Work Text:
Crowley hadn't meant to spy. Not intentionally—at first.
He'd just been watering his rooftop garden, minding his own business. His thoughts focused on the latest plot problems in his newest manuscript—when he noticed movement at the bookshop across the street. The old “purveyor of books to the gentry” shop catty-cornered to his apartment building.
A .Z. Fell and Co.
Scaffolding held up the uniformed worker touching up the paint on the sign's letters and background. Another worker focused on painting the frames around the large windows beneath. A third was tinkering with the set of entrance doors. Clearly someone had ordered a professional crew to fix up the place, but still maintain its classic appearance.
Was someone finally reopening it?
Crowley remembered the first time he wandered into the old bookshop. It was an eclectic place focusing on older literature, first editions, and rare collectibles. Not the sort of establishment Crowley would normally visit or ever find his own books in stock. But the owner—a kindly man with a penchant for big black hats—had struck up a conversation with the writer who was new to the area. Even recognized his name, having just purchased a copy of his newest book. It was to be a birthday present for his favorite nephew. He politely asked if Crowley would be nice enough to sign the copy.
Crowley wasn't nice—but he'd signed the book happily for the good-natured bookseller.
The two built up a conversational repertoire over the years. Not quite friends—Crowley didn't have many of those, really—but neighborly acquaintances. The community of Whickber Street in general was a close-knit group. An odd family of sorts. It had come as a shock to Crowley and everyone else when the bookshop closed up one day, over two years ago. The older bookseller had been seriously ill and hid it well. He was no longer able to handle and operate the shop. He passed away a short time later. He'd seemed so full of life.
His daughter had come by to clean up the place and take stock of the shop's condition and inventory. Crowley only spoke with her briefly, offering condolences out of respect. He'd learned she had no intention of following her father's footsteps in taking over the “family-owned-and-operated-since-the-1800s” bookshop. She hoped her cousin would be able to, like her father wished, but it wasn't entirely clear what was going to happen to the bookshop and property. The lawyers were working to settle the will and estate, despite the rest of her father's family “mucking up the works”.
Crowley shook himself from his memories. Something was happening to the old bookshop. Something that piqued his curiosity. And that's all it was—a simple curiosity. An interest in the newness. A concern for the unknown. A consideration for the community.
That was the lie he told himself, anyways.
Crowley rested his chin on his hand with a sigh as he stared out the cafe's display window. It was directly across from the bookshop—the perfect spot to maybe catch a glimpse of the “Bookshop Angel”.
The red-headed writer took to calling the mysterious bookseller by the nickname before knowing anything about him. It seemed even more appropriate after learning how the Angel—a former literature professor—had fought to keep his inheritance of the bookshop and its property from his estranged family. Apparently he had acted like “an avenging angel with a flaming sword” against the unresolved familial issues, legality disputes, and mess of paperwork to claim his uncle’s wishes. Once everything had settled, the new bookseller had promptly finished his final semester teaching and caught the next train to London.
Crowley could respect someone committed to their cause and passions, especially when it came to books.
It came with the territory of being a writer.
Yet, despite his reconnaissance, Crowley hadn’t seen what the man actually looked like. He’d seen shadowy glances of a figure fond of old-fashioned clothing, neutral tones, and glowing curls—but never a face or full view.
And he was starting to get desperate.
Originally Crowley came to the cafe that morning to focus on his writing, but it wasn't working. Instead he was wavering between staring across the street like a doe-eyed puppy and the document he was collecting his little notes about the Angel—Dr. Aziraphale Easton.
Unfortunately, a large moving truck had been parked dead center of the bookshop’s entrance and main windows all morning.
“Just go over there and introduce yourself, you berk!”
Crowley startled at Nina's voice, knocking into the wooden table with his knees and jostling his laptop. “Wot?!”
Nina groaned as she sat down his newest coffee on the table, “You heard me. Go over there and say hello. Like a normal person. Especially before you give yourself a heart attack, Mr. Six-Shots-of-Espresso.”
