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game of two halves (plural games of two halves)
Something that makes a major turnaround over the course of its lifespan.
Aziraphale knew it was a terrible idea the moment he stepped into the press room and had the air punched out of his lungs by the sheer number of journalists present. The cacophony of multiple animated conversations going on at once engulfed him, making his vision blurry, his ears buzz and his heart beat erratically in his chest.
“Oh, dear,” he exhaled in a wobbly gasp as he waited for his senses to adjust to the impressive frenzy unfolding in front of him.
Before he could come to terms with the mess he’d put himself into (for what he still deemed extremely valid reasons, mind), a security guard unceremoniously shoved him out of the way and loudly reminded the crowd at large – in that bored monotone that spoke of things repeated an ungodly amount of times – not to block the entrance.
Or at least that’s what Aziraphale thought the security guard had said, what with the man speaking French and Aziraphale’s grasp of the language being a little… er, on the rustier side, so to speak.
Which would have been all fine and dandy had he not been in the press room of this imposing Parisian football stadium by the very evocative name of Parc de Princes precisely for that alleged skill of his.
If he was being honest with himself, he’d known this was a terrible idea long before coming into the room, specifically sometime around the exact second it had popped into his head that morning.
But, in all seriousness, how could one pass up the chance of spending an all-expenses-paid weekend in Paris for the modest price of translating a couple of questions? Less than two hours of work in exchange for strolls along the Seine, a walk through the Tuileries and scrumptious crêpes in Montmartre.
A real bargain if he ever saw one.
There was, of course, that pesky little detail of French not being Aziraphale’s strong suit, and football falling quite outside his area of expertise (distant as only two planets from two different galaxies in two different universes could be), but when one such opportunity falls into one’s lap, the last thing one does is resort to reason.
So what if Aziraphale’s French wasn’t even remotely close to fluent and he knew absolutely nothing about football? He could easily improvise. For crêpes. How hard could it be, honestly? He’d googled the proper terms on the Eurostar – ballon, but, arbitre, équipe, entraîneur, Crêperie Mon Ami (that was for later) – and was adamant he could do this, weather this storm and indulge in his much-deserved, mouthwatering prize later.
There was nothing else for it – he would do this. He could.
With a (very confident) steadying breath, Aziraphale (not very confidently) let the crowd jostle him towards the back of the room, where a host of camerapeople were already assembled for the post-match press conference. (What the match in question could possibly be, Aziraphale couldn’t say, confidently or otherwise.)
Bombarded with a whole slew of vacant stares, curious looks and straight-up hostile glares, Aziraphale kept broadcasting his anxious smile around and clung to the translator badge hanging around his neck, now calculating his odds of successfully extricating himself from this catastrophe waiting to happen before anyone could correctly identify him.
“Mr Eastgate!” a voice called out to him, catapulting his stomach to the very centre of the earth (Voyage au centre de la Terre – now that he could talk about at length, though perhaps not in French) (fine, definitely not in French). “There you are!”
Aziraphale frantically looked around until his eyes zeroed in on the young person coming towards him with a badge of their own, a headset and wireless equipment dangling from their hands.
“Oh, h-hello,” Aziraphale stammered, however relieved he was that his first proper interaction in this strange world was with such a friendly-looking person. “Are you–”
“Muriel!” they said with a beaming smile, pulling him towards the quietest corner of the room. “I’m going to mic you up, alright?”
And what could Aziraphale say if not, “A-alright.”
“Thank God we found you!” Muriel went on as they worked, connecting this and clipping that with enviable, chipper efficiency. “Our usual translator called us this morning to tell us she broke her leg by diving into the Seine last night, and there’s some big event going on at the Parc des expositions so we could not find a single French translator on such short notice! I contacted every single agency I could find, I was desperate! Can you believe Miss Nutter was the only one that got back to me?”
Oh, so that was how a man whose expertise was in Latin, ancient Greek, Sumerian, Italian, Occitan and Japanese had been offered a translating job (through an agency he could have sworn had been out of business for years) at some high-profile football match in Paris on that same day. Although, this failed to explain why said man, who had recklessly put ‘fluent in French’ in his ancient CV (so ancient, in fact, he had no idea how the agency had even found it), had accepted it.
(It was the crêpes – Aziraphale had woken up that morning feeling rather peckish for crêpes. Simple as that.)
“Luck of the red devil, I suppose!” Muriel chirped, handing him his earphones. “Get it? Red devils?”
Aziraphale was at a loss. “O-of course,” he said, hoping not to look like someone who had no idea what it was they were talking about. “Les… erm… diables rouges.”
Muriel giggled. “I suppose! I’m very bad at French myself, and apparently Mr Crowley is as well. In case no one has told you, you’re going to be translating for him.”
“Mr Crowley, of course.” The famous fellow he’d never once heard of. That Mr Crowley.
“He’s a man of very few words.”
“Oh, thank God,” Aziraphale breathed out, perhaps a little too ardently. The hand he dramatically clasped to his chest certainly didn’t inspire confidence.
Muriel, bless their heart, didn’t notice anything amiss. “You probably know all about him already,” naturally, “but I’m going to warn you anyway: he’s very grumpy, widely considered the rudest manager around. He’ll be curt and give lots of monosyllabic answers.”
Aziraphale was already in love. “That is splendid, my dear.”
Muriel’s eyebrows pinched together in confusion, though their smile remained exactly where it was. “Is it? Well, lots of four letter words too,” they went on, chuckling nervously. “You don’t have to translate those. Technically you should, but we have an agreement with the United press officers to help, er, soften Mr Crowley’s approach with the media.”
And now Aziraphale was officially regretting ever thinking God didn’t exist, because clearly some higher power was looking out for him tonight. Such was the relief coursing through his veins that he finally managed a genuine smile.
