Chapter Text
Newspapers were outdated. Most people used websites like Craigslist and social media to advertise instead of print. Most people also used dating apps. But Tinder was filled with creeps, Grindr was filled with people he’d already had some fun with or those he really didn’t want to try, and OKCupid was less than alright. Craigslist had too many murderers and social media was being scrubbed clean thanks to people more obsessed with catering to advertisers than people making real connections.
He still remembered MySpace, the days of bickering over coveted spaces in the Top Friends section and trading HTML coded themes, web pages blasting music at inopportune moments and never being able to easily find just which tab needed muting. More chaotic and much more fun.
A fan of both chaos and fun, the lanky ginger strolled into the Soho Weekly offices and left his ad with a wide-eyed, blushing girl who stammered over the price after he gave her the wordage he wanted to use. £6 was a drop in the bucket, really, for a chance to stir up some chaos somewhere.
WORK WANTED: Partner For Hire. Tall, lanky ginger of arguable gender available to be your significant other to keep pesky relatives, nosy coworkers, or well-meaning friends at bay. Able to be as annoying or as polite as you like. Causing a fight over Christmas dinner with your odd, bigoted uncle/aunt/cousin will require an extra £200 up front. £50 for the first hour, negotiable otherwise. Ciao.
His phone number and email address followed, and he was a hit pretty quickly. Each and every renewal of his ad was a laugh, and it was fun. It had yet to be fun enough to refund anyone, but waiting for that sort of opportunity was a secret he was going to take to his grave. Nobody who hired him really wanted a relationship. They just wanted to get out of something, to keep up appearances, or hoped the ad went a little deeper than suggested. As much as Crowley liked sex, he kept those sorts of trysts to the dating apps. They weren’t what the ad was for and never would be.
Unless that refund was in order, but that was a different story.
It was, truth be told, the best option available. The other options being showing up alone and suffering the continued disappointment and prickly needling of too many cousins about why, exactly, he did not yet have a partner of some sort or not show up at all and deal with the fallout of snubbing the Fell Family yearly reunion.
Neither were particularly agreeable.
He hadn't yet missed a single reunion since they'd started twenty years ago and Aziraphale Fell didn't plan on missing one yet. Not that it was anything spectacular, just a gathering of Fells from both England and abroad at the old family manor. A way to reconnect with one's blood, strengthen family bonds, and, yes, brag a little.
Aziraphale didn't feel like he had much to brag about in recent years but he still enjoyed hearing of the failures and triumphs of his scattered cousins. He just didn't also want to suffer endless questions about his simply lackluster love life. Last year had been more stressful than enjoyable and if he couldn't find a way to avoid all the unnecessary poking at his private life… well, he'd probably still go. He'd just regret every minute of it.
The article was possibly, potentially, a solution but… it felt a little wrong to just… lie to everyone. Besides, he didn't even know this- this person. They could very well be some vagabond looking for a gullible fool to take advantage of. Aziraphale couldn't possibly imagine many people would actually consider this sort of arrangement and yet… here he was. Considering it.
His hand had hovered over his old rotary phone three times since he'd noticed the odd advert in the paper this morning, debating over whether he should dial the number or not. He'd chickened out all three times, talking himself out of what was clearly a ridiculous idea. The fourth time he didn't get a chance to remind himself just how silly it was before the phone rang all on his own.
It startled him at first, Aziraphale looking at it like the thing would rise up out of its cradle and bite him. He answered on the third ring after having calmed his racing heart. “A.Z Fell and Co. Terribly sorry, we aren't currently open on Wednesdays.”
There was a pause. “Is it Wednesday? I could've sworn it was Tuesday.” A laugh cleared across the line, familiar and not always welcome. “Ah, jet lag. What fun.”
Aziraphale closed his eyes and took a steadying breath. “Gabriel! I wasn't expecting to hear from you quite this soon. Yes, it's Wednesday.”
“Obviously if you're not open.” Not that there was anything obvious about Aziraphale's hours. “I just flew in this morning. Yesterday? I think it was technically this morning. I wanted to invite you to the park for a jog. They're good for your heart, you know.”
“A- A jog.” Of course his cousin wanted to go for a jog while jetlagged. “I do apologise but- but I'm afraid I have inventory to finish up before the reunion. It's, ah, quite important to keep up with that sort of thing, you know.”
“Right, right. When's the last time you actually sold a book, Az?” The chuckle was good-natured despite the punch when he continued with, “The last time you went on a second date?”
