Chapter Text
As he managed to hound the final customer of the day out the shop Aziraphale gave a sigh of relief, barely waiting until the lady had stepped off the porch before he firmly shut and locked the door, sliding the bolts home with a satisfying thunk.
He took a moment to flip the sign over to closed and draw the blinds, before he flicked on his ancient computer. It always took a while to boot up so he used the time to make himself a fresh cup of tea mostly to give himself something to do. His nerves felt on edge, as they often had since he'd been persuaded into this entirely insane scheme by Ana, the well-meaning, if somewhat eccentric, not-quite-friend-but-more-than-an-acquaintance shop owner down the road.
It had started six months ago when the official invitation to Uriel's wedding had been handed over. He'd known the date for ages of course and had resigned himself to the fact that there was no real way of getting out of his sister's wedding and the inevitable family reunion that would come with it. What he hadn't realised was that the official physical invitation would have "plus one" written on it; nor had he realised that this was going to be treated as some sort of joke by his siblings. At least by his older brothers anyway – Uriel herself wasn't one for jokes. He was fairly sure that on her part the plus one had been a nod to convention and lack of any available empathy or foresight over the situation it would lead to.
Gabriel and Sandy however had pounced on it when he'd made the mistake of opening the invitation at his mother's house the moment Uriel had handed it over. He'd thought doing so would cultivate an air of polite interest, he hadn't expected it to unleash a torrent of teasing that bordered on cruel, about how Uriel shouldn't have bothered, about how he'd been single for years and would probably be single forever; about how he was soft and old-fashioned and all the other things that Gabriel and Sandy thought were unworthy about him. He also hadn't expected it to lead to a lie.
Mother hadn't been in the room, off with Muriel in the kitchen fetching tea, and Uriel had been silent as ever, neither condoning nor refuting the words, and Aziraphale had been so fed up with it all that the lie had slipped out before he'd thought it through.
“Actually I've been seeing someone,” he'd heard himself say, “I'm sure he'd love to come. Thank you, Uriel.”
The others had been so shocked they hadn't even bothered to press for details, and thank goodness they hadn't because it wasn't as if Aziraphale had thought out this lie in advance. There was no name nor any details about this mystery man that he could conjure up under pressure. In fact Sandy had smirked like he'd known it was a lie and only the return of Muriel and their mother had saved Aziraphale from further comments. He'd caught Sandy whispering to Gabriel in the hall later and they'd both given him identical knowing smirks when they'd noticed him there.
We know you lied, the smirks said. And that had made Aziraphale determined that it would not be a lie, even though it had been.
For the first time in his life he'd let Maggie set him up on a blind date. She’d been politely suggesting it for the last year or so, but he'd been perfectly comfortable with the quiet life he had, insisting that he didn't need anyone to share it with.
The belief that no one would want to share his quiet, old-fashioned existence with him always lay unspoken and unacknowledged under the surface. It was a belief that only solidified after he'd been on three terrible dates, none of whom wanted to see him again afterwards (the fact that he hadn't wanted to see them either was by the by). In desperation he'd widened the field by letting Ana set him up with someone she’d said would be good for him. They'd made it to date number three before Aziraphale had had quite enough of his numerous annoying little habits and had cut off that association. At least Aziraphale being the one to end things had had the happy effect of being a little ego boost, although it was somewhat counteracted by the fact that he hated being unkind and had felt cruel letting the man down, although not as cruel as he knew he'd feel if he'd strung him along for the now three months remaining until Uriel's wedding, just to get one over on his siblings.
In desperation he'd finally confessed to Ana (whilst slightly tipsy) exactly why he was so interested in dating all of a sudden. Ana had laughed at first. But then she'd given him a look loaded with sympathy, covered his hand with her own delicate fingers and said she had just the thing.
Just the thing had turned out to be a plain cream business card embossed with Heaven Sent in neat gold lettering, with a simple website address below.
“What's this?” Aziraphale had asked, staring at the card with a feeling of dread rising in his throat. He already knew what Ana was going to say. Or thought he did anyway.
“Escort agency run by a friend of mine,” Ana had said briskly, “You should get in touch.”
“An escort agency?” Aziraphale had said, a little too loudly and a little too shrilly, “I… I’m not looking for sex!”