“Duly noted.”
Who knew, maybe Monsieur Rossignol’s classes would be enough to guide him to the other side of this predicament mostly, if not wholly, unscathed. And to think Aziraphale had been considering using some sort of disguise and a fake voice just in case things went south! How silly of him, really. Talk about overreacting!
“I’m going to ask Eric to check that the audio works,” Muriel said, typing something on her phone. “One more minute and we’re good to go.”
As journalists and reporters began to take their seats, Aziraphale put his earphones in just in time to hear a voice on the other line muttering something he couldn’t quite make out.
“Did you hear him?” Muriel asked.
“I think so?” Was faulty equipment a good enough excuse for a bad translating job? “Yes.”
They received another text, their face lighting up. “Great! They can hear you too.”
“Spiffing.”
“We’re all set then. I’m going to stand near the front, but you can stay here, it’s quieter. Just stay out of the cameras’ way, these people can be quite ruthless when you ruin their shot.”
“Thank you, Muriel.”
“Don’t mention it,” they said, already shuffling away. “Oh, and Mr Eastgate?”
“Yes?”
“Love the bow-tie!”
Aziraphale smiled and was about to thank them again, when the cacophony bubbling over the crowd suddenly dropped to a low buzz, everyone’s attention turning on the two people that briskly stalked into the room in a sulky silence and took their seats at the elevated speaker podium by the front. The short person with spiky black hair and a rather impressive frown immediately warned the reporters to behave, while the other newcomer slumped in his chair.
Once Aziraphale’s eyes drifted to the man, he thought – quite nonsensically, really – that taking them off of him would prove an insurmountable feat.
The man was wearing a black shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows and the first two buttons undone to reveal a very distracting triangle of naked skin at the base of his throat; he had sharp, angular features, sunglasses on his nose and the most striking red hair Aziraphale had ever seen.
For the second time that night, the air got punched out of Aziraphale’s lungs, because Mr Crowley was, possibly, the most attractive man he’d never once heard of.
His cheeks burned, and whatever calm Aziraphale had managed to gather during his talk with Muriel evaporated along with every word he’d ever known in his entire life, be it in French or any other language.
He was, he rather feared, thoroughly fucked.
The trick, Crowley had found early on in his career as gaffer, was to avoid eye-contact at all cost. To present himself as the very picture of untouchable boredom, whether they’d won or lost the match (case in point), regardless of said match being crucial or not (semifinals usually were), and no matter how disappointed he was (no one likes to lose their shot at winning a Champions League, for fuck’s sake).
Dealing with the press was like taming a wake of famished vultures, and Crowley had always been terrible at playing nice, to the point that he’d effectively stopped trying the second he’d become a moderately successful manager. Teams wanted him for his boundless imagination, his ability to think outside the box and the way his public persona conveniently lent itself to be thrown under the bus whenever things took a turn for the worst, definitely not for his media training.
Unless scoffing and grunting in a mic, antagonising journos, lazily waving questions away and challenging himself to use as few words as possible counted as media training, in which case Crowley was extremely well trained in dealing with irritating reporters.
The same reporters that were now asking him riveting, thought-provoking questions such as: “Are you disappointed?” (“Guess”); “Why did you score just one goal?” (“Because”); “Did you speak to the team?” (“Yes”); “In your opinion, what should you have done to win this game?” (“Score more”); “Do you think PSG was the better team?” (“Obviously”); “What do you have to say to people calling this just another episode in the Hundred Years’ War?” (“Fuck the fourteenth century”).
It was the same old, well-practiced song and dance. With Bee selecting reporters at random, usually the British ones first; them standing up, asking their questions and getting their disappointing answers, sitting back down, and so on and so forth until it was time to wrap things up and leave, so Crowley could debrief with the team and go back to the hotel for a shower and consolatory glass of Talisker before bed.
Crowley only needed to resist – he glanced at his unnecessarily complicated watch and grunted while Bee gestured to a reporter from L’Équipe – fifteen more minutes, just fifteen more minutes and–
“This was a very important match,” said a deep, sultry, British voice straight into his ear. “So sorry to hear about your loss.”
Crowley went very still, taken off-guard like a dumbfounded goalie watching the ball sail right past him after what was supposed to be just a round-of-the-mill goal kick from the opposing team’s keeper. He distinctly felt his carefully-cultivated indifference crack, the sudden awareness so acute it was almost painful.
Somewhat winded despite not moving an inch, he turned to the French reporter, who was staring at him expectantly. Only it wasn’t him speaking, Crowley realised, it was the translator. Wherever he was.
“You must be, er, acclaimed? No, that’s not it,” the deep voice continued, now laced with a specific type of breathlessness that, for some reason, had Crowley thinking of tangled sheets, warm hands and liquid moans. “Anyway, if you could have another chance at your back, what would you do differently?”
It was so unexpected, so unlike anything he’d had to face in a press room before, that it completely threw him off balance.
A shiver skittered down his back, heat crept up his face, and before he could quite catch himself he felt his lips twitch and he shifted forward on his seat, sitting properly rather than slouching for the first time since he’d come in.
And given that his media training didn’t exist, Crowley took out his earphone and blurted out, “Very erotic voice by the way. The translator.” He scanned the crowd for whoever the voice belonged to. “Where are you?”
The room erupted into sniggers and even Crowley couldn’t fight a very off-brand chuckle. He was still searching and squirming a little when he spotted Muriel pointing to a man huddled in the far corner of the room, the lapels of his beige trench-coat flipped up to… was this pale-blond, better-groomed, cherubic version of Columbo hiding his face on purpose?
The man must have sensed Crowley’s attention because his gaze flitted nervously towards the podium, eyes going wide like a fluffy deer’s caught in headlights the second he realised he’d inadvertently attracted everyone’s attention.