Aziraphale pressed his lips together and reminded himself it was unbecoming to abruptly hang up on one's family. “I- Well. If you must know, I had a second date just last week.”
“You? Wow. Is there a third on the horizon?”
“As a matter of fact, there is.”
“That's great! Are you sure you don't want to join me on that jog? Get you on a, uh, healthier track for this new relationship?”
“I don't believe that would be necessary.” Aziraphale glanced at the little advert clipping he'd kept near the telephone all morning. “I do have inventory to finish up after all and I'd like to get it done before I have to leave for the reunion.”
“The reunion! Right. Are you bringing the date?”
“Yes,” Aziraphale decided. “We'll both be there.”
“Great. Can't wait to meet her, Az. Talk soon, yeah?”
“Oh, yes. Mind how you go.” Aziraphale set the receiver back on its cradle and picked up the newspaper clipping. Well, he certainly couldn't back out now.
He'd modified little in the old car. His Bentley was from the 30s, passed down through the family right alongside lessons on maintenance and upkeep. There was pride in keeping the old girl going, in learning how to keep an old classic coupe in her prime after 90 years. She'd hit a century with him, and he was looking forward to it.
When Freddie crooned about a machine of a dream, he never failed to crank the radio. It and the speakers had been his only modification. Music and a love for it had also been passed down through generations, so his upgrade had taken the Bentley from 8-track player to Bluetooth.
His ringing phone was answered with a simple press of a button on the console, the device itself on the seat next to him. “Crowley,” he greeted.
“Oh! Ah-” That wasn't the typical way one answered a telephone and it threw Aziraphale off for a moment. He had the sudden inclination to just hang up, change the number his old shop had had since telephones had become common, and never speak to either his family or this stranger again. He soldiered on. “Hello! I- I'm calling about your advertisement in the paper.”
Crowley's brows lifted over the tops of his sunglasses. It wasn't quite the accent he was used to hearing. Not until some of them stopped trying to fake it, anyway. “Which advert?” he asked with a wry quirk of lips.
Of course someone who advertised such things would have more than one. Aziraphale just barely resisted huffing. “The- The partner one. For hire. I- I'm afraid I may be in need of such a thing.”
“Right.” Crowley glanced at a yellow light ahead and pressed the accelerator down. There was only one advert in one paper, but he liked to hear how people said it. “Happy to help. Where and when did you want to meet? Usually prefer a public spot for the first one.”
“Oh, yes, that's-” Surprisingly safe and responsible for what he'd expected. “That's fine. Would St. James be public enough for you?”
“The park? Sure. I'm available most of today and some of tomorrow. Got a preference?”
“Aahh-” He'd technically not told Gabriel the entire truth. He did need to do inventory but it wasn't something that needed to be done today. “Would later today suffice? Afternoon, perhaps?”
Crowley glanced at his watch. “Round three, then?”
“Oh, yes, three would be lovely,” Aziraphale said, his smile audible over the line. “You have no idea how much I appreciate this.”
“Sure.”
A few more details were hammered out - St. James wasn't exactly a tiny park - before the call ended. It could be interesting, this job. A nervous, faintly huffy uppercrust bloke with a chipper tone that never quite tipped into annoying - it was new. Crowley liked new things. But, then, didn't everyone?
Aziraphale tapped his pen on the side of his crossword, he'd been sitting at his usual bench right across the sidewalk from the pond, Duck Island in view and just far enough away from the cafe to not be overly crowded, since ten minutes till three. Being punctual was a habit he'd had since he was a lad and his time in the armed forces had only encouraged it. When in the army early was on time, on time was late, and late meant you'd never hear the end of it from your superior officer. He didn't expect others to follow his example and arriving to an appointment early gave him the chance to sit and read or, as he was doing now, work on the daily crossword.
He stood out like a sore thumb, in Crowley's opinion. When he'd described himself in very general terms on the phone - stuttering all the while - Crowley hadn't expected the description to be so accurate. Well. A little bit of an understatement here and there, but accurate. Old waistcoat, but had omitted the faded edges. Light blond hair, but had failed to just say white. Bow tie, but hadn't included tartan. The only things which hadn't been slightly off were the spectacles - small, brass, round, antique - and the golden pocket watch chain.
A pocket watch in this day and age. Hell's bells.
He sprawled onto the opposite edge of the bench at three on the dot, throwing an arm over the back and angling his slouch just so. “What clue are you on?”
