Chapter Text
“Crowley, dear boy,” Aziraphale says, licking a trace of crumble off of his finger. No crumbs left. “I’ve been meaning to, errrr, how shall I put it? Call upon your fiendish expertise. As a connoisseur... Do tell me. How can I become completely undesirable?”
They’ve just finished the culinary finale in a private corner of the restaurant that Aziraphale has allowed Crowley to take him to. Across the table, a whole feature film’s worth of expressions passes over the demon’s face.
When Crowley finally unhooks those custard-gold eyes from Aziraphale’s hands, all vowels seem to have been raptured from his body.
“Ngk?”
“Alright then. If you must know,” Aziraphale confesses as if he’s just been interrogated by the world’s finest secret service members, “I have been chosen! Called upon by Heaven. They have assigned me a supremely important case, for which I need to transform into someone completely repelling, in the romantic sense. And seeing as you’re an expert, I thought I might ask you for some counsel.”
Crowley’s face falls, and he puts his sunglasses back on.
“I’m… the expert?”
“Of course, dear,” Aziraphale says.
As is the custom on their two-person diplomatic conferences, Crowley tucks a large amount of pound notes into the leather-bound bill presenter.
“I’m the expert. On being undesirable,” Crowley repeats as they both get up. Aziraphale lets him help him into his coat, before stepping out into the London air.
“Oh don’t be silly, of course you are, well, objectively desirable,” Aziraphale says. Crowley stumbles over a loose brick. “Wickedness is, in my vast experience, so often attractive. To, errrr…. To humans.”
After spending this much time on Earth, Aziraphale has become quite the savant of wickedness.
But did Crowley miss the part where Aziraphale was entrusted with a crucial mission?
“Back to the point at hand. Heaven wants me to master the true opposite of temptation. And you, my dear, are an expert tempter. Aren’t you?”
As if his longtime domesticated archenemy has suddenly grown a third leg and is unsure how the act of walking works, precisely, Crowley bumps his head into a lamppost. Then walks on as if nothing happened.
“Am I?” Crowley asks, tongue lingering on the ‘I’ in a tone not yet catalogued in Aziraphale’s inner Crowley Catalogue.
The demon is not meeting his eyes as he holds open the passenger door to the Bentley.
Oh, Crowley might be too shy to admit it, but Aziraphale stands by his assessment. Crowley is good at these things. For one, he always looks sharp as, well, there’s no other way of describing it: sharp as Hell. And he’s always dressed and styled in the latest fashion among humans of the gothic variety.
Currently, he has chosen shoulder length hair, partly pulled back with a little bun. He looks quite androgynous, or what are people calling it these days?
Undergroundsexual? No, that wasn’t quite it.
“You most certainly are. You have been, in fact, for as long as I have known you. I need guidance on what, well, what not to do. And I don’t know where else I’m going to find someone else with six thousand years’ experience in temptation,” Aziraphale says. “At least one that doesn’t have toads attached to his head.”
Tram-sexual?
Even though wearing an amphibian toupet is likely a neat trick to discourage aspiring beaus, it feels like a bit much. Wouldn’t pair well with tartan.
“S- sure,” Crowley says. “I’ll — I’ll see what I can… do.”
Oh, jolly! Aziraphale can’t wait to be the willing recipient of Crowley’s teachings on wooing. Just so, you know, he can do the exact opposite during his mission. It makes perfect sense.
Crowley seems lost in thought the rest of the way to the bookshop. His driving is worrisome – it’s barely over the speed limit!
“Tea?” Aziraphale tempts him inside.
In his kitchen, he allows Crowley to watch him fiddle with the cups and trinkets. This is almost domesticity, at least, if they weren’t an angel and a demon, and time-honoured adversaries. Over the years, he’s come to realise there’s nothing as intimate and passionate as the relationship between sworn enemies.
It’s a fulltime job, showing Crowley all the ways he could be good.
Aziraphale removes Crowley’s sunglasses for him, and hands him a nice cupperty.
“What’s your celestial assignment, exactly, angel?” Crowley asks, holding the delicate teacup carefully with his long fingers.