His lips parted on a shocked gasp and he became, if possible, even pinker and prettier than he already was. Painfully out of place and looking nothing like his voice sounded.
Somehow, the improbable juxtaposition put Crowley in a good mood. What the fuck is even happening?
“Congratulations,” he said. “For the voice, I mean. First question that’s got me all excited in a long while, wow.”
The translator awkwardly raised a hand in acknowledgement and the crowd burst out laughing in earnest. Unable to stop himself, Crowley joined them, grinning like a fool. “Again please. Would love to leave one of these with a hard-on for a change.”
Another soft gasp was poured straight into Crowley’s ear. It sent a thrill crackling through him as he nodded at the translator, giving him a two-finger salute and a smile that he hoped wasn’t too amused.
“The lot of you, take notes. Hot-line voices make everything sound less stupid,” Crowley said, definitely not as snarkily as he would have wanted to.
Then, making a valiant attempt at collecting himself, he turned back to the journalist from L’Équipe, who was still waiting, and shrugged, reverting back to his acerbic, cantankerous self.
“To answer your question, if I could go back – which I can’t, no matter how many times you ask me these dumb hypotheticals – I’d just play better.”
Aziraphale waited for the swarm of journalists and reporters to leave while hiding in the cupboard he’d providentially stumbled upon during his attempted escape from the press room. He wasn’t proud of it, but needs must when you’ve made an utter fool of yourself in front of the international press and unwittingly aroused the man of the hour. The very attractive man of the hour who was supposed to be rude and intractable and had instead smiled at him and praised his voice.
Well, his deep voice, the one Aziraphale used only for special occasions and strictly over the telephone. And while it was true that such occasions ranged from convincing scammers in general and Mr Brown in particular that they were in fact not talking to Aziraphale Eastgate, to more recreational purposes (namely, phone sex), he’d never have thought, not in a thousand years, that he’d be so flustered as to mix up his techniques.
In all fairness, he wasn’t that sure he had. Perhaps Mr Crowley was just uncommonly receptive.
Either way, Aziraphale was pointedly not thinking about it.
He squeezed his eyes shut and waited for the storm in his chest to settle as he heaved out a sigh. Unlike the hundreds he’d unleashed since taking refuge in the cupboard, this one echoed in a quiet that sounded much more compact and unmoving than mere moments ago.
The realisation had him open his eyes and perk up from the shelves he was leaning on, straining his ears to confirm that his impression that most people had left was, in fact, correct.
So he slowly opened the door a crack and took a glimpse around the corridor.
When he saw that the coast was indeed clear, Aziraphale emerged from the cupboard, gently closed the door behind him and quickly followed the signs pointing to the exit with a newfound spring in his step.
He welcomed the chilly air of the late-April night like an old friend, eyes fluttering shut as he indulged in the sweet taste of freed–
“Come on, Crowley,” said a slimy voice in a shadowy corner of the mostly deserted car park. “Just a teeny, tiny statement.”
The voice came from a reporter with a rather outdated hairdo – did it qualify as a pompadour? – who was encroaching on Mr Crowley’s personal space by pushing a mobile phone under his nose, presumably to record the statement he was trying to pry out of him.
Mr Crowley, for his part, was scrolling on his own phone as though the reporter was no more than an annoying cold draught.
“Don’t be a wanker,” the journalist insisted, “I’ve been tipped off about an impending change in management. They’ll want someone’s head and we all know whose it’s going to be. No way you don’t have anything to comment, mate.”
When no response was forthcoming – on the contrary, Mr Crowley somehow pulled off the impressive feat of becoming even more indifferent – the reporter inched closer, his body almost touching the other man’s, phone now wielded like a weapon and practically brushing his mouth.
This time, Mr Crowley took a deliberate step back. “Do that again and you won’t be able to set foot near a stadium for the next ten years, Furfur. Like the good ol’ times.”
“It’s Furber.”
“Does it look like I care?”
The reporter snarled and bared his teeth, but ultimately relented. “I hope it’s true,” he spat with all the venom he could muster, face exceedingly pale under the artificial lights of the car park. “I’m looking forward to seeing you torn apart in the press while you grovel for another job.”
Mr Crowley didn’t bat an eye. “Whatever floats your boat, mate.”
Resigned to not getting a rise out of him, the journalist – Furber? Furfur? – stomped away, leaving Mr Crowley alone with his phone and Aziraphale with an unpleasant sensation writhing in his stomach.
Still, he knew he’d witnessed something he shouldn’t have, so he looked around for the best way to make his own exit, though his intentions were immediately thwarted by the distinct feeling he was being observed. He briefly considered walking away before Mr Crowley could say something (besides, who said he would?), but Aziraphale didn’t have time to put his escape plan into motion.
“It’s you,” said Mr Crowley, his voice suddenly closer. “You’re still here.”
Before he could think better of it, Aziraphale turned around and blushed at record speed. The man really was unfairly attractive. “Er, I–” Good lord. “I had some difficulties locating the, erm, exit.”
“Ah, yeah. It’s a maze in there.”
“Quite.”
Despite how impenetrable he’d seemed with the reporter just now, Mr Crowley looked exhausted, mouth twisted in a tense line. Aziraphale wrestled with the urge to offer the usual platitudes, just in case Mr Crowley preferred not to bring any attention to his unfortunate exchange with the journalist.
Once again, the other man let him off the hook by saying, “Your voice.”
Heat prickled in Aziraphale’s cheeks. “What about it?”
“‘S different.”
“Ah, yes. The one you heard before, that was my, er… professional voice,” he lied, and not very skillfully at that.
Mr Crowley’s frown slowly turned upside down. “Your professional voice.”