Crowley grimaced and grabbed the mug, but he couldn't hide the slight blush tinting his face. She'd caught him staring at the bookshop for the umpteenth time that day.
“Oi, leave me alone. How long it'd take you to ask Maggie out again? Hmm?” He gave his friend a playful sneer. He took a sip of his still-too-hot coffee and hissed.
Nina rolled her eyes and flicked his shoulder with the towel in her hand. “Not telling you to date him, just go talk to the man. Instead of being a weird stalker in my cafe.”
Crowley winced, “'m not stalking.”
“You’re collecting notes about the man,” Nina gestured to the laptop screen.
Crowley slammed it shut with his free hand. “I’m a writer. I—write stuff. People stuff. Watching people—practicing my craft. Look—ngk—people watching isn't stalking.”
“You generally hate people.”
“Exactly! Watching means not interacting. Stalking implies a desire to interact. Completely different. I’m just gathering intel and surveillance—”
She hit him with the end of the towel again, “Whatever, wanna-be James Bond. You staying for the lunch? Maggie will be heading over here soon. She can give you more intel about your little crush. He’s popped into her record shop a few times now.”
Crowley took another sip of coffee and shrugged, “Don’t know? Haven’t got any real food in the flat right now, so I might as well—”
But movement in the corner of his eye stopped Crowley mid-thought. He twisted his head to see the large truck pulling away from in front of the bookshop. And standing in its wake, politely waving after it, was the most gorgeous man Crowley had ever laid eyes on.
A halo of white-blond curls. Cherub cheeks. A sunshine smile.
Light blue button-up, sleeves rolled up over muscular forearms. A faded velvet waistcoat, covering a soft round stomach. Tan trousers, stretched over squeezable hips and thighs.
Crowley’s stomach swooped as his mouth fell agape.
Dr. Aziraphale Easton—his “Bookshop Angel”—really was an Angel. And Crowley was a goner.
“Well, would you look at that? Seems like you got your surveillance wish,” a smug Nina mutter from behind him.
But Crowley wasn’t playing her any mind. He was focused on the beautiful Angel now turning to greet Maggie as she walked up to him. How they greeted each other. How Maggie pointed towards the cafe. How the Angel—Aziraphale—nodded his head and gestured towards the crosswalk.
“Hmm, looks like Maggie finally convinced Dr. Easton to visit the cafe.”
SHIT. SHIT. SHIT.
Crowley jumped to his feet.
This couldn’t be happening. He wasn’t ready. He could be suave and charming when he had time to prepare, time to put on his social mask and disguise his nature as a bundle of anxiety. He was too much, too dramatic, too much of a neurotic nerd.
The mug slipped from his hand. Coffee went flying all over himself, the table, laptop, and floor. The crashing of ceramic hitting the floor brought Crowley out of his haze.
“Crowley—you knob! What’s wrong—”
Nina was yelling at him. Other patrons were murmuring and gasping. But Crowley didn’t care. He twisted around and ran towards the kitchen and the back entrance.
“Anthony Jayson Crowley! You—”
“Sorry, Nina! I’ll pay for the mess, the cup, whatever!”
“What about your laptop and bag—”
“Burn it!” Crowley cried out as he escaped out the back door and into the alleyway.
He was fucked.
Nina didn’t burn his laptop or bag. She’d cleaned them both off and left them by his door that evening after she closed the cafe. Then she’d texted him to let him know, and billed him for the coffee and damaged mug. Nothing else.
Crowley appreciated it. She was a good friend, understood his neurosis. He’d talk to her and properly apologize when he recovered. He sent her the money through the app and proceed to avoid the cafe for the next few days. Avoided leaving his apartment. But he was getting cabin-fever and the local food delivery kid was starting to glare at him suspiciously.
So early that next afternoon, Crowley emerged back into the world after his disastrous cafe visit.