“Heavens, you’ve really forced it out of me,” Aziraphale says. “Have you heard of a ‘reality teleplay’ about a ‘confirmed bachelor’?”
Crowley puts down his cup with a clang.
“What about it, ‘Ziraphale?”
There’s an abrupt tension in his voice that spreads to his whole body, like a cobra after you insult its head flaps. Crowley must not be one of the many dedicated weekly dating teleplay devotees that Aziraphale has been informed about.
“Oh, so you have heard of it? Apparently, it’s very ‘du jour’. They are making a sort of British version, and I have been handpicked as the desired gentleman!” Aziraphale reveals, not without a hint of pride. He’s going to be the object of lust, in a manner of speaking, of multiple suitors.
Granted, he’s supposed to act truly boring, because the holy plan of Heaven is to turn people off the evil and probably demonic invention that is ‘reality television’.
But the fact of the matter remains that out of all the angels shouting for joy, he’s been selected. As a holy snack.
“Heavens, no,” Crowley says. His Adam’s apple bobs down.
“Well, you see, Crowley, Heaven thinks that broadcasts of this nature are clearly the Devil’s work, so Gabriel has charged me with the twofold task of turning off the suitors and the viewers both. That’s where you come in, Crowley. I could just do the opposite of what you do!”
Crowley leaves his teacup behind on the counter and starts pacing the kitchen. He seems awfully distressed. What’s gotten into the old chap?
“Why did they choose you?” Crowley mumbles. “For that blasted dating show. Ridiculous!”
This hits Aziraphale like a pea stuck in the throat. Why wouldn’t they choose him? He’s… an acquired taste, perhaps. Does Crowley not deem him dapper enough?
All the famous painters in history have asked him to model! He’s one third of all painted cherubs in history!
“Why not literally anyone else,” Crowley continues, adding insult to injury.
Aziraphale blinks. “Now, now, don’t–”
Crowley halts in front of him and puts his hands on his shoulders. “I’m, oh whatever, needs must – I’m begging you, don’t do this angel. Sit this one out. It’s not… It’s a mistake. A miscast. Look at you! You’re so wrong for the bachelor part.”
Look at him? “That’s not for you to decide! I will have you know, I am very qualified.”
“You don’t belong on a TV show like that,” Crowley says.
Aziraphale takes a few steps back, losing the touch of him.
Of course he could be the prize at the end of such a show. He knows magic tricks. Any man would be so lucky!
That’s why he needs help making suitors not interested, in fact.
“I thought you’d be pleased for me.”
“Pleased?” Crowley sounds offended.
If the thought of Aziraphale being treated as a delicious dessert to a scrumptious meal in any way offended Crowley, well, then perhaps he could be offended back in his sunlight allergic flat!
“Oh, look at the time. It’s getting late, so I’d like to turn in for the night,” Aziraphale says, which is his most direct way of sending Crowley home. “And just so we are clear: I don’t need you. I can find my very own ways to repel gentleman admirers! Or is this already your first lesson in repulsing interested parties?”
At least, he assumes it will be a cast of male suitors. He better check in with Heaven on the details.
It’s as if the sun that is Crowley’s face, turns into a moon right in front of him. His mouth twitches, but no words come out. Not even consonants.
That must be because Aziraphale is right, and his arguments make perfect sense, in a supremely logical wrangle.
Crowley puts his sunglasses back on, and heads for the door.
Metrosexual! Aziraphale is glad he remembers the word as he watches Crowley saunter away, hips swaying very metrosexually indeed.
***
Oh, if only Crowley could see him now.
He doesn’t even think about him, of course. Didn’t ever during the 13 days, 11 hours and six minutes since their falling out. But Aziraphale knows he looks undeniably dashing in his suit. It’s a tastefully glittery version of his bookseller’s outfit, custom-tailored for the taping of this first episode of ‘The Lovely Gentleman’.
He’s dutifully stationed next to ‘the Manor’, which is really just a large, old English country house they added an adjective and a capital letter to, just to bring a sense of grandeur as well as charm to the show. Its enormous, lavish lawn vaguely reminds him of Eden. This would certainly impress Cro…
No. Aziraphale schools his features back into a good-natured smile.
