Chapter Text
It's been a long and tiring day and it is barely past noon. The whole moving process has been complicated, much more than Aziraphale had foreseen, with several boxes to cram and unpack. This small lunch break is all the reprieve he's allowing himself, before returning to his pile of books and assorted belongings currently scattered about on the hardwood of his new flat.
"Earl grey and a muffin… will be £5.35," the barista says.
"Y- yes, of course." He searches for his wallet, and his pulse quickens when he can't find the familiar weight of it in his pocket. "Just a second if you'd be so kind," he says, trying to keep a smile on his face as he slides a hand into his breast pocket, under his cardigan, with the hope of finding a stray note there. Not that the possibilities are high with how fastidious he's about his clothes and keeping each thing in its place which is a habit he's resenting just as he notices there's no money anywhere on him.
Aziraphale's stomach bottoms out. First time going out on his own and already mucking everything up. So much for the long sought independence he's told himself he deserves. Gabriel would have very unkind remarks if he could see him right now.
"I seem to have forgotten my wallet at home." It's an honest mistake, but the edge of guilt, of failing, bites where he's battered and bruised by time regardless.
"Sir, I'm sorry," the barista finally says, "but you're holding up the queue. I'm gonna cancel your order alright?"
Before he can mutter back his apologies, Aziraphale feels a warm pressure on his shoulder, just a light squeeze. When he turns to the side, he sees it's a man in sleek black clothes, who nudges Aziraphale's arm with his as if to make way, sporting a charming smile and plucking a credit card from his own wallet with elegant fingers.
"Here," he says to the barista. "No need to cancel anything."
Aziraphale feels his mouth definitely falling open and he hurries to shut it closed, before thinking better of it and deciding he should be using said mouth to say something. Decline. Apologise. Anything that's not standing there silent and unmoving while the man gives him a gorgeous crooked grin before setting his attention back on the purchase. Which goes through.
The barista punches the order in.
"Oh lord, I'm so sorry," Aziraphale says finally at the stranger in black who's closely following him as he's ushered by the barista to the end of the bar to wait for his order. "You shouldn't have done that. I- I'm so very sorry you had to spend your money like that. I swear I'll repay you if you just give me your name and address."
A second after Aziraphale says the words, he notices with mounting horror he just demanded a stranger for personal information. "I didn't mean-" he chokes, and his eyes fly back to the man's face, sitting there and taking him in. It dawns on him that the stranger is rather stunning with his rust-red hair tied in a low bun, high cheekbones, soft-looking lips and honey eyes, body a long, lithe line, a rough quality to all of him that seems to pair well with the black blazer and leather trousers.
Aziraphale's antithesis in every form.
Clearing out his throat, he scrapes out, "Again, I'm so very sorry."
He isn't sure exactly what he's expecting, but it's not the way the stranger's lips tug up, the glint of a canine peeking fetchingly between them.
"My, wouldn't have pegged you for the forward sort. Not that I'm complaining," the man says, still smiling with enchanting nonchalance. "You can have my name and my address but only if you promise me you'll pay me a visit. No paying back though and enough of sorrys."
The interaction falls so far out of scope of anything Aziraphale has experienced in his life that he only manages to hum and give a nervous little huff of air. "I'm- I didn't mean to imply anything- I just-" He wrings his hands, fingers pulled in a shaky hold as he does when things become too much in his mind. He guesses the man is just pulling his leg, so Aziraphale exhales and tries to tame his nervousness to shuffle back to some much grounding politeness. "Thank you very much for what you just did. I'm Aziraphale."
"'M Crowley," the man says, reaching a hand for Aziraphale to shake. It's a firm, warm hold that lasts short seconds but it sparks electric in Aziraphale's skin. After Gabriel, he hasn't really touched anyone else and even in such a meager manner, the experience is delightful. "Really, it was nothing. It's only 5 quid. Won't make a dent in my back account so don't worry about it." He sinks fingers into the pockets of his practically painted-on trousers and sways in his boots. Leans in just so. "Haven't seen you here before. Are you new to the area?"
He sounds truly interested in what Aziraphale has to say which eases the usual knot of shyness under his ribs. Aziraphale hasn't really shared with anyone outside work, except perhaps Anathema on occasions few and far in between. He doesn't really have friends and the possibility of establishing a conversation with someone else is refreshing.