He wasn’t expecting any major social encounters, just a quick walk to the Indian food place around the corner a few blocks down. Make an order, avoid small talk with the owner, and hurry back to his apartment for lunch. Simple—easy.
Crowley glared at his reflection in the mirrored elevator doors. His appearance was drastically downgraded from his usual fashionable self. He’d thrown on a charcoal-gray waistcoat over his old Queen’s t-shirt and worn black jeans. Everything form-fitting, but more causal than his usual flair. The writer ruffled a hand through his wild hair to shape it into some order without the aid of styling product. It was getting long enough he’d need to dig up his old headbands soon.
As soon as the elevator doors opened on the bottom floor, Crowley threw on his signature sunglasses and stepped out into the lobby.
“Yoo hoo, Anthony! I need a word with you,” a snooty voice called out.
Crowley gritted his teeth and slightly turned his head, but he didn’t stop walking towards the building exit. Sure enough, Shax from the floor above him as waving at him. Her plum box hat and matching suit made her stand out vividly against the gray lobby walls.
The red-head had been avoiding her for nearly two weeks. He’d made the mistake of admitting to being single during one of their brief elevator conversations. The vexing woman took upon herself to try and match him up her numerous “charming” nieces. She’d gone as far as slipping their contact information under his door.
Thankfully her way was blocked by the creep of a building-security guard Furfur. Crowley had never been more appreciative of the little freak and his obsession with the snooty woman.
He picked up his pace and rushed out onto the pavement. The Indian restaurant was on this side of the street once he rounded the corner next to Nina’s cafe, but it also meant it was easier for Shax to follow him if she spotted him.
The crosswalk on the corner changed to the walking signal as Crowley contemplated his choices. If he crossed there, he could slip into the alleyway beside the bookshop and follow it along the back ways—
The bookshop.
One of the places Crowley was specifically avoiding.
The main source of his anxious panic.
But another delivery truck—International Express—sat in front of the entrance, blocking the main view out of it.
How many books did the shop need? Or was the delivery for personal items?
Crowley shook his thoughts clear. He needed to plan. He could avoid being seen until he reached the other side and then he could leg it to the alleyway, hopefully unseen. It’s not like the Angel—Aziraphale—knew what he looked like. Just a guy crossing the street to head on his hurried way.
Right. Now or never.
The crosswalk signal blinked its ending warning as Crowley bolted.
He was halfway across when the signal light changed. He couldn’t stop now. An impatient car honked at him and jolted forward a bit as he jumped up onto the curb, startling him. He let out an undignified yelp and spun around to avoiding crashing into the back end of the delivery truck—slamming directly into someone standing there.
Crowley stumbled backwards and collapsed onto the ground, a sprawl of gangly limbs and choked noises. He hit his side but quickly rolled onto his back. His arms immediately clutched his aching side. His sunglasses had flown off his face, and his wild red locks covered his eyes and face.
Leave it to his bad luck to crash into another pedestrian while escaping a car.
He tried to focus on his sharp breathing. The pain in his side was lessening but that could be the adrenaline coursing through his veins.
Was there pain anywhere else? Where had his glasses landed? Who had he hit? What fresh new horrors awaited him?
A gentle murmuring broke through the white noise of his panic.
Someone was talking to him. Someone was beside him.
“Are you alright, dear boy?” A concerned yet pleasant voice asked as a shadowy figure loomed over him.
Crowley groaned as he tried to focus, “Wot?”
The shadow grew closer. Warm fingers brushed hair out of his view. Crowley blinked as his eyes adjust.
Halo curls. Cherub cheeks. Sunshine smile. Bluest gems of eyes sparkling down at him. An Angel…
“Are you alright? Did you hit your head when you fell?”
Aziraphale…
The warm fingers touched Crowley’s cheek. Delicately cupped his face and neck. Moved down to his shoulders.
“I apologize for being so forward, but I’m checking you for injuries. Can you move your neck? How many fingers am I holding up?”
Crowley had run into Dr. Aziraphale Easton—his Bookshop Angel—the one person he desperately didn’t want to embarrass himself in front of.