Ana had patted his hand again and politely ignored his shrieking.
“I'm not saying you are,” she said, “That's not what they do.” A pause. “Well, all right, they do, but that's not all they do. They also provide escorts that really are just that. Someone to escort you to an event and be your partner for the duration. They're a high-end service, it's not seedy at all. I wouldn't suggest them if they were. They do a lot of work with businesspeople who are too busy or too full of themselves to get a real-life partner. You know, the sort who want someone on their arm just to impress everyone without having the bother of an actual relationship.”
“I'm not like that!” Aziraphale had protested, quite offended at being lumped in with people who were full of themselves and didn't want to bother with relationships.
“Of course not,” Ana had cooed, “But it's high time your family stopped treating you like you aren't good enough, and turning up with a handsome man on your arm might just help with that. There's only three months till the wedding and you’re not having much luck on the dating scene.”
Aziraphale knew he was giving her a look because she'd patted his hand again.
“Look, I'm not saying it's the only solution, you've still got time to meet someone nice. There's John from my book club for example. I'll give him your number. Keep the card just in case though, it's better than going to the wedding alone, isn't it?”
She’d been right. And the date with John had been a disaster, even though they both liked books and reading and it should have been fine. Aziraphale just hadn't found him very attractive, which was ironic because John had been comfortable looking, in a slightly old-fashioned jumper that had matched well with Aziraphale’s own old-fashioned aesthetic. But whilst Aziraphale was comfortable enough in his style not to want to change it, he also didn't want to date himself, especially not a jaded and slightly morose version of himself, who hadn't got any of Aziraphale's jokes and who had looked horrified at some of Aziraphale's slightly more acerbic remarks.
It had been the last straw. Ten minutes after John had dropped him back at the bookshop Aziraphale was sitting at his computer, cocoa in hand, filling out the application form on the very upmarket looking website.
The next day he'd decided it must have been that extra glass of wine he'd drunk in order to make it through to the point in the evening at which it had no longer been rude to suggest to John that they should call time on the date. He must have been at least slightly drunk in order to go through with the application. It was done though and there had been an email back asking him to fill out the vetting forms, and then there had been more emails asking for details of what he was looking for in his partner and then, before he knew it, it was a couple of weeks later and his inbox now contained links to several profiles that Madam Tracy, owner of Heaven Sent, thought would be suitable matches. He was to pick one and they would go for dinner to meet and get to know each other a little before the weekend of the wedding.
The dinner was apparently not necessary, in her emails Tracy had been clear that as professionals her escorts could handle whatever was thrown at them and that the phone call she would arrange beforehand would be enough preparation for them. Aziraphale had insisted though. There was absolutely no way he was going to turn up to his sister's wedding with a man he had met only an hour before. An additional meeting beforehand had cost extra, but Aziraphale had plenty of money and a very burning desire not to embarrass himself in front of his family, although he did feel that some embarrassment was almost inevitable, particularly as he was unlikely to pull the whole thing off anyway.
Here and now though, with the bookshop firmly closed for the day, and his cup of tea in hand Aziraphale sat down at the computer and navigated to his inbox, locating the latest email. His heartbeat sounded loudly in his ears and his hand trembled just a little as he slowly moved the mouse and clicked on the first of the links.
He blew on his tea whilst the page loaded up, willing his heart to calm down. A lot of good it did him. He closed his eyes and focused on his breathing, then forced them open, only to stare in surprise at the webpage that had appeared.
There was a picture of man whose face would have made Michelangelo weep, and next to it a short profile giving a name (Timothy apparently – Aziraphale wondered if it was his real name or an alias), age, height (Aziraphale puzzled over that one and then realised some people would possibly be fussy about whether their partner was shorter or taller than them) and a short blurb about his interests, education and hobbies (Aziraphale wondered if those were made up too). Regardless he was surprised to see that the Greek Adonis, who didn't look a day over 25, was actually listed as being 40 – two years older than Aziraphale and well within the 35-45 range that he had requested.
For a moment Aziraphale was sorely tempted to choose Timothy simply on the basis that his family would wonder how on earth he'd managed to snag anyone so utterly unlikely looking, but in the end he decided it was just too implausible. Besides the man wasn't even Aziraphale’s type, being far too close to Gabriel’s aesthetic, so the whole thing would be a waste anyway.
