to so, Crowley has two choices, really.
Either a dessert they can feed to each other, like an ice cream or a mousse of some sorts, or a dessert they can nibble on, like some kinds of biscuits or--
Hold that thought.
Crowley applauds himself before going through the pages of his book.
âGood Nommins: Agnes Nutterâs Nice and Accurate Recipesâ, a book he got from his great-great-great-great aunt. All of Crowleyâs recipes are a variation he played from those ancient recipes.
And there is something he thinks will do the trick.
So, yes, he spends the night trying recipes, finding ways to recycle what doesnât make the cut (an unsuitable cookie is only a good cheesecake crust waiting to happen) until Crowley is sure he has the right treat.
And now he is.
At 5 a.m.
Which means that there is no point in going to bed now, is there, since he has to be at the bakery in one hour.
Thatâs alright, though. Crowley doesnât really mind, especially considering the ultimate goal. Mission Woo Aziraphale Eastgate out of his waistcoat, dot dot dot, is a go.
đđđ
Crowley is waiting for Aziraphale in front of the bakery and he does his best not to be nervous.
âWhatcha doinâ?â
Crowley is too tired to hide that Beelzy managed to surprise him.
âIâm waiting. For my, um, my friend.â
âRight,â they drawl, fixing the brooch on their lapel. âYour ⊠friend, the blondy from the vampire office.â
âYou know them?â
âGot my loan from them.â
Crowley canât help but pull a face.
âAnd my regular booty call.â
Crowleyâs grimace takes a turn for the worse. âIsnât that what people call a boyfriend?â
Beelzy makes a gagging sound. âDonât be gross. Okay, Iâm off. See you tomorrow? Iâd like to talk to you about something.â
âShould I worry?â
âDo or do not, I donât care. Bye!â
Crowley is still frowning after them when Aziraphale taps on his shoulder, practically vibrating with excitement.
âGood afternoon, dear!â Aziraphale says, rocking on his heels. âSo, where are we going?â
Crowley leans in to kiss Aziraphaleâs cheek, bringing the rocking to a stop.Â
âFollow me.â
đđđđđ
Aziraphale doesnât quite know what makes him trust Crowley so much that heâs willing to follow him through the streets of London until they reach what looks like an old factory.
âWhat is--where are we, dear boy?â
âMy place, Angel.â
(I told you it would come in the proper time, didnât I, dear readers? Good things come to those who wait.)
âYour--your place?â
âI thought it would be better to have an intimate setting for our, err, first, you know,â Crowley says while opening his door.
Aziraphaleâs brain has already melted at the word âintimateâ, but the design of Crowleyâs flat finishes the job.
Given the look of the building, Aziraphale expected something rough, somehow bohemian. The idea doesnât quite fit Crowleyâs general look, but what does he know, right?
But that flat!
Everything is sleek and modern, except for the kitchen which has a wooden counter, but even that part of the flat is in the darker shades, black wood and metal.
Though the space is not big, the whole space is tidy and sparkly clean, a complete opposite to the way Aziraphale himself keeps his own flat. Next to the windows, which could be seen from the outside, stand giant plants. Monstera, succulents and alocasia fill in the space, probably eating up the light during the day.
Itâs the most luxurious private garden Aziraphale has ever seen. Next to them, in the biggest sunlight spot, stands a vivarium with a napping snake.
Now, that fits the picture of Crowley he has built in his mind.
âWelcome to my casa,â Crowley tells him, taking off his jacket and sending it with a scary accuracy onto the hook. Aziraphale doesnât trust his own talent and goes to hang his own coat. âI hope you donât mind Newt?â
âYou have a lovely home, Anthony,â he replies instead, looking around. A door is closed, probably leading to Crowleyâs private parts of the flat--and Aziraphale is now very intrigued to know more about the kind of bedding Crowley likes to sleep in, while the main room is split between the living room, where the plants are, and the kitchen, where Crowley is standing.
His sleeves rolled up to his elbows, good Lord.
âThank you, Aziraphale,â Crowley replies softly, simultaneously opening the refrigerator and turning the fire on under a large pan.
For some reason, hearing his first name in Crowleyâs mouth is even better than the pet name he got used to.
âIs there something I can do?â
âMake yourself comfortable, angel, and perhaps open a bottle of wine?â
Aziraphale works quickly to open the bottle of red wine in order to be able to return to his gawking at Crowley in action.
âAnthony?â
âYes?â
âThis is a date, right?â
Crowley freezes before nodding.
âIâm really glad it is.â
Crowley comes to sit at the table too, a large plate covered in oysters and a light vinegary sauce. He has a small smile, almost shy. âIâm really glad too.â
âI had a hunch,â Crowley says, pushing the plate toward Aziraphale.
âYou have a lot of them, about me?â
âQuite a few.â Here is that smile again, soft and warm and reaching into Aziraphaleâs body to seize his heart in the most tender way.