“Hm?” Aziraphale looked up and had to take a moment to blink. The- well, he assumed they were a man but he wasn't so out of touch to not recognise someone who could go either way if they so choose. The man was wearing perhaps the tightest black denim trousers Aziraphale had ever seen outside of particular Soho establishments and had wavy shoulder-length fire red hair that was half tied back. A sharp jaw and a hawkish nose upon which sat stylish opaque sunglasses. Tall, lanky, ginger, sunglasses. He matched the description of who he was supposed to be meeting. “Oh, Mr. Crowley. My apologies, I didn't notice you approach.”
“Mx,” he corrected with a wry grin. He wasn't oblivious to the once over, the way this Mr. Fell was one haughty sniff away from saying nevermind to the whole venture. “Though I really prefer no honorifics at all. Just Crowley's fine.”
“Crowley, then,” Aziraphale corrected, looking back to his crossword with eyebrows lifted over his little glasses. “I'm currently stuck on twenty-six across 'The blank Underground', six letters, and I haven't a clue what it means.”
Crowley chuckled, the sound lowly wicked. “Velvet. It's a band.”
“The Velvet Underground,” Aziraphale repeated to himself as he wrote it out, the other clues suddenly making more sense than they did before. “What is that? Some sort of bebop?”
It was almost - almost - enough to get Crowley to look over his glasses at him. His twist of lips would have to be unimpressed enough. “If you asked everybody in the whole world, no one - at all - would say bebop.”
“I'll take your word for it.” Aziraphale folded the newspaper and clipped his pin to the edge. “By the way, before this goes any further, I'd like to inquire as to your pronouns. None were listed in the advertisement and I'd rather not be offensive.”
“Ehh. Sort of up in the air? You're always safe with he/him, but I'll answer to any of 'em.” It was a fountain pen, he noted. As old-fashioned as all the rest. Admittedly, acceptance of variable pronouns wasn't something he'd expected from the man, and Crowley had been ready to stir up and irritate him a bit before strolling away. This, though... could be interesting.
“Ah, well, that makes things very easy, then.”
“Does it? Usually it's called me being difficult.”
“Not at all. In my opinion 'being difficult' would include refusing to give any sort of preference at all or becoming offended someone dared to ask in general. Being amenable to many with a slight preference is far from difficult.”
Crowley angled his head. Oh, yes, this could be very interesting. “So what sort of predicament have you gotten yourself into, Mr. Fell, that requires my particular brand of help?”
Aziraphale pressed his lips together and squeezed the folded edge of the newspaper. Right, to business. “You see, my family is quite large and scattered. I'm one of the only ones left who still live here in the U.K. but every year we have a bit of a get-together in the Downs, at an old manor that's been ours since it was built. It's just a nice little weekend thing, nothing special.
“However, last year, I ended up being the topic of much discussion since I am the last of my adult cousins who- well, hasn't found myself attached. It was terribly uncomfortable and I'd rather not repeat the experience.”
“So you want me to travel to the Downs for a weekend with your whole family.”
That made it sound like quite an ordeal indeed. “That is my request, yes. I don't expect any sort of-of fighting or arguments or any of that nonsense and I'm willing to pay you quite well.”
“No one's gotten me to travel yet, so I'd have to figure out some pricing. It's usually based on how bored I get.” If the rest of the family was fussy and outdated, he'd probably get very bored. Especially without any arguing to spice things up. “When's the party?”
“This weekend. Which I know is last minute but I only saw your advertisement this morning.”
“Right.” That was fast. He usually preferred two meet-ups before the date-date. Hammer out relationship details and whatnot, but he might be able to work with this. He could probably even charge more for the rush. “Anyone know about me yet?”
Aziraphale could feel his face begin to heat. “Only one of my cousins. Most of us are, admittedly, not all that close but he called this morning and I might have panicked.”
A hand waved on an agreeable sound. “You wouldn't believe how often that happens. What'd you tell him about this partner of yours?”
“Not much. Only that there had been two dates, there was a third planned, and that I'd invited- well, you, I suppose, to the reunion.”
“All that based on two dates? Must've been a hell of a time.” This fussy, posh man was sweet. “What's your dream first date then?”
“Dream date?” Aziraphale knew he was blushing now, though it was more from embarrassment. It had been some time since he'd been on a date at all, let alone a dream one. “Well, first of all, I don't think it's all that odd to invite a-a significant other to this sort of thing. Plenty of the younger cousins bring their beaus.” He either didn’t notice or simply ignored the way Crowley mouthed beaus. “Second, I- well, I suppose a 'dream date' would be… something quiet. A-a nice dinner, perhaps. Not necessarily expensive or fancy but a quiet dinner where we could actually talk and get to know one another would be lovely.”