Aziraphale swallowed thickly and categorically forbade himself from averting his eyes. He was a grown man, for God’s sake, he could hold his own in a simple conversation. “My professional voice.”
Mr Crowley let out a noncommittal hum, seemingly intrigued. “I’m trying really hard not to ask what sort of professional you are.”
The fragile composure Aziraphale had gone to such great lengths to regain shattered on an audible gasp. “I’m a translator!”
There was an unmistakable smirk playing at the corner of Mr Crowley’s lips now. “That’s the sort of voice you expect to hear in an erotic audiobook.”
Aziraphale was about to faint. “I-I wouldn’t know anything about those,” he lied. Again.
“No,” Mr Crowley conceded. “I don’t suppose an angelic-looking person like you would be familiar with that sort of book. Then again, you don’t look like your professional voice at all.”
Aziraphale forced his spine to straighten, feeling a little light-headed. “Well, sorry to disappoint.”
“Not disappointed,” Mr Crowley said without missing a beat. He seemed about to add something, when his phone lit up in his hand, drawing his attention onto the message he’d just received. The smile faded from his face, inexorably replaced by a deep frown.
Embarrassment quickly forgotten, Aziraphale walked up to him. “Is everything alright?”
“Not really,” he muttered, before pushing his sunglasses up in his hair to rub at his tired eyes. “Seems like I’m gonna get the axe in the very near future.”
“Oh, I’m sorry.” So that ghastly reporter was right.
“Not your fault, is it?”
“Not that I’m aware.”
Mr Crowley sighed and glanced at him, making Aziraphale flinch at the sight of his bare eyes, which were surprisingly soft and open. Between the fetching lines surrounding them and the imperceptible smile now back to dancing across his lips, Aziraphale found himself utterly mesmerised.
Without quite realising it, they held each other’s gaze for a long moment, until Aziraphale felt himself teetering on the edge of saying something reckless.
Shockingly enough, Mr Crowley beat him to it.
“Is there any chance you could offer me some words of comfort in your professional voice?”
Aziraphale flushed and spluttered in outrage. “We don’t know each other that well. In fact, we don’t know each other at all.” This said, he flashed a disdainful glare at the man’s trousers and added, “Besides, you’re not dressed for it.”
Mr Crowley chuckled, expression halfway between delight and disbelief. “Oi, these bad boys are roomier than they look.”
Aziraphale sniffed haughtily, gave them another look, sniffed some more. “I wouldn’t be so sure about that.”
The man tipped his head back and cackled so joyfully Aziraphale couldn’t find it in himself to hold onto his secretly-very-pleased indignation. (The fact that the column of Mr Crowley’s throat was very distracting was neither here nor there, naturally.)
“Really, now,” he chided half-heartedly.
“Not that angelic after all,” Mr Crowley said when he’d calmed down a tad. He wiped his face with his hand and let out another sigh. “You’re not the usual translator.”
“I’m not. I heard she accidentally broke her leg by diving into the Seine.”
“Sounds like she was having fun, at least.”
“Does it?”
He shrugged. “I dunno. More fun than I’m having now,” There was a pause, then he glimpsed at Aziraphale and added somewhat thoughtfully, “Or was.”
Uncertain how to interpret his words, Aziraphale wisely decided to gloss over them entirely. “I’m really sorry about the match. And the job. Will you be okay?”
“‘Course. I’ve been fired more times than I can count, ‘s part of the game.”
“That sounds awful.”
“Eh, ‘s not that bad when you get used to it.”
Aziraphale was appalled. “Being fired?”
“Yeah.”
“No one likes to be put in the position of having to get back on one’s feet.”
“No offense, but speak for yourself.”
Aziraphale’s lips parted on an indignant huff. “You are rude.”
“Aren’t I just? ‘M happy to say the rumours are true,” Mr Crowley confirmed with a brilliant smile that had Aziraphale’s heart diving straight into the Seine of his mind. “Gotta have thick skin to do this job, but it pays well. ‘S why you don’t complain when you get fired. You usually just wind up somewhere else, anyway, doing the exact same thing.”
Aziraphale wasn’t convinced. “Do you?”
Mr Crowley tilted his head to the side and shot him a pensive look. “You do know I manage a Premier League club, don’t you?”
“Of course. Manchester, right?” He looked exactly like someone who would have a hand in that.
“City or United?”
Aziraphale’s eyes narrowed to two slits brimming with suspicion. “Is that a trick question?” Even so, he didn’t know what it meant.
Mr Crowley burst out laughing, and there was no doubt now that the emotion dancing on his face was delight. “How did you even end up here?”
“To be quite honest, I’m not sure,” Aziraphale said, realising he’d pop if he didn’t share his ridiculous predicament with someone in the next two seconds. “Long story short, I think my passion for crêpes has betrayed me. You can’t get decent ones anywhere but Paris.” He glanced at the man and, in a sudden display of insanity, slightly leaned towards him and whispered, “Between us, it’s not the first time it has happened.”
Mr Crowley’s smile turned softer around the edges. “Are you even an actual translator?”
“Yes.” They shared another look, which was apparently enough for Aziraphale to confess, “French isn’t really my forte, though. I learned that the hard way.” And he’d learned it again today, the sort of lesson one doesn’t easily forget.
The pleased glimmer in the man’s eyes only grew livelier. “So what you’re telling me is that you pretended to be a French translator so you could pop across the Channel for something to nibble on?”
Well, in a way?
“I feel like you’re underestimating how good authentic French crêpes are.”
Mr Crowley gave him a quick onceover, before smacking his lips and setting off towards the pedestrian exit of the car park. “Let’s go, then.”
Aziraphale instinctively followed. “Where?”
“To get you some authentic French crêpes,” he said, as though it were obvious.