Aziraphale tries to hide his blush by slurping on an oyster, the peppercorn and the vinegar heightening the ioded taste of the mollusk.
âThatâs delicious.â
âIâm glad.â
âHow are you so good at cooking?â
That, more than anything else, gets Crowley started, and the hours tick by as they devour the plate of oysters and then the entire pan of risotto, spoonful by spoonful, while Crowley talks about his childhood, his desire to cook and his incessant need to ask questions to understand, really, the whyâs and howâs of the universe. Aziraphale interjects some questions, mostly savouring both the food and the way Crowley seems to lighten up from the inside as they move to the plush looking couch in the living room. Truth be told, he becomes more alive the emptier the bottle becomes, sure, and his speech makes less and less sense, but it only makes him more attractive in Aziraphaleâs eyes.
âAnd then, then--â Crowley pauses, pouting. âWhat was I saying?â
Aziraphale blinks, and yes, he is quite inebriated himself. âSomething about fish soup?â
âBouillabaisse! Yes!â
âWhat about bulibaze?â
â... I donât know. But itâs bloody good.â
Aziraphale starts giggling, and when he looks up again to pour himself another glass, Crowley is sitting far closer than he was just a moment ago.
âOh.â
Crowleyâs hair is ruffled and soft-looking, begging for Aziraphale to pass his fingers through them. His eyes are dark, a golden circle surrounding his irises. And his mouth is âŠ
Itâs calling for Aziraphaleâs touch, thatâs what it is.
They both lean closer, and Aziraphale licks his lips the moment Crowley bites on his lower lip.
âI have dessert.â
âYou--uh?â
Crowley leans back, still close enough that Aziraphale can feel his body heat radiating on his left side.
âI prepared a dessert. For you. A special dessert.â
I could be happy with you as my dessert, fleetingly crosses Aziraphaleâs mind but in the ranking of his sins, gluttony must supersedes lust because he is immediately curious.
âA special dessert for me?â
Crowley winks, the devil, before jumping out of the couch and sautering to the kitchen.
While he waits, Aziraphale tries to compose himself.Â
Oh, he has every intention of bringing what almost happened to something that definitely happened, but he doesnât want it to be a drunken, or worse, rushed moment.
Hence the composing.
âTadaaa,â Crowley singsongs as he brings a plate to his coffee table. The plate is covered in thin golden biscuits, as thin as paper, rolled up and folded.
âOh, lovely!â Aziraphale picks up one of the biscuits. Itâs amazingly light and buttery. âWhat are those?â
âThey have two names,â Crowley explains, pushing forward Aziraphaleâs glass. âTheyâre known as gavottes, or as crĂȘpes dentelles.â
Aziraphale recognizes the first word. âThose are crĂȘpe biscuits?â
âYes.â
âAnd you made them for me.â
â... Yes, angel.â
Aziraphale delicately puts the biscuit back on the plate.
âWhat are y--â
Crowley doesnât get to finish his sentence, his lips otherwise occupied by Aziraphaleâs.
After months of dreaming about it, picturing how it would be, the reality of kissing Crowley is even better than he imagined. Itâs soft and passionate and clumsy and perfect, all at once.
Crowley wraps his arms around him, pulling him closer until Aziraphale is practically lying on top of Crowley on the couch.
Clumsy? Definitely.
Uncomfortable? Just a little bit.
Everything Aziraphale wished for? And more.
Crowley moans into the kiss, and itâs not necessarily the good kind of moans. Aziraphale pushes himself up. âEverything alright, my dear boy?â
âHm-hm,â Crowley replies, looking a bit dizzy. âJust, let me--agh--â Crowley winces, reaching behind him and picking a book. He glares at it, putting it on the table, before returning his gaze to Aziraphale. The love and adoration in those golden eyes render Aziraphale silent. âBetter. Now, where were we?â
Aziraphale smiles, caressing Crowleyâs cheek. âAt the beginning of forever, I believe,â he whispers, before diving in for another kiss.
(They do get to the gavottes, eventually, once Aziraphale is out of his waistcoat and his shirt is opened, and once Crowleyâs pants have been opened.)
đđđđđ
Itâs a heartbreak to part, but on the other hand, they make the journey from Crowleyâs flat to the street where they both work together, so Crowley counts that as a win.
He waits for Aziraphale to pause at the entrance of his building, smiling at him one more time before they meet again in the evening, before entering the bakery.
âAh, just the man I wanted to see.â Beelzyâs words contrast with their tone, but Crowley is used to that by now.â
âWhat can I do for you, my Lord?â
âDo you enjoy your job?â
âI--I do. Did I give you the impression I wanted to leave?â
âNo. Then again, I donât usually care.â
âOh. Then why--â
âI donât want to work anymore. So. Are you interested?â
Crowley feels like he has entered the Twilight Zone. âInterested in?â
âIn the shop, you imbecile. Wasnât I clear?â
âNot really, no. But I could be interested.â
Beelzebub smiles at him. âNot so dumb after all then. Take your time, think about it, and come back tomorrow with your answer. Iâm off now.â
With that, they walk out of the shop, leaving him alone with more to think about that he thought he would have on this day.