Old-fashioned, fussy, sweet… extra sweet. How didn’t this little bookseller - because Crowley wasn’t stupid and had indeed looked up Aziraphale’s phone number - already have a proper sort of date? His business’s Yelp reviews were dismal, but the ones that mentioned him as a person had been positively glowing. Especially ones from MusicalMaggie09. “So a regular, simple dinner date. That’d be enough for you to decide to take someone on a weekend getaway to meet your whole family?”
“Well when you say it like that it sounds terribly dull and boring,” Aziraphale muttered under his breath.
“Well.”
And that only made the embarrassment worse. “Well, what would your dream date be then?”
Even bright red, he could push some haughty into his tone. Crowley liked that, so he decided to be honest. “This.”
Aziraphale gave him an even more obvious once over, from his boots - were they snakeskin? - to his perfectly styled hair. “Really?”
Crowley’s grin brightened, somehow seeming far more wicked. “Not necessarily this this, though I’m not unfamiliar with the park.” Or the ducks, though that was his business. “I don’t mind when things are up in the air. When the plans are loose and able to change.”
That sounded… well, it sounded like the sort of thing Aziraphale had avoided for so many years now. Changing plans and uncertainty had been terrifying things to avoid. “It sounds to me like you enjoy spontaneity.”
“Here and there. I don't mind, say, if who I'm out with makes plans. I'll just tag along and enjoy the ride.” His grin slipped into a smirk. Especially if he got to complain the whole time. “I get spontaneity and they get structure. Everyone wins. Dating someone more like me always makes me feel like I've got to do everything. Exhausting.”
Aziraphale blinked, not at all expecting that explanation. In his experience most people didn't like it that he had particular standards and wasn't easily impressed. Visiting a new restaurant or shop came with hurdles he did not often like to experience except when he'd been assured the service was worth it. “That's certainly one way of looking at it. Is that why you, er, offer these services? Doing something new without making the effort of planning it?”
Dating apps weren't working and he'd gotten tired of the same old, same old. “Little bit. Are you a planner?”
“To my detriment on occasion, but yes. I prefer to only patronage establishments that have quality service and treat their employees properly. I've found most people say they care about those things but turn a blind eye when it's convenient. I also prefer locally owned businesses over large corporations.”
Fussy. “Where did we go, then? On this first date?”
Their first date… it felt so strange to even think about. Aziraphale looked at him with his 'devil-may-care' slouch and sharp cheekbones and wondered where he might have taken this odd man. “I- I think I may have invited you to lunch at my favourite sushi restaurant. It's just around the corner from my shop.”
“Sushi, hm? Does lunch include sake?”
A small smile tugged at Aziraphale's lips. “It would indeed.”
“Right.” Crowley pushed himself up and offered a hand. “Sushi it is.”
Aziraphale looked at the hand and then up at the smirking face of this almost stranger. “I- I'm sorry?”
“Usually, I do at least two meet-ups before we do a meet the family gig. Our time's limited, so I'm making an exception. First date's on me.”
It was the last part that made Aziraphale feel warm all the way down to his toes. His fingers squeezed the newspaper again, somehow feeling even more trepidation over taking someone's hand than he had at meeting a complete stranger. He did take it, though, and let this Crowley pull him to his feet. The palm under his was solid, firm, a little calloused. The hand of someone who wasn't afraid of a little work. “Does that mean you're taking this, er, job?”
“Dunno yet. I usually have more time to decide since I'm picky about clients. If I'm risking a punch in the nose, it has to be worth it.” His hand was soft and warm, the nails neatly manicured. It was a polish Crowley wasn't usually interested in. “Right now, we're just two people getting to know each other. Yeah?”
“O-oh, yes. That.” Two people getting to know each other over a meal sounded awfully like a date but that was such an inappropriate thing to think when the whole point was to be hiring this man to pretend to be a partner. It made sense to get to know your client before such a charade. It didn't mean anything. “Though I sincerely doubt anyone will be attempting to harm you. My family has always been quite accepting.”
So accepting they apparently made fun of the guy for not having a partner. So much so he was looking to hire one. Crowley gave his hand a squeeze before letting go. “Good to know. Do you like owning a shop?”