He should have let Shax catch him.
“Uh, three fingers?” Crowley mumbled. He tried to move, to turn away to hide his growing blush. “‘m fine.”
“Easy, my dear. Does anything hurt?” Aziraphale asked removing his hands so Crowley could roll over to his other side.
The writer missed his warm touch immediately. “Just m’ pride.”
“Hmm, pride is reparable. Broken bones and torn ligaments less so,” Aziraphale quipped. “Take it easy, my dear. Let me help you.”
Strong arms wrapped around him and help Crowley to his feet. He swallowed hard as he tried not to think about what else those strong arms could do to him. But then he winced at the slight pain in his side.
Aziraphale gently placed his hands back on Crowley’s shoulder and arm to support him. “Do I need to call an ambulance?”
Crowley shook his head and looked up to say once again he was fine, just an idiot, but the words stuck in his throat as those blue eyes full of concern pierced into him. “I—I—fffff…”
“Anything alright, Dr. Easton?”
Crowley and Aziraphale both turned their heads to look at the new voice’s owner. A tall man dressed in a typical delivery-service uniform, down to the clipboard in his hand.
“Oh, yes, Leslie,” Aziraphale sighed as he released Crowley’s shoulder to turn to face the man. But he kept the firm yet tender hold on the other arm. “This poor fellow was almost hit by an automobile in the crosswalk. He jumped to safe in time despite the rude impatient driver. Unfortunately he collided with me and landed on the pavement. I think he might have hurt—”
“‘m fine. Just a bit sore—bit of an idiot,” Crowley grumbled. Aziraphale’s story wasn’t exactly what happened but he didn’t feel like arguing. He was still somewhat dazed from the fall… and coming face-to-face with his Angel.
“Drivers these days have no respect, let me tell you. One of those semi-trucks nearly got me the other day. Thought I was a goner,” Leslie rambled as he moved closer to the other men.
“Indeed,” Aziraphale shook his head in agreement. “Now why don’t we get this dear boy inside my shop so he can recover—”
“Anthony! Oh Anthony, wait for me!”
“Shit!” Crowley froze as Aziraphale started to lead him towards the open bookshop door. “I need to go.”
“My dear—”
Crowley tried to pull away, whirl around to hide behind the bookseller and delivery man.
He couldn't face that woman now.
“What's wrong?” Aziraphale leaned closer to him, shielding him.
“Anthony!”
“Ngk!”
Aziraphale didn’t wait for a clearer answer. He motioned at Leslie to move behind them with his head as he bundled Crowley in his arms.
The delivery man nodded and leapt into action, rounding to the back of his truck. “Oh, pardon me, ma’am! I just need to check the lock on the back of my truck. Oops. Heh, shall we dance?”
Crowley would have snorted or sneered at the absurdity of the moment, but he was too stunned. Aziraphale rushed him the few steps to the bookshop entrance and gently shoved him through the doorway.
“Duck down behind the door. Stay clear the windows. Keep quiet,” the bookseller whispered as he pulled the door closed. Then he smiled and winked through the remaining crack, “Trust me.”
Did the Angel wink at him?!
Crowley was gobsmacked, but he listened to him either way. He focused on calming his racing heart as he rested on his knees. He could hear muffled voices on the other sides of the door. Talking, apologizing. Aziraphale’s head of fluffy curls remained in sight of the entrance door windows as if he was standing guard. He was definitely blocking the entrance in some manner, whether it was in defense of his shop or the mess-of-a-writer in his impromptu charge.
Crowley let out the breath he didn’t realize he was still holding. He sat back on his heels and ran his fingers through his hair, pulling at it in frustration. But then he noticed the movement of a plum box hat atop dark curls bobbing away from the bookshop through the large windows.
Thank… Somebody!
Now he just needed to deal with his situation with the Ang—Aziraphale.
A soft knocked at the door pulled Crowley’s attention back. He turned as it opened, revealing Aziraphale’s face peeking inside the ajar crack. He was resting on one knee and holding the door from swinging any further open.