Sighing he closed the window, hoping the other choices weren't all going to be quite so unrealistic, and took another gulp of tea whilst he opened the next link.
This one revealed a much more average, though still handsome-looking man, with glasses and jet-black hair, who looked much nearer to the 42 years his profile had him listed as. “Matthew” was a definite possibility and Aziraphale minimised the window rather than closing it.
The next link seemed like another good possibility, until Aziraphale realised his blurb suggested his interests were all based around science and computers, which meant they would most likely have nothing in common at all. Aziraphale closed that one down and took a long drink of tea as he contemplated the last two links, wondering if he was going to have any choice at all or if Matthew was going to turn out to be the only suitable candidate.
He clicked. The webpage loaded. He absolutely did not spit his tea all over his keyboard, but it was a close-run thing.
The man on the page was beautiful. Ethereal even. Flaming red hair that surely couldn't be natural and golden honey-coloured eyes that made Aziraphale wonder if he was wearing contact lenses to alter the colour. His cheekbones were rather lovely and the wicked smile he was giving to the camera was a sharp counterpoint to the warmth in his eyes. Aziraphale stared at it for so long that eventually he noticed the tiny arrow at one edge of the photo. He clicked it and the image slid away, revealing a second one. This one was full length, the same man standing facing the camera, leaning his shoulder on what looked like a door frame, long legs clad in tight black denim jeans pushed out to the side to support himself.
It occured to Aziraphale for the first time that these photos might be doctored. No one could look that good in real life surely? No one had a waist like that or legs that long or hair that colour. It was short and tousled in the second photo, obviously taken at a different time to the headshot, where the hair had been shoulder length. Both styles made Aziraphale itch to run his fingers through the wavy locks and he found himself speculating idly as to which style the man was sporting at the moment.
He clicked the arrow again and his breath caught in his throat. There was another photo, this one was a half-length shot but in profile. In it the man had his long hair, but this time there were sunglasses on his face and he lent against a railing with soft golden sunlight bathing his skin in radiance. He was gorgeous. A vision in black and red.
Aziraphale glanced at the accompanying profile.
Anthony. Age: 35. Height: 6'1.
The blurb declared he liked plants, music and art which seemed more promising than science and computers. Aziraphale was very tempted. In fact he was tempted to hire the man solely on the basis that having him as a pretend partner would give him an excuse to touch that soft hair and perhaps twine his broad fingers with the man's own long elegant ones. He refused to let himself think of what else he might like to touch. He wasn't paying anyone for that. There was a line he felt he couldn't cross there.
It would do no good though. As much as his family were unlikely to believe he was truly with the Greek Adonis they were even less unlikely to believe he was with someone like Anthony. Reluctantly he minimised the page and opened the last link.
A much more average looking man appeared. Peter was 6 feet tall, 41 years old and his interests included hiking and history. There were additional pictures of him too; he was built much like Aziraphale himself, slightly softer around the middle than he probably should be and an inch or so taller.
It would be believable at least. Aziraphale flicked back to Matthew’s page and realised he'd missed the little arrow on his photos too. There were actually five, revealing he was of average build, neither slim nor plump, and with a blurb that described interests including theatre, music, wine tasting and travelling, which would at least give them something to talk about and would make the connection more believable.
Reluctantly Aziraphale composed an email back to the agency asking for Matthew to be his escort for the wedding and giving some potential dates for their dinner meeting, but not before he'd spent several more wistful minutes staring at the absolutely beauty that was Anthony.
-------------------
It was three weeks before the meeting could be arranged, fitting in the wedding weekend hadn't been easy either. The reason he'd only had five choices had been due to what Madam Tracy had called the “last-minute nature” of his request. He got the impression they were usually booked up months in advance.
Still, she'd managed to arrange for Matthew to be available one Thursday night and Aziraphale had called in favour with one of his rare-book-dealer contacts and got them a table at the Ritz. He'd been wanting to go back for a while and figured that even if Matthew turned out to be a huge disappointment then at least the food and surroundings would make up for it.