“Ah-” His hand suddenly felt very empty and that was such an odd sensation to have. “Yes- Well, parts of it. I'm a bookseller and I love my books. The customers not so much.”
Crowley snickered. “And who's Maggie?”
“Maggie?” Aziraphale gave him a quizzical look. “She- She owns the record shop across the way- Do you know her?”
“Nope. I did a bit of looking into you after you called, and saw she's left glowing reviews about you to combat the negative press about your shop.” He angled his head, smile slow but so very amused. “What's the A.Z. stand for?”
Aziraphale frowned, confused for a moment before he realised he'd never actually shared his first name. “Oh, heavens. It's just the first two initials of my given name: Aziraphale. It's… well, most people have difficulty pronouncing it and I'd rather not hear it butchered all day.” He heard it butchered enough from a select few family members already.
“Aziraphale,” Crowley repeated, the little buzz of the Z rolling off his tongue easier than most lengthy names. Especially ones with an S mixed in. “What d’you prefer? Fell or Aziraphale?”
“I generally expect strangers and acquaintances to use Fell. Family and-” He gave Crowley a considering look as they left the park. “And I suppose significant others have the privilege of my more familiar name.”
What, Crowley wondered, about friends? “I'll keep that in mind. You alright with taking my car?”
“Oh, yes, that should be fine. I usually walk since it's not that far.”
Crowley wasn't one to walk many places. “Think you might like my car if you like antiques as much as I think you do.”
Aziraphale perked up immediately at that. “Oh? I expected someone… well, please don't take this the wrong way, but someone like you to drive something modern and fast.”
“She's definitely fast, but no one's ever called her modern. Not since she rolled off the line anyway.”
“Well you must introduce us, then. I insist on it.”
Crowley's laughed cracked out, almost birdlike in its cackle. “I will. And it'll get us where we're going.”
Aziraphale had no reason to distrust him and even less so when he finally laid eyes on Crowley's prized car. She was a beauty. A sleek and black nineteen thirty-three Bentley that looked as shiny as she had when she was new. Aziraphale cooed and clutched his newspaper tightly to keep from reaching out. “Oh, she's absolutely stunning.”
Crowley beamed, laying a hand on the roof. “Isn't she? Family heirloom, too. She's only been handled by Crowleys, so we're taught all the mechanics behind her and all.”
“That is wonderful,” Aziraphale said, all sincerity. “Too many people in this day and age have no idea how to properly maintenance a vehicle.”
“That's very true.” Crowley opened the passenger door, smirk returning like a mask clicking back into place. “After you.”
He was a gentleman as well as handsome. Aziraphale felt heat fill his cheeks as he sat, enjoying the supple leather of the seat and noticing how it smelled freshly cleaned. He smiled demurely through lowered lashes, unable to stop his pleased smile. “Thank you, my dear.”
“Ngk,” Crowley replied, startled by the way warmth speared through him. The bright, shining man had somehow turned smouldering with a single, small look. He nearly pushed his sunglasses down just to see the colour of the eyes giving Crowley the sort of look better suited to someone on their knees, but he cleared his throat and quickly stepped back. His “yup” was strangled before he shut the door, taking his time around the Bentley to get himself back under control.
Aziraphale was as happy as could be when the driver's side door opened, having taken the time it took for his companion to walk around to have a look at the dash and appreciate the still very much original interior. “I dare say, it looks to me that your family has clearly taken very good care of this old girl.”
“Oh, yeah.” Feeling a little more normal, Crowley reached for the key. “She's worth it. Buckle up,” he warned, barely waiting for the click before they were off.
Aziraphale sucked in a sharp breath and one hand immediately went to the roof with a thump. The speed at which Crowley accelerated made Aziraphale certain he would die in this god-forsaken contraption. Any affection he might have held for it left behind at the park like an afterimage. The world of London beyond the car's interior sped by in a colourful whirlwind that almost left Aziraphale dizzy. “W-watch out! That's a ped- Oh. She's gone now.”
“I'm surprised you could tell they were likely a she.” Crowley threw him a wry, crooked smile as he whirled through traffic like a needle and thread in an expert seamstress's grip. “Doing alright? You look a little pale.”
“I'm tickety-boo!” Aziraphale squeaked, entire body tensing as Crowley expertly manoeuvred the old Bentley between two cars that Aziraphale thought were much too close together.
“Tickety-boo?” was the incredulous reply. What the Heaven was that? “Is that just... a normal thing you say?”