“Still doing alright, dear boy?” He asked so sweetly it made Crowley’s teeth hurt. And yet he craved more. “Do I need to alert the authorities? Was she harassing you—”
Crowley burst out laughing, but the sharp pain in his side sobered him. He cleared his throat and looked back at the bookseller’s concerned expression. “No, no—just a misunderstanding. She’s my upstairs neighbor. I was just avoiding her and—panicked.”
Aziraphale glared at him with a raised eyebrow. Unbelieving or bitchy, Crowley couldn’t determined.
He swallowed hard as those intense blue orbs continued to pierce him.
Oh, to have those eyes glare at him in another manner…
Seemingly convinced for the moment, Aziraphale nodded and stood. “Best you stay in here, just in case, my dear. Make yourself at home. I need to finish up with Leslie. Sign paperwork and such. Then I’ll come back and we can have a little chat. And see to that injured side of yours. Don’t think I didn’t notice you wincing.”
Crowley nodded, dazed at the hint of an authoritative tone in the bookseller’s voice.
What was wrong with him?!?
Aziraphale smiled, “Be back in two shakes.”
Crowley let out another deep breath before he stood. He turned to take in the bookshop around him for the first time. It felt warmer, cozier somehow. The layout of the shelves and furniture was similar but more plentiful. New shelves complemented the original shelves though they were a different style.
The inventory had also changed and increased. More contemporary and modern literature rested within the shelves closer to the front. But further back—and taking up most of the shop—were the well-remembered collectibles, first editions, older works, and eclectic treasures.
Crowley wandered over to a prominent shelf with little displays on it. He stopped in his tracks as he saw the books, covers outwards, beneath the sign reading “Local Author”. He knew those books. He wrote those books.
The Angel was displaying HIS books!?!
The memory of his first visit to the bookshop—signing the book for the seller’s nephew. The sort of nephew he would leave his precious shop to when he passed. Crowley struggled to swallow as he reached out with a shaky hand to grab the copy of the book he signed those 10ish years ago.
Did Aziraphale know who he was?
“I apologize for keeping you waiting, my dear.”
“Ngk!” Crowley jumped, nearly dropping the book. It juggled in his hands for a moment before he clutched it to his chest. He twirled around to see Aziraphale standing in the doorway.
“Oh! I’m sorry again. I keep startling you,” the bookseller politely gushed as he gently closed the door. He gestured above to an empty metal hanger. “I need to reattach the bell. It needed a good polish—”
Aziraphale froze as his eyes widened and a faint coloring kissed his cheeks. His gaze focused on Crowley’s chest, where he was clumsily holding the book.
“I, umm—”
Crowley spun to replace the book, “Sorry. Didn’t mean to touch anything. Curious, yeh know.” He shoved his hands into his front pockets and turned back to face the bookseller. “Like the new additions, by the way. Books and shelves. Appeals to wider audience.”
He started to slowly saunter back towards the entrance as he spoke. But his words came out nervously fast, “Not that there was anything wrong with the old shop, yeh? Different strokes. Different clientele. Lots of shop like that in this neighborhood. But it’s slowly changing—modernizing—updating—”
He stops at the edge of the counter, a few feet between him and Aziraphale. White noise buzzed in his head. Panic was setting in again.
“My dear—”
“You’re the favorite nephew, right?” Crowley blurted out. “The one the original owner wanted to run this place? Well, not the original owner—he’s from the 1800s. Probably your ancestor or something. But your uncle—the former bookseller—owner. You were his favorite?”
Aziraphale opened his mouth to speak, the blush increasing, but Crowley cut him off again.