At least they would do if the butterflies in his stomach managed to settle enough for him to eat anything. Aziraphale had changed his outfit five times and still managed to arrive at the venue nearly twenty minutes early. Reluctantly he realised he was going to have to go in and wait at the bar where they were meeting just in case Matthew arrived early too and he ended up looking like an absolute fool who couldn’t even enter a restaurant by himself.
Truth be told he was still very much considering turning around and going home. This whole thing was a stupid idea anyway. His family would see right through it, he was certain, and whilst they might not say anything to his face over the weekend, they'd be sure to let him know afterwards, whether subtly or directly.
So what was the point of sitting here, perched on an uncomfortable bar stool with a glass of red wine, feeling sick to his stomach and with trembling hands waiting for a man that he was having to pay just to spend time in his company?
It was ridiculous.
In the end it was only a sense of politeness that kept him there. He had no phone number for Matthew; didn't even have one for the agency – all communication was via email. If he went home now then Matthew would still turn up, and whether he was being paid or not, to stand him up would be unpardonably rude. So Aziraphale stayed.
Five minutes later a man with flaming red hair and sunglasses sauntered into the room and threw himself into a chair at one of the tables furthest away from the bar, immediately pulling his phone out of his pocket and starting to tap at the screen.
It was Anthony.
Aziraphale stared. Then he turned away and looked very pointedly at a spot behind the bar, not really seeing the bottles he'd fixed his gaze on, but instead cursing the fact that Anthony was here at all. Was he working? Or was he here meeting an actual friend or even a date?
Also how could this have even happened? This was London. There were thousands of people and thousands of places for all those people to be. How was it that two of the five escorts he'd looked at were out at the Ritz on the very same Thursday night?
Perhaps it wasn't Anthony at all. Perhaps he was just someone who looked like Anthony. Perhaps it was just Aziraphale's overwrought and anxious mind playing tricks on him.
He looked back round. Studied the rather tight black trousers over impossibly long legs, ran his eyes over the slim waist and the well-cut jacket skimming the long lines of his torso, up to the red hair, which was shoulder length and pulled up in what was no doubt a carefully curated messy half-bun, and then over what he could see of the sharply angled jaw and cheekbones.
It was definitely Anthony.
The red-haired man must have sensed his stare because he looked up at that moment and Aziraphale was horrified when their eyes locked and the man shot him a slightly roguish looking smile. He returned it with a polite one of his own and looked away quickly, feeling the blush creeping over his cheeks.
He checked his watch for something to do. It was five minutes to seven and there was no sign of Matthew.
Seized with the desire to very definitely not be anywhere in Anthony's sightline Aziraphale asked the bar tender to mind his drink and took himself off to the bathroom to try and calm his nerves.
By the time he returned, not really sure whether he was feeling more or less anxious than before the bathroom trip, it was one minute to seven. He risked looking over at Anthony’s table once he’d negotiated balancing himself back on the bar stool and the look revealed that whoever Anthony was meeting was likely also running late, since he was now glancing up to the door occasionally in between messing with his phone, as if looking for whoever he was expecting.
Aziraphale turned away, sipped his wine and waited.
And waited.
Time ticked on until it was five minutes past seven. The reservation was at half past and Aziraphale was starting to get even more anxious now – anxious that he was going to be stood up by someone he was paying to be here. How humiliating!
He tried to talk some sense into himself. It was a reputable agency. They wouldn’t have a good reputation if they went around standing up clients. Clearly Matthew was just delayed. Perhaps he was coming by tube and had no signal to make contact with anyone to let them know. There was bound to be a perfectly reasonable explanation.
He waited another five minutes. Then another five.
He ordered a second glass of wine, which was probably a terrible idea on an empty stomach. By the time it was handed over at twenty past seven Aziraphale had had enough. It was absolutely ridiculous to sit here worrying when on the other side of the room was someone who very probably had Matthew’s contact details, or failing that would definitely have the agency’s contact details.
Never mind that usually Aziraphale wouldn’t be able to utter a single word to someone as obviously attractive as Anthony. Right now Aziraphale was desperate and had a large glass of wine thrumming through his blood stream, giving him the extra confidence he needed to clamber awkwardly off his stool and make his way across the room.
“Excuse me,” he said when he reached the table, before he could do anything ridiculous like stand around and simply gaze at the captivating beauty of Anthony’s golden-brown eyes. The colour, he noted, was even more unusual up close.