"Yes. I just moved in nearby." He thumbs over his shoulder with a broad gesture, regaining his footing. Wrestles a little smile for Crowley. "I'm on my self-imposed lunch break actually between bouts of productivity as one could say, so I really can't thank you enough for your kindness. You saved me from going back to my flat to fetch my wallet."
Crowley tsks, dismissive but his expression is as soft as his words. "Told you. No problem at all. I live in the building just around the corner so we might bump into each other often. I come here for lunch lots."
"I just discovered this place," Aziraphale says. He relaxes a little. "The menu looks delightful."
"Oh, yeah. You should really try their raspberry scones when you have the chance."
It feels easy to converse with Crowley, and Aziraphale finds himself smiling through, "Perhaps I will, on my money of course."
Crowley laughs, a throaty sound that pokes butterflies to fly in a riot in Aziraphale's stomach.
"Gosh, I gotta go back to work, but I hope to see you around," Crowley says. It's probably courtesy but Aziraphale can't help the real hopes that flare out.
"Do- do you work nearby, perchance?" It's skipping several steps in the ladder of acquaintanceship but Aziraphale wants to stretch the seconds of the interaction. He doesn't want to see Crowley go.
"I work from home most of the time, which is the highlight of an IT job. I had just finished with my own lunch when I saw you." Crowley gives a quick glance to his wristwatch and his expression falls slightly before he darts his gaze back up, grins again, terribly handsome. "Anyway, I really gotta dash, but it was nice to meet you, Aziraphale. Enjoy your lunch."
He winks at Aziraphale before putting on a pair of shades, strolling out of the shop with a sort of swaying gait that's almost a sashay. It brings attention to his slim hips, to the tight hug of the leather around impossibly long legs. Which is a horribly impolite observation.
Aziraphale swiftly rips his eyes off Crowley, trying to focus on the smell of the coffee swirling in the air and the sweet scent of the muffins exposed on the counter. But the whole shop isn't as compelling. His mind keeps jumping back to his gorgeous, kind neighbour and his drift of red hair. The smoky rise of his voice. How flirty he'd been. Aziraphale tells himself it means nothing. That's just him with hangups and difficulties being open. That Crowley must be at the other end of the spectrum, with his confident stride and natural friendliness. Someone who wouldn't hesitate to help a fellow human being out, seeing them in a predicament.
He's pulled into the image of Crowley again, wondering if maybe they live in adjoining buildings, if perhaps he'll see him again at the coffee shop where he could repay his kindness. Aziraphale finds himself staring through the window, lost to his own thoughts when the voice of the barista calling his name pierces through them.
Right.
Aziraphale rushes to pick his tea and muffin, and files away the encounter for another time.
By the time Aziraphale has finished unpacking, dusk has already settled, burgundy staining the window glass. His eyes sweep about the place with a muffled sort of satisfaction. Most of his books are carefully aligned in their shelves and his insufficient clothes lay folded in the drawers of his bedroom.
The flat is dreadfully small, but given how little time he had to maneuver after Gabriel broke up with him, it's perfectly adequate. Aziraphale doesn't resent the separation in the slightest, it only took the decision from his own hands, which was frankly for the best. Courage is a thing he has always found himself lacking.
But it's exciting, to find peace after the long dreadful years living under the iron fist of first, his family and then Gabriel. With everyone determined to force him to live his life the way they wanted to, under fears and rules that Aziraphale didn't share.
Aziraphale likes his new flat.
Perhaps it's a bit cluttered, the slate painted walls are chipped and the radiator hums with a grating noise when he turns it on which makes him think he should contact the landlord as soon as possible, but it's his. A flat now that might become a home.
The concept still fights him a little, the glittering novelty refusing to slot into place just right. But he has time. Aziraphale will convince himself of it.
He takes a moment to indulge in the weight of the silence. In that warm, pleasant sensation of feeling the stillness of a room curl around oneself without an ounce of anticipation for anything at all. Content to just be.
He smiles at the small sofa that fills his living room and gives London a once over, to that sky that's indigo and blue now, an ever-shifting piece of velvet.