“Sounds a bit rude, huh? Me calling you the favorite nephew. Don’t even know you,” Crowley couldn’t shut himself up. The words kept pouring out like someone left the faucet on. “Knew your uncle though—he was your uncle, right? His words about yeh being the favorite. ‘m just repeating. Though I am a bit rude. A lot rude. Personal flaw. But I was nice to your uncle—err, not nice but yeh know. Civil? Signed a book for him when we first met. For his favorite—”
The bookseller took two big strides over to Crowley and gently placed two fingers to his lips, shushing him. His other arm wrapped around the writer’s upper arm and easily twisted him around, his lower half butting up again the sturdy counter. “Breathe.”
The command sent shivers down Crowley’s spine. His rushing mind whited out.
Aziraphale removed his fingers from Crowley’s lips, but place the hand against his chest instead. He begin to demonstrate taking deep breaths, encouraging Crowley to follow. The warm hand resting on his chest and gripping his arm grounded the red-head. He could feel himself calming.
“I believe you were having a minor panic attack,” Aziraphale kept his tone calm and even as he spoke. “Completely natural after the scares you’ve recently experienced. Trauma response. Being chased by a bothersome neighbor, nearly being hit by a vehicle, colliding with a stranger, forced to hide in a new place, learning said stranger might have a slight infatuation with your work—”
Crowley’s devilish nature piqued at the phrasing. An uncontrollable smirk spread across his face, “Infatuation, huh?”
“Oh, hush. Keep breathing. In through your nose, out through your mouth. Just like that. Good boy,” the bookseller returned the devilish smirk with one of his own.
Crowley involuntarily gasped. Possibly whimpered.
Aziraphale’s smirk grew and his eyes darkened, “Like that, don’t you?”
Bastard. Pure bastard.
Crowley scowled and tried to rebuttal, but the bookseller was faster. The two fingers returned to his lips. The stern look pointed at him. “To answer you ramblings, dear boy. Yes, I am the favorite nephew my uncle spoke of. He was never shy about his fondness for me. Treated me like one of his own children, to be fair. Much better than my own parents.”
Aziraphale’s gaze drifted down at mentioning his family. He moved his hands to fidget with Crowley's waistcoat for a moment before continuing. Adjusting the collar, straightening the buttons.
“And yes, the signed book was for me. It holds a special place in my personal library along with other copies of your books. You could say I’m a fan of you—your work, that is.”
Crowley licked his lips, “All my books?”
The Angel brushed his fingers against the writer’s clothed collarbone, as if brushing away a nonexistent piece of lint. The lovely flushing color returned to his cheek as he glance back up to let their eyes meet.
“All of them.”
“Infatuation confirmed then, hmm?” Crowley bit his lower bit and raised an eyebrow. His confidence slowly growing.
The bookseller coughed and stepped back, showing a glimmer of his own nerves. His fingers left Crowley and curled into a tangled knot in front of his waist.
“It seems that you are coming down from your high stress of recent events. Perhaps now would be an astute time to properly introduce ourselves?” He dropped his hands promptly as his eyes rose back to stare at Crowley.
The red-head flashed an attempt at a charismatic smile and held his hand out, “Anthony J. Crowley, local author. I live across the street.”
The other man beamed another sunshine smile back and firmly clasped the outreached hand, “Dr. Aziraphale Easton, new purveyor of this establishment. I live above the shop by the way.”
“How convenient.”
“Quite.”
They haven’t release their hands yet. Crowley was getting distracted by the way Aziraphale’s thumb rubbing small circles against his skin.
The bookseller took a step forward, “I had always hoped to visit my uncle and possibly meet you. Unfortunately the fates never aligned. I moved away from England the summer before he gave me that signed book.”
Crowley shrugged, “We’re meeting now. Better late than never, hm?”
Aziraphale giggled.
Oh, what a glorious noise it was!
But the bookseller blushed a deep pink and dropped their hands to cover his mouth.
“We’re a pair,” Crowley laughed out. “Sorry about running into you. Literally. Not my best moment.”
Aziraphale waved him off. “I’m more worried about you, dear boy. How’s your side doing?”
“Eh, bit sore. I’ll live. I’m more concerned about my sunglasses. Photosensitivity. And it’s kinda my signature look.”