The man jumped, obviously startled by his arrival, and looked him up and down with one long sweep of his beautiful eyes.
“Sorry, I'm waiting for someone,” he said, in a voice that would have sent a shiver down Aziraphale's spine had he been any less embarrassed about the entire situation.
“Yes, so am I,” he said, “I was hoping you'd be able to tell me where they might be.”
Predictably the red-haired man looked confused by this and Aziraphale realised he wasn't making much sense at all. Embarrassment at his ineptitude propelled him into the seat opposite Anthony as he set his wine glass on the table.
“You're Anthony, aren't you?”
The man raised an eyebrow.
“Sorry, do I know you?”
Aziraphale looked at him anxiously, as if he could convey what he was trying to ask simply with the force of his stare. Those golden-brown eyes looked back at him unblinkingly and eventually, torn between whether saying it out loud was more embarrassing than simply showing the man the card from Heaven Sent, Aziraphale realised he was going to have to go with the latter because his tongue appeared to have stopped working.
He fished the discrete cream card out of his jacket pocket and slid it across the table. Anthony glanced down at it, looked up at Aziraphale and then pushed the card back.
“Okay” he said, “I'm not here to meet you.”
“I know you aren't.” Aziraphale’s tongue finally unstuck from the roof of his mouth and he remembered his glass of wine, which he took a large gulp of before continuing.
“I'm so sorry. It's just I recognised you. I saw your picture. On the internet. I mean, Tracy sent it to me, you know? But I'm supposed to be meeting someone called Matthew, although I guess that's not his real name anymore than yours is actually Anthony, but he's not here and I have no way of contacting either him or the agency and I'm not really sure what to do.”
Anthony looked alarmed; admittedly probably less at the situation and more by the torrent of words Aziraphale had just subjected him to. He twisted the stem of the wine glass through his fingers and cast his eyes down to the table.
“Sorry,” he said softly. The man blinked at him and then took a breath.
“I am Anthony actually. No idea if Matthew is called Matthew or not, but I can't be bothered with a pseudonym. Far too difficult to keep track.” He shrugged and gave a wry smile. “Besides no one calls me Anthony, my friends call me Crowley.” There was a pause. Aziraphale looked up in time to catch the other man wincing.
“Shit! I shouldn't have told you that. Although then again you aren't my client so I suppose it doesn't really matter, particularly since my client isn't here anyway. What time were you meeting Matthew?”
Aziraphale blinked. Apparently he wasn't the only one at the table capable of unleashing a barrage of words.
“Seven,” he said once all the words had managed to register in his brain.
Anthony, or Crowley, Aziraphale wasn't exactly sure what he should call the man now, since he was neither his client, nor his friend, looked thoughtful.
“I was supposed to meet a client at seven and they aren't here, but you are and Matthew isn't. Seems a bit too much of a coincidence to me.” He seemed almost to be talking to himself, an impression only heightened when he suddenly leapt to his feet, fingers already flicking over his phone screen. He went to walk away before he seemed to recall that Aziraphale was there and glanced back over to him.
“Wait here a minute, would you?” he said and then he was gone, walking towards the door in a flurry of long limbs. Aziraphale watched the almost indecent sway of his hips until he was out of sight and then sat back and took another sip of his wine.
There was nothing else to do but wait.
Less than five minutes later Anthony was back, collapsing into the chair opposite again and sprawling his long legs out to the side. He pulled off the sunglasses that had appeared back on his face and regarded Aziraphale warily.
“I'm sorry,” he said.
Aziraphale blinked.
“Sorry for what, dear?” he asked. It was Anthony's turn to blink this time, presumably at the endearment that had slipped out without Aziraphale meaning it to. He called a lot of people dear though so he refused to be too embarrassed about it.
Anthony visibly shook himself and sat up a little straighter, leaning forward with his elbows on the table so he could talk more quietly.
“I'm afraid there's been a mix up. Matthew is with the man who was supposed to be my client and I've accidently been sent here. Tracy is going to ring you of course but I thought I'd better tell you straight away. I’m so sorry.”
“Oh,” said Aziraphale and then he said, “Oh,” again. Then, as the reality of the whole thing sank in, he put his hands over his face.
“I’m very sorry,” Anthony said again, “This doesn't usually happen.”