Despite the uncomfortable speed and the distinct feeling like his breakfast was going to make a reappearance Aziraphale managed to huff. “It's a perfectly normal thing to say.”
“A few decades ago, maybe.” The radio connected to his phone abruptly, Freddie Mercury suddenly asking if he was going to be taken home tonight. Crowley reached over and turned the knob, earning a gasp from his passenger seat. “What? I could leave it loud.”
“No! It-” He'd taken hand off the wheel and eyes off the road and, at the speed they were currently going, that seemed like such a dangerous move. “It's fine now.”
“Uh-huh.” The stop they came to was, somehow, smooth. Aziraphale wasn't jerked forward at all, his seatbelt not digging in. “This is the place, yeah?”
Aziraphale had somehow managed to not empty his stomach or die. A miracle, truly. “Yes!” he gasped and was out of the car in record time, patting himself to make sure he hadn't accidentally lost a limb.
Crowley pulled himself out far more casually, locking up behind him and sauntering around the vehicle. “Something wrong?” he asked lightly, unable to keep the amused quirk off his lips.
“No! No, everything's- tiptop. Nothing wrong at all,” Aziraphale said, smoothing his hands down his waistcoat to tug at the frayed edge.
Which explained how it had gotten quite so frayed to begin with. “I get the feeling you aren’t going to ask for a ride home,” he teased.
Aziraphale looked at him then, taking in the roguish grin. “I do believe you're enjoying my suffering.”
“If you were actually hurt or had been in danger - don't look at me like that, I've never had an accident - I'd be having much less fun. I don't take risks I think would get the Bentley damaged. Or my panicky passengers.”
“Justified panic,” Aziraphale corrected with a huff and another tug.
“I did tell you she was fast. Not one to putter, my Bentley.”
“As I've experienced,” Aziraphale said dryly. Though it was difficult to stay tetchy at him when he just looked so pleased. It was a sensation Aziraphale was wholly unfamiliar with. “In any case, yes. This is the place. One wonders how you found it while speeding the way you did and without me giving you any directions.”
“You said it was near your shop, and if you like to walk I didn't think it'd be too far off.” Crowley gestured towards the building, pleased that Aziraphale didn't seem quite as angry as he let on. “Lead the way.”
Aziraphale was quite happy to put more distance between himself and Crowley's infernal automobile. He led Crowley inside, the sounds of the busy Soho street falling away to quiet traditional music and low lighting. It was small, cosy, and the sort of place that didn't require you to wait to be seated. Aziraphale's lips pulled up into a smile, shoulders relaxing in the familiar space. “I've been coming here for years, and they've never failed to satisfy.”
“It's nice.” The dim lighting was almost romantic. He could see why Aziraphale would bring a date here. At the two-top he lingered at, Crowley withdrew a chair for him. “I don't usually go to restaurants. I tend to get takeaway.”
It was such a strange thing to go from warm and delighted to utterly terrified and back to delighted again. This Crowley was like a whirlwind, exciting and fast. Much too fast. “Thank you,” Aziraphale murmured, taking his seat. “I get takeaway often as well, but I do enjoy a good sit-down meal now and again.”
Crowley slithered into the seat across from him, slinging a casual arm over the back. “You seem that sort. Bet everybody fights to get your table.”
“I don't know anything about any fighting,” Aziraphale said, entirely honest. “What makes you say that?”
“You're probably the sort who comes in, chats with the staff without making the same jokes they've heard a thousand times. You probably don't even demand to see a manager if your food's wrong.”
Aziraphale blink, a slight frown turning his lips down. “Of course I don't. All I need to do is let my waiter know and they fix it promptly.”
“Exactly. You're a waitstaff's dream table. It's not a bad thing.”
“I suppose I just don't see why anyone would do anything else. Mistakes happen. There's no reason to get upset over them if it was just an honest accident.”
“You are dangerously likeable.”
“Dare I ask what that is supposed to mean?”
Crowley just grinned, looking up when a waiter set soup at their table alongside menus. “Ta.”
Aziraphale looked up as well, smile returning. He greeted their waiter in Japanese, not perfect by any means but certainly good enough to be understood. After an exchange of pleasantries and a few more words the waiter was scribbling something on the small notepad he carried and scurrying off. Aziraphale's smile turned back to a stunned Crowley. “I hope it's alright that I ordered our drinks. Sake with waters as well. Wouldn't want you driving the death trap of yours intoxicated.”