And really, what was Aziraphale supposed to do besides hoping crêpes wouldn’t betray him twice in a single day?
Despite Columbo’s angelic, bow-tie-wearing cousin refusing to deploy his professional voice for non-professional reasons, he didn’t seem to have quite the same compunction about crêpe-induced-moans. At least judging by the veritable concerto of delighted mmm’s that the man had been gracing Crowley with (and whoever was lucky enough to be strolling around Montmartre that night) for the better part of the last fifteen minutes.
And if admitting (exclusively to himself, obviously) that his trousers weren’t as roomy as he’d bragged was all kinds of annoying, the truly concerning development at play here was that Crowley was genuinely enjoying looking at this complete stranger enjoying himself in such an uncomplicated way.
Which was exactly what Crowley needed now that his life was on the precipice of going back to being anything but. If he so much as let himself think about the circus, the whirlwind of utter bullshit that was to come, he knew the stirrings of the migraine brewing behind his eyes would only get worse.
No, much better to watch this man melt in delight at the simple pleasure of what were supposed to be some of the best crêpes in Paris – or at least that’s what he’d repeatedly told Crowley while they were in line to order.
Now, sitting on a bench in the little public garden they’d casually wandered to, Crowley wished he’d ordered thousands of crêpes instead of just the two. A savoury one for the cherubic stranger (it had taken him almost ten minutes of careful debates with himself to choose) and a sweet one for him, though he’d promptly surrendered half of it just for the chance of prolonging the unplanned symphony of pleased little hums, which was unfortunately coming to an end.
“So,” the stranger said, licking the last traces of salted caramel butter from the tips of his fingers, “how does one end up managing a football team?”
Crowley, who was staring intently at the man’s fingers and wondering whether he could ask him for a taste (or alternatively, to tuck his nose under the gentle roll of fat under his chin – he wasn’t picky), crossed his arms on his chest and shrugged. “Dabbled a bit when I was younger. Deep-lying playmaker.”
Not-Columbo gave him an appraising look. “I have no idea what that means, but you don’t look like a football player.”
“‘Cause I’m not one anymore.” Though some would say he’d never had. “Tore my cruciate ligament when I was thirty-two. Retired, sulked for a couple of years, then joined the ranks of the most vile, parasitic creatures in existence.”
The man wrinkled his upturned nose in distaste. “Politicians?”
“Football pundits.”
“Oh, but that’s awful.”
The horror dawning on his face made Crowley smile.
“Yeah.”
“Why did you say yes?”
“I dunno. Guess it allowed me to keep my foot in the door of the only thing I’ve ever known,” Crowley answered, surprising himself with his honesty. He was too tired to keep his walls up, and there was something liberating in talking to someone who had no idea who he was, what he did for a living or what it meant to a large chunk of people.
“Football?”
“Football and being a complete nuisance.” He certainly had never been known as someone who minced his words, especially after his forced retirement, when the need to appease the big shots had spiralled into a calculated take-me-or-leave-me sort of recklessness.
“And then?”
“I got offered to manage a Championship team, that’s the second highest division in England. The owner publicly said I knew nothing about football, that the only thing I was good at was talk out of my arse.”
The man slightly lifted his chin. “And they were wrong, I suppose.”
“Oh, she wasn’t. But spite is one hell of a motivator. We somehow got promoted to the big leagues and that’s how I became quite sought-after.” Faulty filters and forked tongue included.
“Uhm, I can see why.”
“You can?”
“Yes. You’re one of those ‘characters’ people on telly like so much.”
The way he made it sound vaguely insulting had Crowley grin in delight. “They like to hate me, mostly.”
“I wouldn’t know about that. I think you make it quite difficult.”
“Liking me?”
“Disliking you, actually. You don’t seem as bad as all that. In fact, I find you quite friendly.”
“‘M not friendly.”
“You’re being friendly right now, Mr Crowley.”
“Just Crowley.”
“Alright.” He took a fortifying breath, bracing himself to say, “Crowley.”
“What’s your name?”
The man’s eyes went wide at the sudden realisation that they hadn’t even introduced each other properly. “Oh, how rude of me.”
“‘S okay. Big rude fan, me.”
“I’m–” He stopped and pursed his lips, suspicion flickering back to life in his eyes. “You won’t report me to the agency, will you?”
“Not even at gunpoint.”
The frown was swiftly replaced by a beaming smile. “Aziraphale Eastgate, then. Unless you’re trying to sell me something. In that case, I’m Asa Fell, with an s, and I’m afraid you have the wrong number, toodle-oo,” he recited cheerfully as he extended a hand towards him.
Crowley glanced down at it for a second before taking it in his, flinching a little at the jolt that went through him (fucking hell, what a cliché). His hand was warm and soft and Crowley still wanted to lick the remnants of the salted caramel butter from the pads of his thick, perfectly manicured fingers – all perfectly normal thoughts to have, as far as he was concerned.
“Aziraphale,” Crowley repeated, trying it out in his mouth, not quite understanding why he’d made it sound like a complete sentence.
“Aziraphale,” not-Columbo confirmed as he slightly tightened his grip around Crowley’s hand.
The contact lasted way longer than strictly necessary, then they both let go at the same time. While Crowley didn’t avert his gaze, too reluctantly charmed to even entertain the idea, Aziraphale glanced away while two pink spots bloomed on his cheeks. He did that often, Crowley had noticed. And now he couldn’t help but wonder if he could turn it into an ever more frequent occurrence.
“‘S your turn now. Explain to me again how you ended up at the press conference,” Crowley said, propping his right elbow on the back of the bench, legs stretched in front of him.