“Fuck,” Aziraphale whispered, mostly to himself. Clearly Anthony heard though because Aziraphale heard the slight intake of breath that followed.
“I really am sorry,” he said yet again, sounding a little nervous, presumably because Aziraphale had yet to remove his hands from his face. He didn’t really want to but three apologies was too much and Aziraphale decided he had better remove his hands after all.
“It's really not your fault, my dear. Please do stop apologising.”
Anthony looked startled.
“Um…” he said and looked down at the empty whisky glass that he'd started playing with again.
“Oh, but what about you?” Aziraphale said suddenly, “Don't you need to get to your real client? Please don't feel you need to stay here; I'll be quite all right.”
Anthony looked even more startled.
“No, that's ok,” he said carefully, eyes narrowing as if he was trying to size Aziraphale up, or perhaps trying to work out exactly what game Aziraphale was playing. It was rather disconcerting, especially since Aziraphale felt he had absolutely no mental capacity to play any sort of game at the moment.
“I was supposed to be at some charity performance on the other side of London. That's where Matthew is I'm afraid. Even if I left now I'd be far too late. I'm guessing Tracy will ask Matthew to step in there but she mentioned I can't do that for you so...”
He trailed off, shrugged and resumed twisting his whisky glass. Of all the many ways Aziraphale had expected the evening to go, this had appeared nowhere on the list. In fact, he was pretty amazed that he was sitting opposite a man who was so attractive Aziraphale would have rather died than speak to him in any other circumstances, yet somehow here he was managing to have a fairly coherent conversation with him.
“That… uh, that makes sense,” he said, feeling the need to explain so that Anthony didn’t think he was in some way inadequate, “Matthew was supposed to be accompanying me to my sister's wedding in a few weeks. This dinner was so I could meet him. I thought it might help.”
“Help?”
Aziraphale sighed and realised that he still probably wasn't making any sense. So much for a coherent conversation.
“Well, if you must know I told my family I had a boyfriend I'd be bringing to the wedding and I don't. Have one, I mean. And telling them that is absolutely not an option, hence this whole charade.”
He waved his hand vaguely hoping Anthony would know what he meant.
“So you're paying an escort to attend your sister’s wedding with you just to get one over on your family?”
Aziraphale pursed his lips. Put like that it sounded ridiculous, except Anthony knew absolutely nothing about his family.
“Yes,” he admitted finally, raising an eyebrow and daring Anthony to make a comment about how very ridiculous that all was.
He didn't. Instead he threw back his head and laughed.
Aziraphale watched the long line of his neck as it stretched and flexed with the movement. Golden eyes locked onto his gaze and Crowley’s mouth settled into the most wickedly amused smirk Aziraphale had ever seen.
“Right. Okay. That’s a new one. Guess they’re pretty awful if you're going to these lengths to pull the wool over their eyes,” he said finally, voice slightly breathless with laughter.
“It's mostly my brothers.” Aziraphale found himself grinning back without really having to think about it. “And yes they're awful but I shouldn't have lied in the first place and now, well…” He shrugged and was pleased when Crowley chuckled along with him.
“I guess this mess is karma for the lie,” he said when the chuckles had died away and he realised that he was just gazing at Crowley rather dopily.
Crowley opened his mouth to say something but a sudden thought occured to Aziraphale and he beat him to it.
“What about you?” he asked.
“What about me?” Crowley asked, looking alarmed.
“This is your work! Or was supposed to be. Well, the other thing was supposed to be, I guess. What will you do now? You will still get paid, won't you?”
Crowley looked at him as if he had an extra head.
“Oh dear, I'm sorry.” Aziraphale dropped his gaze to his wine glass, twisting the stem through his fingers. “That's none of my business, is it? I didn't mean to pry. I just meant... Well, this isn't your fault and I'd hate to think you were out of pocket because of some silly mix up. Sorry. I'll...”
A waiter materialised next to them and Aziraphale was rather thankful for the forced stop to his torrent of nonsense.
“Excuse me, Mr Fell, your table is ready.”
Aziraphale stared at him with absolutely no idea what to say. Luckily he was saved when his phone started to ring.
“Ah,” he said, fishing it out of his pocket and glancing at the screen. The words unknown number glared back at him.
