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Paris, 1793
“It would be a shame to come all the way from across The Channel and not get some crêpes,” Aziraphale said.
The outside light momentarily blinded him as they left behind that pesky cell where he’d been thrown as though he weren't an angel from the Almighty’s army. Crowley didn’t seem bothered by the change and Aziraphale wondered, not for the first time, if he ought to get a pair of tainted spectacles himself.
“What do you say, dear?” he asked with his hands tightly clasped at his back. “My treat.”
Aziraphale had been bold. So bold that he waited a fraction of a second for a holy light to strike down from the Heavens and smite him on the spot. It never came.
As an unspoken rule, they never said thank you in the same way they never apologised nor called the other a friend. Plausible deniability- one of Aziraphale’s areas of expertise. Only God knew what would be of poor Crowley was their friendship ever discovered[1]. Aziraphale shivered with the thought.
“Sure, I can be tempted,” Crowley answered, his lips twitching with the threat of a smirk. “Lead the way, angel.”
Aziraphale suppressed a delighted wiggle.
It smelled of ashes, dirt, and freedom, and perhaps Azirapahle didn’t look as put together as he had intended, but he’d be damned if he wasn’t going to enjoy some lovely crêpes and the best wine available with his dear demon.[2]
He nudged Crowley’s shoulder with his own as they entered a miraculously open restaurant in tiptop condition, the familiar warmth on his left enveloping him.
SoHo, London, 1809
Aziraphale tensed at the chime of the bell above the door. He immediately stopped rubbing his still-sore arm[3] and got back to his usual prim posture. His racing thoughts came to a halt when he saw who had propped the door open.
“Crowley!” he exclaimed as the demon shed his hat on the threshold. “Oh, I don’t know what just-”
“First of all,” Crowley interrupted Aziraphale-quite rudely, “these are for you,” he said while holding out the box of chocolates he’d brought earlier that morning.
Congratulations on your new bookshop.
The angel took the box and held it close to his chest. “Once we open, you’re welcome to come by whenever you please.”
Of course, Crowley had been welcomed to enter Aziraphale’s home, wherever it may be, eons ago. However, they were both very versed in their unspoken language, and Crowley heard the message loud and clear.
“Seems you’re stuck with me down here for a little longer, Aziraphale.”
The demon lowered his spectacles just enough for Aziraphale to see the glint of mischief in his eyes.
Ah.
“It rather does, doesn’t it?” Aziraphale couldn’t help a coy smile. Oh, a wily, and cunning, and brilliant demon indeed. “Who else can thwart your devilish schemes but myself?”
“Oh, no one does it like you do, angel.”
A furious blush crept up Aziraphale’s neck as though he wasn’t a fully-grown celestial being.
Yes, he would fit in perfectly, Aziraphale decided as he took in the demon’s figure in the bookshop. Perhaps he should add a nice, comfortable sofa for when he visited.
Regency suited him, the angel added to himself. He would look even more ravishing with a pop of maroon somewhere in his dark outfit. Still ravishing in all blacks, nonetheless.
“What do you say to lunch?” Crowley offered Aziraphale his arm. “I still owe you from those crêpes in Paris.”
Aziraphale regarded him for a long minute.
It was not safe.
“Come on, it’s just two friends celebrating the new business of one of them. Completely harmless, no evil schemes,” Crowley said with his most tempting voice. It made no difference: Aziraphale had already made up his mind.
“We are not friends,” Aziraphale said as he brushed past him[4] to collect his hat. “You are one of the Fallen and I am an angel full of Her Grace; we’re barely acquainted.”
Not even the glasses could conceal the demon’s disappointment.
Aziraphale held the door open. “However, you do owe me lunch and I’m feeling rather peckish at the moment.”
His bosses weren’t the type to check on him twice in a row, all things considered.
London, 1859
“Sir, I don’t mean to be ill-mannered, but this is a bookshop, and this is the sixth book you claim is not for sale.”
A passive-aggressive retort was forming at the tip of Aziraphale’s tongue when a miracle of the demonic nature made his skin tingle. From the corner of his eye, he caught a glimpse of a piece of paper on top of his desk that hadn’t been there previously.
Pointedly ignoring the customer in front of him, he reached for the note. It read in Crowley’s messy handwriting: ‘The usual place.’
Crowley.
“I’m terribly sorry[5], but I’m afraid we’re closed,” Aziraphale said as he urged the woman outside, following her close behind. The bookshop dutifully closed itself when he stepped out.
As he rushed through the streets of London, the angel’s mind was a whirlwind of unconnected thoughts. Walking past humans, buildings, and stores without seeing any of them, his feet drove him to a very particular bench in St. James' Park.
There he was, in front of the duck pond with his dark coat and usual spectacles. Although Crowley was prone to stand hunched over himself, he was practically bent over the fence, the poor dear. Aziraphale’s chest burned with righteous fury.