There are cameras everywhere, but he’s not supposed to look at them, so he only does so 40 percent of the time.
Around the corner of the Manor, there are multitudes of men (for yes, they are men indeed; how lucky that Heaven randomly picked that gender!) waiting to enter a white limousine one by one, to meet Gentleman Bachelor Aziraphale, after which the same vehicle does a little tour around the house and picks up the next willing participant. How glamorous! And Crowley’s not even here to see it.
He can tune in to the TV set, then.
Aziraphale reminds himself that he needs to be dreadfully dull to these men. But it’ll be so difficult, especially when he looks this magnificent and reads so many rare books. Would any of the men read, perhaps? He scolds himself. Stop! He’s not here for romance, but for business.
He’ll have to be careful not to accidentally charm anyone with his knowledge of old coins and Jane Austen trivia.
“Aziraphale!” his producer buzzes into his earpiece. “Pay attention. And look happy!”
The long, slick white limousine arrives for the first time. Aziraphale tries not to turn up his nose. He isn’t, in fact, a big fan of those types of autocars, and considers them only one step up from horses. He especially worries for them when they go around corners. How do they not bend?
Cameras zoom in as the limo door opens, and a jazzy young fellow disembarks. He wears remarkably heavy black eye make-up, and sports a high hairdo, almost shaped like the letter A.
Now, Aziraphale isn’t an expert on human individualised mini-evolutions, but he would guess that the body he himself inhabits looks a bit too old for this chap. Is Aziraphale supposed to be a ‘lord Sugar’, or what was it called again? Sucrose Father?
The youth smiles nervously and hands him a rather large box of lucifers.
“My name is Eric, and I hope we’ll be a match made in Heaven.”
Sugar daddy!
Aziraphale raises an eyebrow. If this strapping lad had known about Heaven’s intentions of wreaking havoc on this show, he would have chosen a different opening line.
He pockets the matchbox.
“Ah, a joke,” Aziraphale acknowledges. Pointing out a joke is one of the celestially recommended ways to make uninteresting television. “Thank you, Eric. I very much like jokes. I’m looking forward to getting to know you and talk more about your puns.”
Eric disappears into the Manor, where he’s presumably swept away for a one-on-one interview, or perhaps for eating snacks.
Meanwhile, the limousine departs with screeching tires to quickly pick up the next wooer around the corner.
Aziraphale does so very much hope that the next suitor will be better suited for his age bracket. Though 6,000 is hard to achieve for a human, surely they can find men who approach it a little more closely. Lest he come off as rather creepy on a national stage!
The limousine stops again. The door opens and…
“Eric? Is that you again?”
This time, the man exiting the vehicle is holding a large stick with one of those human portable telephones attached. Crowley showed Aziraphale one once, said he had personally escorted to Hell one of the inventors of the “I, phone, battery”. It would harvest many a soul for Satan, he’d claimed.
“Yes, I mean no,” he says, walking up. “That was my brother, Eric. I’m also named Eric.”
“Are you twins?”
“Of sorts.”
Aziraphale notices that he keeps his dark curly hair in a slightly different shape on top of his head. As if his brother was forming the letter A on top, this one is forming a B. ‘Eric B.’, Aziraphale makes a mental note. Side note: making mental notes is quite labour-intensive when one imagines using a quill.
“And didn’t your parents come up with different names for you?”
“They did. Eric is named after our father, and I am named after our grandfather.”
Oh dear. Aziraphale relinquishes all hope of ever truly understanding human culture. He smiles, and points at the erect telephone. “Is that an offering for me?”
Eric B. smiles shyly. He is a rather attractive human man, Aziraphale must admit, under pressure from no one in particular. And the black eye make-up reminds him of another goth he knows, but almost never thinks about. Certainly not now, when he should be focusing on making humdrum television.
“This is a selfie stick, and I brought it so we can take a selfie of the first day of the rest of our lives together,” Eric B. says.