“Excuse me, I must just take this,” he said to the waiter, and then he glanced over at Crowley. “Will you wait?” he asked, suddenly anxious that the man might disappear on him.
Crowley looked confused, but shrugged and nodded, which was good enough for Aziraphale. He hurried towards the door, pressing to answer the call before it went to voicemail.
“Mr Fell,” said a very formal sounding voice on the other end the moment he answered the phone. “It's Madame Tracy here from Heaven Sent. I wanted to offer my very sincere apologies for the mix up that has occured. We will of course do everything in our power to put it right.”
“Quite all right,” said Aziraphale. There was a half-formed idea in his head. A mad idea. A completely insane idea. But he wanted to get off the phone and put it into practise as soon as possible before he lost his nerve.
Madame Tracy was saying something, but buoyed up by sheer nervous energy Aziraphale did something he very rarely did and cut across her.
“Madame Tracy,” he said, “The man who is here by accident. Anthony. He will be paid, won't he?”
There was a pause on the other end of the line.
“I beg your pardon?”
“Well I'd hate to think of someone being out of pocket over this. So you will pay him won't you, even though he's not working?”
“Well...” Madame Tracy said, “I really think...”
“I really think you should,” Aziraphale interrupted, “This is hardly his fault after all.”
There was a sudden burst of laughter from the other end of the phone.
“This is not the conversation I expected to be having when I rang you, Mr Fell!” The voice sounded less formal now, more amused than anything.
“No, well, it's the one I'm having,” he said, “And it's very important to me. And since you've let me down tonight I think I deserve some assurances on the matter.”
“I'm a fair employer, Mr Fell.” The laughter had gone now, but Madame Tracy still sounded amused and rather delighted. “I'll pay him.”
“Oh, jolly good,” he said, “Now I must go.”
“But Mr Fell, what about...?”
“Ah yes, well perhaps you could call me back tomorrow and we can discuss things then?” Aziraphale said. He felt oddly confident, it was as if now this whole thing had gone terribly wrong there was nothing left for him to be anxious about. It was a heady feeling. He felt calm and in control – was this how Gabriel felt all the time?
“Could you call me, say, around eleven?”
“Of course, Mr Fell.” Madame Tracy's voice was back to the formal tone she had used at the beginning of the conversation. “As I said we will do everything in our power to make this right.”
“I'm sure you will. I shall speak to you tomorrow. Goodbye.”
He hung up the phone and turned to go back into the restaurant, jerking backwards when he nearly walked smack into Crowley, who for some reason was lurking behind him.
“Oh,” he said, at the same time as Crowley said, “Sorry, I'm sorry. I just...”
He trailed off. Aziraphale realised he was staring at him.
“Would you like to have dinner with me?” Aziraphale said brightly, the words tumbling out before he had chance to think about how best to voice the idea that had been forming in his head ever since the waiter had approached them about the table.
Crowley gawked at him and Aziraphale's odd bubble of confidence popped very suddenly.
“Sorry,” he said, feeling the flush creeping over his cheeks and taking refuge as he so often did in a torrent of babbling. “I'm sure you want to get home. It was just an idea. You don't have to, of course. Silly of me to ask really. It's just that the table was quite difficult to get and I could dine on my own, only I didn't bring anything with me to read so it would be rather boring. So I thought, well, since you're here anyway you might join me. I'd pay for dinner, of course. But you don't have to. Obviously. Sorry.”
Crowley gawked some more and shifted his weight awkwardly from one foot to the other. Aziraphale was just opening his mouth to say… goodness knows what – more nonsense no doubt, when Crowley cleared his throat and finally spoke.
“You want me to have dinner with you? Here? “
“Um, well, yes, only if you'd like to of course.”
“Is this why you were trying to make sure I was paid?”
“Goodness no! That wasn't anything to do with this. I'm not expecting... I uh, didn't mean... It wouldn't be work! It's just the table is booked for two and you were expecting to have dinner out anyway, weren't you? So I just thought, since we're both here and both our evenings have ended up a bit of a mess we could make the most of it and have a nice meal. But obviously I understand if you don't want to. I realise it’s a bit… um… odd.”
“Well,” Crowley glanced at the restaurant, then back to Aziraphale, “all right, let's have dinner.”