Late as it is, he decides to put on his pyjamas. The soft-worn flannel trousers and a light white shirt. It's summer already, the air hot and dull from the weight of smog. Aziraphale thinks perhaps he should open the window a bit more to soak in every streak and blow of breeze.
Yes, Aziraphale loves his new flat even if the view of his new room is of the bricked wall of the adjacent building, not even three meters of space between them. Which is fine. It had contributed to its low price.
He pushes the panel open and stands to take a lungful of air. It might be smog and wisps of grease what he breathes in but he's never felt anything better. Aziraphale's about to pad back and sit on his armchair to read a book when his eyes are caught by movement in a window in the building in front of his, a frame directly in his line of sight.
He isn't expecting to find the man from the coffee shop there - Crowley, in the flat just across his. So close, that for a moment Aziraphale has half a mind to wave, call his attention. But it feels like trespassing.
Crowley's watering an array of plants on several pots on a shelf, humming to a song that's blasting from speakers at his back. He's left his hair down, soft waves of red that brush his shoulders, and has changed his black clothes for a pair of abbreviated, tight red pants and a black, loose t-shirt that seems big on him. The sight of Crowley in the solitude of his room is somehow more arresting than their chance meeting at the coffee shop. Aziraphale can't tear his eyes away from the way Crowley's mouth pulls up as he sings, how he sways over his feet from one end to the other of the row of plants. He looks happy. Carefree. Comfortable in his own skin.
Everything Aziraphale always wishes he could be.
Without really meaning to, Aziraphale leans on the windowsill as if he could bridge the space. As if he could step into that building next door and maybe start a conversation. And to be honest, he has to admit he's also quite pulled to the amount of skin that's so generously exposed to the orange gleam of the light bulb. Lean thighs, and the roundness of a shoulder out of the loose neck of a t-shirt, smooth skin that feels close enough to touch if he dared reach.
There's some ruckus in the street below, honking cars and yelling, which snap Aziraphale out of the moment. He takes a step back and falls down on his armchair.
His stomach tightens, rolls leaden. Crowley's his neighbour, and it's terribly inappropriate to watch him like this, as if he was a thing to enjoy, stealing away his privacy.
When he flicks his eyes back to the lit square of Crowley's window, it's to see him frowning at a pot, wagging a finger at a spider plant. It's too far to make the words out, but it looks like he's berating the poor plant before pulling it out of his spot and placing it under a small sign that reads 'I should behave better'.
The silliness of it makes Aziraphale laugh, draining the guilt from his body.
Perhaps he can admire his neighbour from afar, knowing he could look but would never touch. It's enough, after all.
He stands up to turn off his lamp and slides beneath the single white sheet of his bed. As tired as he is, sleep comes easily.
A week seems to fly by when he has his own life to live on his own terms, the whole concept of owning something that he doesn't share with anyone else, thrilling and somewhat baffling.
Aziraphale thinks about returning to the coffee shop to find Crowley there, perhaps on the weekends when he's free, during lunch hour. He'd patiently eat a sandwich and a raspberry scone on a table next to the window. Slowing down his bites, chewing with controlled pushes of teeth, eyes fixed on the door, hoping for Crowley to appear. He doesn't manage to find his courage.
Instead, Crowley's a constant distraction across a bricked wall.
There's the stolen patches of intimacy Aziraphale inadvertently revels in while eating in his living room, or reading, and can't help watching Crowley across the window, living his life as unabashedly as always.
He smiles all through Wednesday evening when he sees Crowley vacuuming his place at the bouncy rhythm of 'I want to break free'. The choreography is nailed down to a T, if Aziraphale remembers the music video well enough. Crowley twirls the vacuum cleaner cord, pushing his black sofa away and putting far more flare and enjoyment about cleaning a space that Aziraphale has ever put on hobbies. It's as if Crowley is able to find brightness in the most dull things. Without much effort, Aziraphale can see himself there, helping Crowley move furniture, sharing a drink afterwards. He wonders what it could be...
To wrap hands around the flat swath of that waist that his neighbour insists on leaving bare in his habitual cropped shirts. So different at home than what he wore at the café. All that leather and black, tight shirts, giving him an air of aloofness, a handsome sharpness polished to feel detached. In the sanctuary of his flat, Crowley feels inviting, a gentle playfulness to all of him.