It’s so cheesy Aziraphale can almost taste it. He likes cheese. That reminds him of a restaurant he and… No. Focus. He particularly focuses on sending this Eric off to wait inside the Manor with his twin-of-sorts, before he has a change to ‘take a selfie’. Sounds too dangerous.
When the next suitor exits the limo, Aziraphale sighs.
“Let me guess. Your name is Eric, and you’re named after your great-great-grandfather?”
The man, whose hairdo is C-shaped, bats his eyes in an adorably confused manner. “Eric, yes. But no, I’m named after my mother’s sister.”
He hands Aziraphale an Earth-shaped stress ball. Aziraphale feels like a god accepting offerings.
“I hope t-t-to… To become your world, Aziraphale,” he shoots his shot at an opening line, tripping over his words.
Aziraphale hands him the ball back, because the poor chap seems rather stressed out to be here.
As he watches Eric C. go, he does wonder about the precise nature of this show. How peculiar of them to have cast gay triplets! That they even applied at all. It must run in the family to be romantically interested in booksellers.
It is with some relief that he finds that the next three men are, although somewhat hygienically challenged and strangely named, at least more age appropriate and normal human men. He greets and sends off to the Manor a Ligur, a Furfur, and an archeology professor Lavista (“but you can call me Hastur”).
He also finds that all three of them already show signs of being repulsed by him. Ligur even refused to take off his hat in greeting!
Good, in fact, splendid, since, well, since that’s what he’s here for, at least. To ward off men. For the greater good. God’s ineffable plan for television.
He is a natural at this.
He does so wishes they’ll refrain from making gagging noises in the future, though.
His smile cannot falter, he reminds himself. There are cameras. Everything is tip-top.
Aziraphale hasn’t felt what humans might refer to as ‘gut butterflies’ thus far, but that can always happen in the most unexpected ways, of course. So he’s learned over his many years on this planet.
In the distance, unseen to his eyes, four distinct explosions can be heard. Like four tires at once blowing out. A young production member runs towards the corner, shouting “our limo!”, but before Aziraphale can even begin to process that, a different car approaches at great speed. A very familiar one.
The Bentley does an approximation of parking next to Aziraphale. Out tumbles a collection of limbs, held together by the tightest red velvet suit Aziraphale has laid eyes on. Like a masterclass in temptation, Crowley is also holding a book.
For a second, Aziraphale forgets where he is in the entire universe. Their eyes lock. They haven’t seen each other in nearly two weeks, and their goodbye was rather grievous.
Aziraphale doesn’t suppose he should acknowledge on camera that he already knows this suitor, so an apology dance is probably out of the question.
If he didn’t know better, he’d say there is a guilty look on Crowley’s face. It slips away quickly, and is replaced by one a suitor would wear. Seductive.
“Crowley,” Aziraphale reprimands him in a whisper, to elude the microphones. “There are to be no demons on my show!”
He needs to consider the safety of Eric, Eric, Eric, Ligur, Furfur and Hastur.
Those human men are currently safely inside the Manor, though, so he feels free to take the book from Crowley.
“Oh! A gorgeous edition of Shakespeare’s Hamlet!”
“Because I think we are meant… To Be,” Crowley says, uttering the words as if they are pickling his mouth from the inside. “The producer made me say that. Sorry, angel.”
“Don’t call me that here,” Aziraphale scolds him.
“It’s a romance show!”
“Yes! So why are you here?”
He pouts. Surely Crowley is here to ruin it for him, likely to thwart Heaven’s plans?
Oh, Crowley will torpedo his chance to become a small-screen heartthrob and perhaps land another West End show, or at least an invite to the British library to do a reading. He means, of course, his chance to serve God and steer humans away from evil and towards more sensible programming such as ‘I love Lucy’ (preferable to Lucifer) and ‘Doctor Who’ (encouraging young people to choose a medical profession. Probably. He doesn’t have a television).
“And cut!” someone yells.
Oh, that’s… odd. Aziraphale could have sworn he recognised the voice of…
“Gabriel?”
The Supreme Archangel appears in front of him, wearing a glittered up version of his regular, grey suit.
“Hello, Aziraphale.”