“Oh, right,” Aziraphale reached into his trouser’s pocket. He pulled out the broken pair of metal frames and dark lens. “I’m dreadfully sorry. I saw them on the ground after getting you safely inside and I didn’t want the irksome woman to see them. I might have kicked them a bit too hard to hide them. I can buy you a new pair or provide financial compensation.”
Crowley took the broken glasses with a laugh and a shrug. “No worries, Angel. ‘ve got more pairs at my flat. I lose or break ‘em myself often enough.”
“Angel?”
SHIT.
Crowley stammered at the realization his little nickname slipped out. He ran a hand through his hair as he tried to come up with an answer. The truth seemed the best, unfortunately.
“Uh, umm, just a—what I called you. Before I knew your name. Saving the bookshop and all. Bookshop Angel. Then I saw you and it just, uh, fit.”
“I could get used to it.” Aziraphale gave him a raised eyebrow glare—definitely a bitchy yet approving look. A corner of his mouth twitched upwards. “Does that make you a Demon, then? All dark, brooding…and devilishly handsome.”
The Angel was flirting with him. The Angel was flirting with HIM!
“An angel and a demon, meeting in a London bookshop? Sounds like an interesting book,” Crowley leaned his elbows back on the counter. “Might have to tuck that away for a future idea.”
“Please do, dear boy. I would quite enjoy reading it someday,” Aziraphale tugged at the edges of his waistcoat. “You know, I must admit to being somewhat appreciative of finally meeting you despite our less than idealistic first encounter.”
“Yeah. Wanting to meet a writer you’re interested in—”
“Oh, more than that, I’m afraid, my dear.” Aziraphale turned away suddenly. “I noticed you the first day I arrived at the shop. On top of your building. Maggie says you have a lovely little garden up there. I recognized you immediately. I kept trying to catch you or discover a way to meet you. But I always seemed to miss you. When Maggie invited me over to the cafe the other day—”
“Yep, ah—I’d just left.”
Aziraphale nodded, “I should have admitted to knowing who you were when we collided. But I was so concerned for your safety. Then that woman called out and I thought—well, she might be a stalker or something the way you reacted. And then I felt awful since I’ve been practically spying on you since moving here—”
Crowley burst out laughing, clutching his sore side as it acted up with the movement. “Angel—Aziraphale, I’ve been spying on you too. I wanted to meet you, but I just couldn’t bring myself to face you.”
“We really are quite a pair.”
“Could have save ourselves some grief if we’d been a little braver and bolder,” the writer offered a sheepish grin.
"Perhaps. But if I must be forward again, can I inquired why your neighbor was chasing you down?”
Crowley stood up with a groan. He shoved his hands back into his pockets, trying to explain the awkward misunderstanding.
“She keeps trying to play matchmaker between me and her available nieces.”
“Oh, I see. And you already have a girlfriend?”
“Wot?! Heaven-Hell-Wherever, no!” Crowley spluttered, but then gave an awkward chuckle. “Perpetually single, me. But more importantly, I’m not interested in women.”
“Oh.”
“Yeah, oh. Nothing wrong with ‘em. They just don’t do it for me, yeh know—”
“And what—or whom—does do it for you?”
Crowley looked back at the bookseller. Aziraphale’s blue eyes were dark and piercing yet again. He had a questioning look on his face. A hungering-questioning look.
“You.”
Aziraphale’s eyes widened.
Crowley had a split second where he wondered if he should have answered in a slightly less desperate way—before the angelic bookseller pounced.
Searing lips pressed against him. It was fierce and passionate and everything Crowley had dreamed. One warm hand cradled his face, holding it at the right angle to deepen the kiss. The other gripped his back, pushing their bodies closer together.
“Anggeellll—”
“I hate to be so forward—”
“Be forward! All the way forward!” Crowley growled in the bookseller’s ear.
In a swift move that both knocked the remaining air from his lungs and made his heart leap into his throat, Crowley found himself partially laid out along the wooden counter after Aziraphale firmly grabbed his hips.