“Very well, I suppose that’s fair.” Aziraphale cleared his voice and rolled back his shoulders. “It all started this morning, when I got a call while I was thinking about what to have for breakfast before opening my bookshop for the day. I usually don’t pick up when I’m in the middle of something important, but this time I did. I have no idea why.”
“Something important,” Crowley mouthed to himself. “You’re a bookseller, then.”
“Antiquarian, yes. And not by choice, I have to say.”
“What does that mean?”
“I don’t particularly like selling books. And,” he added, raising a finger between them, “before you say anything, I’m also a translator. It’s not my main occupation anymore, but I do consult for various scholars and institutions. I’m a bit of an expert in dead languages.”
“You like old things.” That certainly explained the clothes.
“I do, yes,” Aziraphale confirmed. “Anyway, it was this agency I didn’t think existed anymore, Nutter Voices. I think I sent them my CV back in the early noughties, when I still hadn’t found my professional footing, so to speak. They told me they had someone on the line looking for a French translator to go to Paris for two days, all expenses paid.”
“Ah, that’s how the crêpes came into play.”
“Exactly. I didn’t stand a chance, you see. Doomed is the word.”
Crowley tried to smother his grin before it could become too damning. “Naturally.”
“So I said yes.”
“Except you don’t speak French.”
“I’ve actually studied French, you know?” Aziraphale insisted, piqued. “I’ve always loved it. Though I’ll admit it never returned my affections too fondly.” He flashed Crowley a somewhat reproachful glare. “So, you see, it wasn’t a complete lie.”
“Are you sure about that?”
Aziraphale scoffed. “You’re one to talk! I heard your answer to that French reporter, you understood their question perfectly fine, and you ordered our crêpes in fluent French not twenty minutes ago. Which, by the way, I could have done myself had you given me a minute to remember the French word for ‘ham’.”
Crowley was starting to suspect he’d have gladly spent the next twenty-four hours pulling out every French word in existence directly from the man’s mouth. Something told him Aziraphale wouldn’t have minded either.
“Do you have any idea how much money the people I work for have?” Crowley asked instead, voice just a little rough around the edges. “They could wipe their arses with it multiple times a day for two or three lifetimes and they would still have too much. Why would I tell anyone I can speak French and take someone’s job away from ‘em? Those twats can afford to pay six thousand French translators without batting an eye.”
Aziraphale’s face did something complicated, embarking on a complete journey from surprised to impressed after a quick stop on confused. “That’s very noble of you.”
“Nah, ‘m just lazy, and French doesn’t suit me. It ruins my vibe,” Crowley waved him off. “Besides, if I hadn’t lied, I wouldn’t be here right now, with the most insane person I’ve ever met in quite a while.”
Aziraphale reeled back his head. “I hope you’re talking about yourself.”
“Yeah, nice try, mister. There are two ‘characters’ sitting on this bench.”
“You and your ego?”
“Fine. Three, then.”
Aziraphale visibly tried and failed to suppress a giggle, though he concealed it by rushing to ask, “Where would you have been?”
For some flabbergasting reason he didn’t want to examine at the moment, Crowley’s newfound penchant for sheer honesty was still alive and well. “Most likely lying in my hotel room, sipping whiskey and feeling sorry for myself.”
“Hmm. You could have called someone. To, you know, share your woes with.”
“Share my woes? Who even are you?” Crowley chuckled and gave Aziraphale a look that he knew was way too telling. The knowledge didn’t diminish the pleasant feeling lazily zapping under his skin, not one bit. “Ah, for fuck’s sake.”
“What?”
“Nothing.” His body and mind were rebelling against him, no big deal. “Guess you know a thing or two about making it really hard for people to dislike you.”
Aziraphale tutted, but there was no hiding how pleased he was at the roundabout compliment. “I assure you, people have no trouble disliking me.”
“Good riddance, then.”
“Oh, we agree on that,” he said with a decisive nod, hands smoothing down his thighs as he gave Crowley a more tentative glance. “So, there’s no one you could have called to–”
“Nope. Goes hand in hand with being a ‘character’, I suppose. As well as queer in bloody Macholand.”
Aziraphale’s expression sobered. “Do people–”
“Know? Yeah. Haven’t really made a secret of it after I retired.”
Before that, anything would have been more reasonable than coming out, including setting himself on fire and throwing himself off a very steep cliff.
“‘S okay,” Crowley offered after a second. Spite had fueled his entire career, before and after his retirement, and this was part of it, his doggedness in taking a space that was never meant for him. “‘S a good way to know exactly what insults are going to be hurled my way when things turn to shit.”
Something flickered across Aziraphale’s face, an emotion too complicated for a night such as this one. It passed quickly, though, replaced by a different kind of spark. Something that spoke of complicity and understanding. “It must be devastating,” he said instead, “having to whip, er, a dozen extremely athletic men into shape. How terrible for you.”
Crowley snorted. “Can be up to twenty-five, actually. And I feel like you’re forgetting a crucial detail, here: these are mostly heterosexual men we’re talking about, and you know how they are.”
“They can be quite tiresome,” Aziraphale agreed. “But still, it must be terrible, getting paid to spend your time bossing around sweaty, muscly men.”
“Is that what you like? Muscles?”
“Not really.”
“What do you like, then? Besides crêpes, that is.” Was there anything else that could draw those mindmelting sounds from his mouth? ‘Cause Crowley was ready to consider alternative career options.
Aziraphale seemed to think about the question for a second, then straightened his shoulders once more and said, “I don’t mind the ‘bossing around’ part, and I suppose I like sharing crêpes with friendly men who think I’m funny.” He became serious again. “Unless this is all just a ploy to get me to use my professional voice again.”
Crowley blushed – it hadn’t occurred to him that this honesty thing could go both ways. “Nah. I like your unprofessional voice just fine.” He had the distinct impression he could listen to it all day.