Aziraphale shakes his head. He's been silly. Probably missing only the companionship of a partner, after the disastrous ending of his relationship with Gabriel. Missing the comfort of a warm body, of another person that sometimes feels like an anchor.
He tries very hard not to look through the bedroom window, though, to try and maintain a flimsy boundary in that private space. But on mornings, when he's sleep-drunk, and the light of a pink sunrise falls dappling over the buildings, filtering uninvited inside, Aziraphale can't help but drink in the sight of Crowley splayed on his bed, legs tangled in his sheets, deliciously exposed to the pale dawn in his tight boxers and nothing else.
And undoubtedly, that first slow flutter of Crowley into consciousness, muscles rippling in agonizingly slow stretches, manages to always bring a sudden heat to Aziraphale's stomach. A moving, restless ache in his chest imagining hearing Crowley's soft inhale next to his ear.
As every Friday evening, Aziraphale sits in his living room to read a book, sending the memories of Crowley of the past week to the wayside. It's not the time for them. Would never be the time for them. He tries instead to fix his attention on The Scarlet Letter, but his gaze is pulled to the flat that isn't his own.
Crowley's sprawled on his sofa dressed in loose joggers and a burgundy shirt, watching a rerun of Golden Girls on his outrageously large telly. Aziraphale remembers the show as something his mum used to watch, and is surprised by the contradiction of someone as modern as Crowley finding comfort in it. But Aziraphale knows people are more than what they present to the world, and there's much more underneath Crowley's fashionable, flirty cover than meets the eye.
He looks like the person who could be found at clubs on a Saturday night but instead he's become Aziraphale's company in his own lonely evenings without realising it. Which is precisely the root of the problem.
He's learned many things about Crowley and that in itself feels wrong. Aziraphale knows Crowley likes plants, and silly television shows, detests tea and almost always burns his first batch of toasts. That he sleeps shirtless in the oppressive summer heat and sometimes can spend quiet evenings playing on his mobile stretched lazily on his sofa.
Aziraphale is keenly aware that this is illicitly granted knowledge, that he shouldn't know as much about his neighbour or enjoy the eventual sight of him so deeply.
Many times, he's tried to push himself into revealing his presence, perhaps stepping close to the window and waving or calling Crowley's name. But he can admit he's afraid of Crowley thinking him an odd sort or something far worse. After all, they've only talked once. Who could say if Crowley even remembers him.
Crowley laughs then at the telly, long neck arching against tasseled cushions, hair in a messy splay around his shoulders. There's a soft hollow at the base of his throat, and Aziraphale finds himself rubbing his thumb over his own neck, viciously wanting to skim over that patch of skin back and forth in a gentle slide, to touch its softness. To trail after the limning path of light on Crowley's sharp jaw with shaky pads of fingers.
There's a shapeless pressure pushing inside Aziraphale, something that feels so much like longing. Wanting to taste for a moment what it would be to be so sure, to rise to his feet without a shard of fear and make himself known. Be charming, be brave. To feel what it is to embrace someone you fancy.
Maybe if he was more like that, he’d let Crowley know he was there. If he was a different person, stronger or more courageous.
If Aziraphale's last and only relationship had taught him something, it was to recognise the real sting of attraction. His own attachment to Gabriel through the last three years had been a matter of routine more than anything. When they’d first met, Gabriel had been, of course, everything Aziraphale wanted. Handsome, successful and charming. And yet, time passes, and things change, and Aziraphale had tried very hard to hold onto those feelings before realising the struggle was the very sign that he should've let go. He'd forgotten what it was like to have his heart speed up just at the sight of someone, at the heat-rush of a smile. The way one could even enjoy the hush between words tracing the curving softness of a mouth.
Even if it was from afar.
Now, looking at Crowley, Aziraphale feels again that quick flip in his stomach, the way his blood fizzes hot, rushes his pulse.
He sighs into his own tea, diving again into his book.
As if Crowley could hold any sort of interest for a virtual stranger, for a stodgy, frumpy museum curator that is working his way out of almost destitution. Someone with many and sundry flaws.
He doesn't let the thought sink in too deep, too cutting. Too mean. Instead, Aziraphale relocates to the bedroom, away from Crowley, and manages to finish a chapter.