The moment he was within earshot, Aziraphale exclaimed: “Oh, Crowley, my dear! What… How? It’s been so long, and I-”
I’ve missed you terribly and I’ve been worried sick. Yet he couldn’t bring himself to say the words. Crowley had gone through enough already- he couldn’t risk being heard. So, he bit his lip and tried to convey his thoughts to the being before him.
The demon seemed to understand as he gave Aziraphale a tired smirk that didn’t quite reach his eyes. He looked exhausted. Unmoored
“Early dinner, Aziraphale?” Crowley asked. His voice was husky and rough, as if he hadn’t spoken in a long time. Or as if he had been screaming for a very long time. “It’s on me, I’m still in debt to you since Paris.”
“Nonsense, you already-”
For the first time in many centuries, Crowley removed his glasses somewhere outside the haven of their respective homes.
Aziraphale’s heart clenched at the sight of those handsome, weary eyes -so full of sorrow.
“Please.”
Aziraphale understood.
“Very well.” He offered Crowley his arm in a discreet and well-conceived offer of support.
Leaving the park behind, Aziraphale didn’t even notice he’d forgone his hat. Oh, well.
Some underground bar in SoHo, 1965
It took some time[6] for Aziraphale to get used to new trends, but she had to admit she’d become fond of The Beatles rather quickly. She was bopping her head to the sound of Drive My Car as she thought about it. There was a certain appeal to the beat of their songs- always changing and evolving, creating new sounds previously unknown.
A smile crept up her face thinking of a certain someone.
Speaking of the devil…[7]
“Aziraphale!”
A fiery mane of red hair made its appearance from within the crowd, followed by black clothes and long limbs. “How come you’re around these parts?”
Aziraphale didn’t even try to conceal how she gawked at Crowley over the brim of her glass. She was pleased to find a dark-red belt at the waist of a very short dress[8]; Aziraphale had always believed that Crowley looked better with a splash of colour.
When she had gotten her eyeful of the demon, Aziraphale replied: “I live in SoHo, my dear.” She finished her drink in one swing. “But if you must know, I just fancied a drink.”
“Fancy some dinner as well? We can go for another drink afterwards,” Crowley purred with her most tempting voice -not that it was necessary with this one angel. “Come on, so I can repay you for those crêpes.”
A wink was thrown from behind sharp sunglasses.
The angel made a show of picking up her coat and leaving a note that more than covered her drink.
“Just because you owe me, you temptress.”
“One day I’ll tempt you to change out of that old suit.”
“Good luck with that!”
Middlesex Hospital, London, 1989
“Angel, you haven’t left the Broderip Ward[9] since November.”
A very concerned demon loomed over Aziraphale, who shook his head in response, his face buried in his hands. He felt more worn out than his precious coat.
“How else will I pay you back from that one time in Paris, hmm?” The angel dared a peek from between his fingers. He almost laughed. “We’ll come back later.”
Together.
He would’ve thanked Crowley, he really would’ve spoken the words for the first time, but they would’ve fallen short of his feelings. So instead, he took the offered hand before him and kissed its knuckles.
St. James' Park, London, 2007
With the inevitable doom of Armageddon looming over their heads, angel and demon left behind their usual meeting spot.
“We’ve only got eleven years and then it’s all over! We have to work together.”
Was he even listening to himself? Azirapahle worried his hands at his front. Crowley was being careless, and reckless, and mindless, and probably a lot more words that ended in -less.
“No!”
“It’s the end of the world we’re talking about. It’s not some little temptation I’ve asked you to cover for me while you’re up in Edinburgh for the festival. You can’t say no.”
Oh, Aziraphale very much could. “No.”
“We can do something.” In all their walk to the Bentley, Crowley hadn’t pulled his hands from his pockets. Aziraphale wondered how he’d even stuffed them in there. “I have an idea.”
“No! I’m not interested.”
Aziraphale made a pretense of turning around when Crowley said:
“Well, let’s have lunch, hmm? I still owe you one from…” Crowley shrugged as if he didn’t know exactly what he was doing.
“Paris, 1793,” said Aziraphale.
"Yes. The Reign of Terror. Was that one of yours, or one of ours?" Crowley asked while he walked up to his car. He snapped his fingers. The wheel clamps disappeared.
“Can’t recall… We had crêpes.”
As they drove past an astonished traffic warden his notebook spontaneously combusted.
[1] As for Aziraphale, he knew precisely what would be of him, and he was certain Crowley would be there to catch him.
[2] The irony of this being exactly what would happen to him was not lost on him.
[3] Good-natured punch, his arse. (The author will not further explain the reference. They will, however, link the script to the bookshop’s inauguration and a few more deleted scenes. Please, do enjoy it.)
[4] In a truly good-natured shove, thank you very much.
[5] He wasn’t.
[6] Read: decades.
[7] That one’s Aziraphale’s.
[8] Although she had taken credit for it, miniskirts were not one of Crowley’s.
[9] The author encourages the reader to look it up in case this place is unknown to them.