“You do?”
“Shut up.”
“You have a strange way of showing it,” Aziraphale said, lips curling up at the corners. “Some might even say counterintuitive.”
“It’s not even the strangest. Could do worse.”
“Don’t tempt me.”
“‘M not.”
“I can see why you’ve been asked to manage the Red Devils. You’re clearly one yourself. With your perfectly styled red… and your sharp black…”
Crowley realised, approximately right that second, that he liked to be teased. “Pure coincidence.”
“Well, in case you were working up to something, I’m afraid you won’t be able to tempt me into much else tonight, regardless of how perfect your pronunciation of ‘jambon’ is.”
Crowley had expected disappointment to gnash at his insides, but the only thing that washed over him was a sort of fond amusement. “Alright, then.” As a queer man in bloody football, he certainly didn’t mind a challenge.
Aziraphale tossed him a sidelong glance that missed the stop for ‘nonchalance’ by several miles. “Were you?”
“Was I what?”
“Tempting me into something more.”
“‘M not gonna bloody tell you now, am I?” he grumbled, accompanying the words with a full-body shrug. “I still have an ounce of dignity left.”
Aziraphale clucked his tongue and clasped his hands in front of his belly. “I’m no expert,” he said, not at all casually, “but I rather think this is a three-part temptation at the very least.”
Crowley pretended to be surprised. “Is this part one, then?”
“It would be if this were a three-part temptation,” Aziraphale explained, his bitchiness tempting Crowley just fine. To what, it wasn’t clear. (Possibly everything?) “Which I have no way of knowing since you don’t want to say.”
“Right.”
“So is it?”
“Could be.”
“Good.”
“Yeah?”
“Yes, I would like that.”
“Well, then.” He fucking hoped the disgusting flutter in his stomach weren’t bloody butterflies. “Where can I find you when you’re not in Paris playing fast and loose with your French?”
Aziraphale’s right eyebrow arched slowly. “Soho.”
Crowley’s pretend-irritation shattered into an indignified titter. “Of course.”
“And what is that supposed to mean?”
“Nothing, nothing.”
“Where are you located?”
“Manchester.”
Aziraphale didn’t bother to hide the disappointment from his face. “Ah, naturally.”
“Not for long though,” Crowley felt the need to add, casually as it may be. “Most likely about to be fired, remember? And I do have a flat in London I never use.”
Aziraphale perked up, and the way Crowley’s stomach swooped at the sight was, again, nothing short of gross. In fact, he could swear this bench had just turned into a nest of hyperactive snakes.
“It sounds reasonable.”
“Smashing.”
“Quite.”
“D’you wanna go for a walk?”
“Please.”
Aziraphale could not remember the last time he’d talked to someone for so long without his social batteries pitifully dying on him.
Perhaps there was something to be said about today’s strange circumstances having thrown him off-center enough as to scramble his wires, but this was undeniably nice.
No, this was more than nice. And while Aziraphale had never been immune to the charms of a mysterious, attractive man, he was sure he’d never felt quite this… Was giddy the right word for it?
Yes. Giddy over a complete stranger, how silly!
To make things worse (or better) was that this man he’d only just met seemed to be equally invested in his company, something Aziraphale thought happened only in books and movies – this being so effortlessly in tune with someone else, someone he didn’t even know.
This was, of course, just an impression, and impressions are subject to turn upside down as soon as new information is obtained, but even if this thing between them were to last for the space of a single evening, it wouldn’t have been any less astounding, especially considering how different he and Crowley were, at least on a surface level.
And yet, this elegantly dressed man, who was apparently a big football name, a person he had nothing whatsoever in common with, listened to him as they strolled along the Seine with the quiet, keen interest of someone who thought Aziraphale had the most fascinating things to say. And then he’d give as good as he got, becoming animated over the silliest topics (ducks, whales, at some point even the Spanish inquisition) and talking at length about stuff Aziraphale had never even heard of (the politics of the FA cup, the utter disgrace that was the transfer market, the strangest things he’d ever seen in a changing room). Stuff that, in all honesty, Aziraphale wouldn’t have cared about one bit under any other circumstance.
The only logical conclusion he could reach was that everything was more interesting coming from Crowley, even just by virtue of the glimmer that sparked to life in his eyes while he prattled on, of his face constantly swinging between deliberately impassive and outrageously expressive, of his lithe hands waving in the air to release the pent-up nervous energy that he showed only at times but that Aziraphale suspected coursed through him at any given moment.
Crowley was, for lack of a better word, lovely.
It was no wonder, then, that they talked until it seemed there were no more people or cars around, until the otherworldly stillness of a city at night descended upon them, until Crowley glanced at his expensive wristwatch and his eyebrows slowly inched up towards his hairline.
Just like all the other times they’d taken one that night, it was Crowley who took it upon himself to hail a taxi and gave the driver the address of the hotel Aziraphale was staying at.
They spent the drive in silence, letting the classical music playing over the radio – Vivaldi, Aziraphale noted – fill the extremely respectable space between them and keep the mounting wistfulness at bay.
Because, whatever lie he could tell himself, Aziraphale didn’t want this night to end and was rather afraid that, if he wasn’t careful, if he so much as dared glance at Crowley, he would have blurted out something that could potentially ruin it. This perfect night that had seamlessly wrapped itself around them with the same ease of flowers blooming in the Spring and birds hopping from branch to branch, something to preserve in one of those snow globes one places on a shelf to be admired.
Still, he felt a muted sort of desperation tug at his chest the second the taxi came to a stop in front of his hotel. In his perfect French, Crowley asked the driver to wait for him before Aziraphale could so much as open his mouth or take out his wallet to pay the fare, and the next thing he knew they were both getting out of the car.