"You should definitely ask him out," Anathema says. "I don't know. Wave or something. Let him know you're there! The guy bought you stuff, Aziraphale, and from what you told me, seems that he was interested."
Aziraphale has caved in to the desire to tell someone about it, that he's slowly falling for a man that he saw once but doesn't know beyond the frames of a life he gets to see through a window, in stolen vignettes. And Anathema is the closest thing he has to a friend.
"I'm afraid he was only being kind, my dear." He takes a sip of his latte, puts it down. "I mean, you should see him. He's very handsome and carefree, the complete opposite of me in every form," Aziraphale says. "And how I'm supposed to invite him out through a window?"
Anathema shrugs. "Simple, you just-"
"What I mean is," Aziraphale cuts in before Anathema says something entirely sensible he wouldn't be able to object, "that he would know I've been watching him and isn't that a frankly disastrous opener? Hello, my dear, I’ve noticed you're a fan of Golden Girls so I’ve started watching it as well. I believe I’m more of a Rose but which are you?"
"For what you told me, is not like you’re watching him shower. It’s not your fault you can see into his living room."
"No!" Aziraphale's mouth falls in horror. "Good lord. I would never do that! And it's not as if I'm in my flat during the whole day. I mostly arrive at night, you know that."
Not much time to do any ogling.
"Relax, relax, I know that's not the case." Adjusting her glasses, Anathema says, "so, next time you see him, you definitely should tell him and go for it. Live a little!'
"Have you just ignored everything else I said? Crowley could certainly not be interested in someone as boring as me." Aziraphale looks down at his uniform, at the bowtie he adds as a personal signature, and sighs. "Someone as… fixated on medieval scholastics."
"Why not?" Anathema picks at her salad. "You're a good man, intelligent and cultured, not to mention also cute as hell. C'mon, Aziraphale, don't sell yourself short!"
Aziraphale doesn't think that contradicting her would have any results. Anathema is quite opinionated and arguing would be in vain. He has his own views about himself that clash with the loving way in which she sees him.
"Thank you, my dear," he says instead. "I think… I think it's also very soon, is it not?" The relationship he had with Gabriel had been dead long before it ended, but Aziraphale isn't lying. It feels quite soon, especially when he's still getting used to being alone. There's a layer of dust to brush off of all of him, off his heart. "Perhaps in a few months."
Anathema rolls her eyes but doesn't press.
That day, he's released from work earlier. He ponders going straight home but he isn't in the mood for a pre-heated dinner, so he decides to stop at the corner's coffee shop for a sandwich and a latte.
He's turning around after purchasing his order, trying to fit his oyster card in his wallet, when he bumps into a person coming in his direction.
There's the sound of crushed styrofoam and then a soft splash, lukewarm wetness spreading over Aziraphale's stomach, his chest and probably also on the person he's so unfortunately crashed into.
"Fuck." The expletive sounds more surprised than affronted.
"I'm so very sorry, I didn't mean-" Aziraphale's eyes fly up from where he's trying to hold the destroyed cup between his fingers, that balances between the other person's hands.
Pink lips curl up. "Well, hello there."
It's Crowley.
"Oh- Crowley!" Aziraphale tries very hard not to let his face go up in flames. Remembering he's just seen Crowley in his own kitchen that morning, gorgeously dishevelled, fitted shirt riding up and showing the enticing spread of skin of his stomach. Aziraphale balls it all down, sets his jaw. "Hello."
With a growing sense of embarrassment Aziraphale realises they've only seen each other once and Crowley maybe doesn't even remember his name as clearly as he does.
But, "Fancy seeing you here, Aziraphale," Crowley says, not even tripping on one letter, which tugs a pleased sense of contentment in Aziraphale. The fact he's been remembered, occupied space in Crowley's mind.
Crowley's wearing a black button up that's now soaked with latte, but the smile he gives Aziraphale sits steady and real on his mouth.
As if seeing him is truly a thing to be enjoyed.
"The evening morsel, you see," Aziraphale says while they both move to the counter to fetch some napkins. Truly Crowley's shirt is entirely drenched, and the liquid has even spilled down to his jeans. "Good lord, I seem to have made a mess of you."