Crowley's brows had risen high during the little chat and stayed that way. He hadn't expected him to speak Japanese. He hadn't expected anything but English from him at all. It took a few moments, a few wordless noises, but Crowley eventually managed, “S'fine. Yeah.”
“Oh, good. Everyone here speaks English but I never pass up a chance to practise when I have it.”
“Understandable.” He had far too many positives about him to still be single. So what was it? Did his house smell? Aziraphale didn't, he would've known in the car. So what exactly was it about him that made people turn tail? Crowley wanted to know or at least have an idea before he went off with him. “So you own a bookshop and you speak Japanese. What else do you do in your spare time?”
“Well I also mend plenty of books… though I suppose that could be counted as part of owning the shop. But I've been doing it since I was a lad so it feels different. I also frequent the theatre regularly.”
“Film or stage?”
“Stage. I can't remember the last time I saw a film.”
“I'd rather see a film. Going to a dark movie theatre with a popcorn bucket is a great time, but I don't mind plays either.” Crowley's head tipped in consideration. “Wonder if I could get you into a cinema.”
Aziraphale pressed his lips together. “Aren't modern cinemas dirty, loud, and playing those- action films with lots of explosions?”
“Not all of them are dirty - no more so than any stage theatre - not every film is an action film, and they're not louder than the West End.” Crowley's smirk didn't fade. “Sounds like you've gone to the wrong cinemas to see the wrong films, angel.”
Angel… Aziraphale was accustomed to being likened to one. Usually because of his name and rarely positively. This, however, didn't sound like a negative. It didn't sound like a jab at a name he had no control over but still enjoyed. “Perhaps I have. Do you intend to enlighten me?”
“If you'll let me.”
Aziraphale stared at him for a moment, entirely unable to discern if he was genuine or making fun with those sunglasses in the way; why hadn't he taken them off? He fell back on his own genuine honesty in lieu of an answer. “Continue being delightful to speak to and I might.”
Crowley grinned. “I'll do my best, then. What sort of plays do you like?”
Conversation went on easily, Crowley peppering Aziraphale with questions and responding to ones about himself in kind. Neither of them delved too far beneath the surface, not yet. It became clear quickly that Aziraphale was all for a good chat, quick-witted and as capable of teasing as Crowley even if he went at it from a different angle, but he did not enjoy deeply personal questions. He did not wish to discuss his family or the way he'd grown up.
That could be an issue come the weekend, but Crowley had faith in his own abilities to suss out people's intentions and the things they'd rather keep hidden. Aziraphale was proving to be as difficult to predict as he was easy to predict, and that was intriguing. It was new.
Near the end of their meal, Aziraphale's three rolls gone and one half of Crowley's second left, he decided to quietly swap their plates while Aziraphale argued passionately over the benefits of Hamlet and how deserving it was of its accolades.
Crowley vehemently disagreed, but it was just fun to rile him up. And it was... interesting to watch him eat. Aziraphale just took such delight in it, enjoying every single morsel as if there was nothing else in the world more important than the flavours on his tongue. “I still say Hamlet's a whiny little ponce.”
Aziraphale huffed, annoyed but… not to the point of feeling truly argumentative. This Crowley clearly knew his Shakespeare. It was different from when his family disparaged his interests. This wasn't a lack of understanding but a… teasing ribbing. “He's troubled. A tragic hero misunderstood and doomed by his narrative.”
Crowley scoffed. “Doomed by his own bad choices, more like.”
“Choices he feels forced into, as if they were his only options. I-” Aziraphale stopped, blinking down at a plate he knew wasn't his. He'd finished his. And now there was half a roll in front of him. One he hadn't ordered. Aziraphale looked back up and saw a ginger eyebrow raise above dark glasses. “Oh,” Aziraphale said, smile turning soft. “Thank you, my dear.”
“Myeh.” He waved it away and picked up his sake. “He had plenty of options, but at least now I know what sort of film you may like.”
“I don't mind the comedies, they have their place just like the tragedies and the romances.”
“The romances?”
“Yes, his last few are often grouped together as the romances. The Tempest, Pericles, The Winter's Tale. Though I suppose most of them aren't as well known as his others.”
“Oh, I know. I’m a fan of The Tempest well enough. What about spooky things?”
“Spooky?” Aziraphale hummed around a portion of sushi from Crowley's former plate. “I'm not a fan of- of horror. All the grisly business with ladies screaming and more blood than actually exists in a human body.”
“Mm. Pity. Big spooky fan, me, though it’s not all grisly murders with too much gore. Some of it’s psychological.”