Made restless by the invisible ticking clock looming over their heads, Aziraphale was already racking his brain for something to say (not very effectively, to be fair), when Crowley came around the taxi to join him on the pavement, and outright said, “You’ll have to give me your number. For part two and three.”
His voice, Aziraphale noted while his pulse quickened, was rather more breathless than normal. Crowley’s eyes flicked up at him as he made an aborted gesture to push his sunglasses down on his nose. Despite his obvious nerves, they remained nestled in his hair.
“Nghhhh, if that’s still something you–”
Aziraphale shook himself from his stupor and reached forward to brush his fingers on Crowley’s forearm. “Yes. Very much.”
The tension crackling through Crowley uncoiled at once. “Okay, yeah. Great. Cool.”
They exchanged phone numbers in silence, their movements slow and careful, and looked up only when each phone was back in its respective owner’s hands.
“So,” Crowley said, “this was…” His raspy voice trailed off, unable to settle on a definition.
“Yes,” Aziraphale agreed, drinking in the sight of him like he would have done with the last sips of a fine red wine. (No, it won’t be the last. It doesn’t have to be, you big old silly, he told himself firmly.) “Rather.”
Crowley nodded. “I’ll call you, then. Or you’ll call me.”
“Do you promise?”
“Yeah.”
“Crowley?”
“Yes?”
“How many football teams are there in London?”
“More than ten. Why?”
“No reason.” Aziraphale sighed, gaze shifting from Crowley to the entrance of the hotel. “I’ll just–”
“Yeah.”
“Goodnight, Crowley. Thank you for–”
“Sure, don’t mention it,” he breathed out, taking a step back to put a stop to their awkward dance. “‘Night.”
At that point, it seemed silly to linger and Aziraphale could not find a single valid reason to, so he nodded, pushed a somewhat shaky smile over his face and forced his feet to move. One in front of the other, no matter how heavy they seemed to have become, or how strong the pull to go back was, until the revolving glass doors of the hotel were behind him.
Aziraphale stopped in the lobby, took one look at the decorated ceiling, and couldn’t spare one single thought for how beautiful it was or the agency that had so generously booked it for him.
What he did instead was glance over his shoulder, and there he still was, the only thing Aziraphale really wanted to be admiring.
Outside, Crowley was still lingering with his hand on the open door of the taxi, waiting.
Waiting for something. Or someone.
Could he be waiting for him?
What else would he be waiting for, you old fool?
This time, Aziraphale’s feet moved before he could command them to, bringing him through the doors and then back outside. They didn’t stop, not even when Crowley, whose eyes were growing wide and undeniably hopeful, was only a few metres away.
As it was, Aziraphale had barely the presence of mind to ask, “May I?”
Crowley nodded, arms already reaching forward to catch him, one second before their mouths collided in a gentle yet firm press of lips. Aziraphale’s hand came up to cling to the nape of Crowley’s neck as they both sighed into the kiss and the cosy warmth that came along with it, Crowley’s arms circling his waist and pulling him closer to erase whatever distance remained between them.
It lasted for the space of a couple of breaths.
It felt like an eternity.
It wasn’t enough.
When they came apart and blinked back at each other, dazed and flushed, Aziraphale was happy to report that Crowley’s eyes looked almost golden under the warm, orange glow of the streetlamps. In that moment he knew, without a shadow of a doubt, that he’d do everything in his power to see them again, just like this.
Surrendering to the pull of gravity, Aziraphale tucked his face in the crook of Crowley’s neck, lips ghosting over his ear. “There’s one French thing I can do extremely well,” Aziraphale said in his professional voice, through the hopeless fluttering of his heart and the full-body shiver that rocked Crowley’s body as a result. “I’ll show you. Next time.”
Crowley audibly held his breath and pressed his nose against Aziraphale’s cheek. “‘Course. Next time.”
“You promised.”
“Yeah.” Somewhere behind him, the driver muttered something that would have sounded rude in just about any language. “Don’t mind him,” Crowley said without moving an inch. “He’s very happy for us.”
Aziraphale chuckled softly. “I don’t doubt it.”
They let the moment breathe, then Crowley inhaled deeply and squeezed Aziraphale’s waist. “If I don’t let you go now, I’m never going to,” he whispered.
No matter how fervently Aziraphale wanted to take him up on that, he slightly pulled back, brushed his lips against Crowley’s one last time and stepped back with a smile.
“We’ll revisit that,” Aziraphale said instead as he let his eyes roam all over him – the elegant line of his body, the narrow hips he’d have loved to grip in his hands, the triangle of skin still visible through the open buttons of his shirt, his sharp chin, his thin lips, those glittering amber eyes still staring at him – not to memorise him in case they’d never see each other again, but just enough to last Aziraphale until the next time they’d be sharing the same space. “Goodnight, Crowley.”
Unlike the first time, Aziraphale didn’t wait for Crowley to say it back before pushing his way through the revolving glass doors and walking up to the reception, fingers delicately pressed against his still tingling lips in the ridiculous hope of keeping the memory of their kiss exactly where it was for as long as possible.
He politely greeted the woman working behind the desk, different from the one who’d checked him in that afternoon, and gave her his name so she could pull up his reservation.
“Did you have a good evening, monsieur Eastgate?”
“I did,” he said, then caved under the need to elaborate. “It didn’t seem like I was going to, but then I did. Surprisingly. The very best evening, dear lady, thank you.”
“Very happy to hear it.” The receptionist smiled at him through her evident bemusement. “First time in Paris?” she asked, handing him his room key.
“Not at all. I make a point of coming here at least once a year. It’s always worth a visit.”
“You must be a romantic, then.”
“Oh, no. It’s the crêpes, actually,” he lied with a beaming smile. “It’s all about the crêpes.”