“Be a good boy and stay put,” Aziraphale whispered as he leaned over, pressing their chests and mouths together.
Another searing kiss blanked out Crowley’s mind.
Was this the same prim and polite Angel?
But the surprise snogging came to an alarming halt as Crowley spied the familiar plum hat streak back into view along the window.
He yelped—startling Aziraphale, who quickly released him—and rolled off the counter to the floor with a thud.
“Ow.”
“Crowley!”
“Shax is back,” he muttered as he flipped around to his hands and knees.
“Hide under the counter,” Aziraphale moved the stool from the small crawl space and directed Crowley into it as the door slammed open.
“Pardon me, dear lady, but this establishment is quite closed. We will open next week. I suggest you return then.”
“Your door was unlocked.”
Crowley swallowed at Shax’s icy reply.
Aziraphale pressed closer to the counter, fully shielding Crowley’s hiding place. It was sweet—but it also meant his lower half was that much closer to Crowley’s face. And the Angel had certainly been affected by their impromptu snogging. His beige trouser were looser than Crowley’s skin-tight ones, but they did little to hide his prominent arousal.
Crowley bit his lip to hold back a groaned whimper. He was in a similar state of excitement and staring at Aziraphale’s groin wasn’t helping. But closing his eyes only brought images of deep blue eyes and Aziraphale’s strong arms. He reopened his eyes and tried to steer his focus back to the conversation above him.
“I had a delivery,” Aziraphale replied just as cold and bitchy. “As you remember from our previous encounter. I merely forgot to lock the door afterwards.”
“And as I told you previously, I’m looking for my friend, Anthony,” Shax continued. “A red-haired gentleman with a flashy fashion taste? I know he came this way. I searched the other businesses on this street and no one has seen him—except you.”
“I don’t know what you’re implying, madam. Your friend Anthony is not here. He did cross, but I was busy with my delivery. I suggest you continue your search elsewhere.”
Aziraphale finally moved away from the counter.
Crowley let out a breath as quietly as possible. His heart was racing for far too many reasons.
“Good day, madam,” the door opened loudly again. “I’m closed and need to take care of something vitally important. Best of luck with your search.”
Shax grumbled out something, but Crowley stopped listening. The Angel could be so commanding and bitchy and prim and proper and—he was fucked!
The door slammed shut, followed by the sound of the lock and drawn curtains.
Crowley chanced a glance pushing up on his knees to look over the counter-top.
Aziraphale was closing the curtains on the wall windows, muttering to himself. “The nerve of that woman. To imply I was lying—”
“You were lying, Aziraphale.”
“Not explicitly. I was busy when you crossed. That’s why we collided. And if she called you Anthony, and I know you prefer to go by your surname—”
“Got bit of a bastard streak, Angel,” Crowley muttered with a snort. “I like it.”
“Yes, well, my dear boy,” Aziraphale sighed as he moved back behind the counter. “I apologize for not locking the door or drawing the curtains sooner. I didn’t want you to feel trapped to be honest.”
“As opposed to being trapped under the counter by you—or just under you, for that matter?”
“Hmm, when you put it that way,” a bastard smile spread across the bookseller’s face. “I must admit, you look lovely on your knees. But let’s get you off the hard floor.”
“Not the only thing that’s hard—”
“Crowley!”
The writer laughed as Aziraphale helped him to his feet, but the pain in his side was not happy at another fall and landing. He winced and leaned an arm on the counter to brace himself. “Ooh, that’s not good.”
“Your side, yes, we need to take a look at it. Put some ice on it at the very least.”
“You inviting me upstairs so soon, Angel?”
“Obviously.”
“Obviously,” Crowley mockingly sneered back.
The Angel just gazed back at him fondly, gently wrapping his arm around him.
Crowley hadn’t meant to fall so hard for the bookseller. Not intentionally.
But perhaps their haphazardly first meeting had been a good omen after all.