Aziraphale's lips pursed. “I suppose something more psychological wouldn't be nearly so bad. If I'm going to see a film I'd rather it be something that can be discussed after, rather than gawked at for its shock value.”
Crowley liked both, depending on his mood. He'd have to find something Aziraphale would enjoy. A classic film noir, perhaps, or some sort of charming romance reminiscent of stage plays. Not the '96 version of Romeo & Juliet, though. Absolutely not. “I think I'll be able to find you a film you'd like.”
“I look forward to seeing what you come up with. The manor we'll be going to does have a small theatre so feel free to utilise it.”
“Really? You think we’ll have a couple of free hours this weekend to hole up and watch some film together?” It took the idea of a cinema out of the question, but if he did this alright… Optimism, frustrating and unwieldy, fluttered. It was always dangerous to think about what might happen after the job. He hadn’t even officially agreed to take this one.
“Oh, very likely. Once the pleasantries and what-not are over, we mostly only see one another in passing or at meals. Everything's quite informal.”
Informal. Hm. Crowley watched Aziraphale take a piece of sushi, listened to him hum delightedly around it as his eyes closed. Such a deliciously simple pleasure, it was hard to look away from him. Fuck it all. “I’ll take it. The job. I don’t want you to have to walk back what you told your cousin or say things didn’t work out and get yourself more pity than you deserve.”
Aziraphale's smile wilted just a smidge. Yes, pity over not actually having any kind of significant other. A perpetual bachelor. “Well I do appreciate it, thank you.”
“Don’t say thank you. I’m only agreeing because you’re interesting. If you were like some of the other idiots who call about my ad, we wouldn’t even be here. Let alone going off for the weekend.”
“Still, I am grateful. Being interesting is better than some other options.”
“That's very much a fact. Twice, I've had to get payment up front because I knew they'd be dull and weren't being honest about the scope of the job. You, though, seem honest.” Debilitatingly so.
“I don't like to lie,” Aziraphale said. “They rarely ever stay unknown and then you have to deal with the fallout. It's messy. It's also just easier to tell people the truth… Usually.”
“Nosy cousins notwithstanding.”
Aziraphale flushed and unconsciously reached for the napkin in his lap to fidget with. “Gabriel is… well… you'll see when you meet him, but it's generally easier to just tell him what he wants to hear.”
“Mm. He may not like me, then.”
That made Aziraphale chuckle. “To be quite frank with you, I don't think he's ever disliked anyone, though plenty of people dislike him.”
Crowley's grin was quick and wicked. “That sounds like a challenge.”
There was something about that grin that made Aziraphale's heart pick up speed. It was ridiculous and silly and Crowley was… well, he was stylish and attractive and this was just a business transaction. Nothing more. “He doesn't even hate the man who shot him, so you'd have your work cut out for you.”
The smile vanished into shock, Crowley leaning forward. “He got shot? Was it an accident?”
Aziraphale struggled not to smile. “Oh, no. It was no accident. A disgruntled employee had finally had enough, I believe.”
“How the Heaven does anyone get a gun around here? Just an average employee? Or does your cousin run a secret cartel?”
“He lives in America.”
“Ah. More guns than people there.” Crowley leaned back in his chair again, but his brows were still raised. Expressive even with the sunglasses over his eyes. “Since I'm not bringing any weapons along with me, I s'pose I don't have much chance. He must really be oblivious, though, to be hated that much and not know it.”
“Gabriel is… the kind of man who struggles to see past the nose on his face. But… well, he's been better - trying to be better - since then. I think being shot was something of a wake up call. Granted, it's… a work in progress.”
“Sounds like you’re being generous.” But Aziraphale’s weak smile had Crowley moving on. “Anyone else I should know about in particular?”
“Well there's my cousin Michael and her wife, Uriel, with their child Muriel. I imagine Muriel will be bringing their boyfriend. Oh, and Gabriel's brother, Sandalphon, along with their older sister Saraquel. I believe those are ones closest in relation to me. I'm not sure if Gabriel's partner will be joining this year, they didn't come last year.”
Crowley blinked a few times. It sounded like a very queer sort of family, which wasn’t usually what he walked into. He was used to being shock value, but it really did seem like Aziraphale was only asking him for this because he was tired of going alone. His prices quietly lowered drastically as he took fresh stock of Aziraphale. They could even be zero if this went as well as his fluttery optimism was hoping. “Alright. Should be a fine time then.”