Crowley laughs, sinks teeth on the delightful give of his bottom lip, dark brows arching. It's terrible the way Aziraphale's mind bends his own words into something shamelessly obscene, of Crowley under the pressure of his hands, of his mouth, panting and slick-sweat. Of parting those soft, pale thighs and fit himself between them.
"'M not complaining, aren't I?" Crowley says with a sly grin, tossing his cup to the bin. "You can make a mess of me any time you want."
Crowley's words seem to hold a teasing tug, an invitation for Aziraphale to indulge in them and what they might mean. An offering of closeness, of intimacy and- and sex. He tries not to remember how Crowley had looked splayed on his bed at the break of dawn, all long limbs and sleepy softness.
It won't do good for Aziraphale to entertain such thoughts.
The man is a jester that puts his plants in time-out. He clearly isn't serious.
"I meant that it seems I'm always making a nuisance out of myself every time we meet. I'm so very sorry," he says, bouncing back into the problem at hand, and ignoring the warmth of his cheeks. "Your poor shirt."
Crowley looks down. "Nah. No worry 'bout it. Nothing a good wash won't fix." His eyes flick back up. The smile on his face turns tentative, a bit shy if something like that were possible on someone like Crowley. "Y'know? 'm glad to see you again 'cause-"
Oh. Of course. Seeing Aziraphale again. In a rush, he remembers the last time they met, and his own promise of payment.
"Oh. Oh! Absolutely! The 5 quid!" With a quick flutter of hands, Aziraphale tosses the used napkins to the bin and searches for his wallet, holding it open. "Give me a moment-"
"Pfff. No, no, no. Aziraphale. I didn't mean that. Put your wallet away. Please." Aziraphale isn't expecting for the swift, warm hold of those long, fine-boned hands that curl around his own in gentle pressure. It's not the efficient hold of a greeting but something slow, indulgent even. A catch of skin on skin that quickens Aziraphale's heartbeat. "I mean it."
Crowley's eyes fix on his unmoving, as if to drive his point more thoroughly. Under the coffee shop's lights they look almost golden, utterly lovely and Aziraphale wishes he could see them closer, every fleck and detail of them.
"Alright."
Crowley's hands fall away. "I was saying that I'm glad I caught you again. How are you doing? What do you think of the new neighbourhood?"
The view can't really compare.
"Uhm. It's rather peaceful," Aziraphale answers quietly. If he thinks of it further he may end up spilling all sorts of compromising things and perhaps is that what he should do? Tell Crowley everything right this moment?
"Wanna know something?" Crowley asks then, body leaning closer as if he wanted to tell Aziraphale a secret. "I came here last week thinking I was gonna see you. Sucks that my work schedule changed."
Aziraphale's heart thrashes around in his chest. Crowley had been searching for him. Waiting just as Aziraphale had.
His eyes go very wide, though, half-incredulity, half-surprise. "Really?"
"Yeah." Crowley shrugs a lax roll of shoulders. "Thought I'd ask you if you would wanna go have lunch sometime."
Aziraphale desperately wants to say yes, but it feels facetious to accept an invitation when he knows he should tell Crowley he's been watching him for the past week.
And he has to admit he's also terribly afraid of being measured and found wanting. Of discovering all the things Gabriel used to say were true. Afraid that if he dares and things turn into disaster by his own doing, it would be a confirmation of his own shortcomings. And there would be nowhere to go, no one to console him no matter the sullen assurances he could mutter himself afterwards.
Yet again, a lunch is not a romantic overture. Friends. They could be friends.
"I er, of course. Sometime."
Before they can concrete a place or anything, the barista calls Aziraphale's name and he rushes to take his order, to go, as he had asked. When he turns around, he sees Crowley still lounging next to the door.
"Well," Aziraphale says, treading closer, "it was lovely to see you."
"Ah, yeah. Same, really." Crowley pauses, neck flexing on a slight swallow, before saying, "Hey, Aziraphale, so lunch here next Saturday? Say noon?"
There's really not a single reason to decline and Aziraphale considers it may be the appropriate moment to bring the matter about their living closeness to the table, so to speak. He has a week to build courage.
"That sounds delightful," he says, more excited than he's been in long years.
"Right, then." Crowley smiles, easy. "See you around."