đđđ
âAre you interested?â
Crowley walks back and forth in Aziraphaleâs living room, after retelling him of his bossâs proposal.
âI am! Of course I am!â he exclaims. âFancy me, business owner. In charge of âŠâ
âOf everything.â
âOh God.â
âIâm sure you could do it,â Aziraphale points out, before sipping out of his mug of tea. âYou have all it takes to turn this business into a success.â
âExcept for the will to be responsible for it.â
âHm.â
Crowley pauses. âDo you really think I could do it?â
âI do. Youâre smart, creative, intuitive. You can do it.â
Crowley leans over the table to kiss Aziraphale before resuming his walking around. âBut what of the money?â
âYou have your severance money from Heavs.â
âTrue.â
âAnd, um.â
âWhat?â
Aziraphale wiggles on his spot. âI could, um, invest in it too?â
Crowley freezes. âYou? What?â
Aziraphale stands to come in front of him. âI have money I could invest in your business.â
Crowley opens and closes his mouth like a fish; heâs sure itâs not attractive, but he canât do anything else.
âOr better yet?â
âBetter?â
Aziraphale nods. âI could ⊠be a partner.â
Crowley feels his face heating up but he focuses. âA partner?â
âYes.â
âCare to develop on that idea, Angel?â
âI could--that is, I have been thinking.â
âYes?â
Aziraphale takes a deep breath and then unloads all of the following in seemingly one breath.
âI have been miserable at my job for a while now, even though Iâm quite good at it. I just, just, have enough of it, and I donât think my soul can take much more of it. Meanwhile, I can see myself having a library of sorts, making my books available for all to peruse and enjoy while, I donât know, maybe, savor some mini pastries?â
Crowley stares at him.
That idea is crazy.
Demented.
Completely out of this world.
Doesnât make a lick of sense.
⊠Exactly what he wants, without ever knowing he did.
And yet, what comes out of his mouth next doesnât make much sense either.
âYouâd let people eat or drink near your books?â
Aziraphale had his mouth open to keep on babbling about his plans, but Crowleyâs interjection brings him to a halt and he beams at him.
âI would. Would be rather hypocritical of me not to when I do it so often, wouldnât it?â
âAh. Right.â
Aziraphale takes Crowleyâs hand and brings it to his lips to kiss his knuckles. âWas that your only objection, my dear, dear boy?â
Crowleyâs brain fires up before he can get back to his senses. âI would love for us to be partners.â
âYou would.â
âI donât think youâve ever had a better idea, Angel.â
Aziraphale pulls on Crowleyâs hand, pulling him closer, pulling him to him so they can kiss. âI do have a lot of ideas, Anthony.â
âCanât wait to test them all, Aziraphale.â
(It takes them a moment to get their shop running, but eventually, Londoners get to enter âAbove and Belowâ, thus named for the nurturing of the mind, through the books-- above-- and the body, through the food--below.
Crowley finds a way to make one-bite delicacies that match some of the books and Aziraphale is the one making the match when itâs not obvious.
I feel like yâall are underestimating exactly how many freckles Im writing Crowley with. Like theyâre EVERYWHERE and itâs not at all subtle and they stand out against how light his skin is. I mean it donât test me on this. Go look at @scribblemakes art this is the kind of quality content Iâm trying to promote
The last thing you reblogged by scribblemakes has a Crowley with pointed ears! I think that's what that person was upset about. Scribblemakes tends to draw those kinds of features... I honestly didn't realize it was a bad thing was until I read the post here about antisemitism, but I wanted to let you know.
Damn, yeah you're right ...crowleys ears are really small in the image so I didn't even notice and yeah the nose combined withe ears combined with it being Crowley mean that this is an issue. I'll bring it up with them, because he probably didn't intend to be harkening back to antisemitistic caricatures. Also this is a little self serving because I want to Reblog more of their aziraphale art in the future because poc Az is hard to come by and actually fat aziraphale who's also poc is even harder to come by, probably makes a bit of a callous bitch to think about things in tht way but *shrug*.
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I follow and reblog from @rb-scribblemakes and have a few side blogs for different things ( @discomakesâ is for Disco Elysium, @scribblepsychonautsâ is for Psychonauts )
> Commissions are open! You can order one through DMs, emailing [email protected], or through this Google Form
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If you have a request, you can let me know in my ask box! There are no guarantees Iâll do them (I get very busy, so only commissions are guaranteed) but I always check and like seeing them
Currently Iâm working on:
- A set of Disco Elysium paintings for each skill
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- A DE animatic
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Projects Iâve worked on:
- COTR Montage (thumbnail and an animation):