“What on Earth are you doing here? On Earth?”
Usually, Gabriel stays in his office to write proposals for new uniforms, which get approved via referendum after several revisions every 300 years.
Gabriel shrugs. “I’m directing and presenting this whole thing. The producer assured me I have ‘star quality’.”
Aziraphale briefly closes his eyes. This might become rather awkward, if he is to perform human-style romance in front of his boss; or rather, a lack thereof, he supposes, as that is his task.
That reminds him, Crowley is here! He re-opens his eyes. He must protect Crowley, keep him safe. Has Gabriel ever laid eyes on his Earth-side adversary, his hereditary enemy, the much reported of “Crowley”, before? He’s desperately trying to remember.
“Off you go, despicable snake,” Gabriel answers that question by addressing Crowley, who in turn is acting like he’s in a glaring contest instead of a contest for Aziraphale’s hand. Not in marriage. But for holding, at least.
Aziraphale’s brain feels like a book covered in spilt ink. Will there be… Handholding? Or is that not boring enough?
“Arse-angel Gabriel. Am I the last one? Are there really only seven contestants?” Crowley’s eyebrows circle each other like courting cats. “Is it a miniseries?”
“Seven is a holy number, beast,” Gabriel says. “And besides, it was hard to get people interested in dating Aziraphale.”
Several things happen simultaneously, then. Gabriel quite mysteriously stumbles over his own shoelaces, Crowley appears to be steaming like a tea pot, and Aziraphale spots a very concerning logo on the talking cards falling out of Gabriel’s back pocket.
“‘Temptation Manor’?” Aziraphale asks. “I thought this show was going to be called ‘The Lovely Gentleman’.”
But before Gabriel can make clarifications, as this is surely a misunderstanding, Aziraphale’s producer steps out of the shadows.
What a relief. Aziraphale had a brief chat with them earlier, and they seemed rather bright for someone who works in television.
Next to him, Crowley startles. “Beelzebub! What the Heaven are you doing here?”
“Oh, you know Beeb?” Aziraphale asks.
He had assumed Beeb stood for BBC. But come to think of it, the name Beelzebub does ring a vague bell. Where does Crowley know Beeb from? Maybe they’re his human neighbour. What a small world!
Crowley points to Beeb and to Gabriel, who has risen again and looks ridiculously unaffected. “And why didn’t I see the both of you before this moment?”
“No time for this,” Beeb says, taking off their cap. A few flies escape. “We are losing precious golden hour moments. Every minute costs money. Chop chop, it’s time for the rose ceremony.”
***
The seven men who are vying for Aziraphale’s heart, or at least his rose, are arranged in the garden like it’s school picture day: the three Erics in front, and the four non-Erics in the back, trying to see through their ABC-shaped hairdos. Furfur, Ligur and Hastur are avoiding all eye contact. How sweet, they must be shy, Aziraphale assumes.
Crowley is looking right at him.
It’s rather queer, meeting him here, each at another edge of a tight rope they’ve spent millennia walking. He feels as if he might fall at any moment. And he doesn’t know how deep it goes.
“For this first rose ceremony, Aziraphale,” Gabriel says to his natural audience, the camera, “you only get one rose.”
Aziraphale is already holding the single deep purple flower. His fingers slide along the stem, past a forgotten thorn.
“You have to give the First Impression Rose to the contestant you like the most.”
Now Crowley averts his eyes. Aziraphale takes the opportunity to truly look.
Oh, yes, he most definitely looks the part of a seducer. The sunlight makes Crowley’s hair look like a ginger field of grain waving in the wind. Like a hot summer night’s dream. Like a fever.
But Aziraphale must make a point. Whatever is Crowley’s reason for being here, he’s up to no good. Of course, he’s a demon, Aziraphale would expect little else from him. And the fact that Gabriel is here, surely is a bad omen.
No, he’s not going to play along with Hell, damn it. He will choose a normal guy like Eric or Eric!
Surprising himself, he chooses Eric instead. Eric C., that is, who is still holding the Earth-shaped stress ball in one hand.
And if behind Eric C., he notices Crowley’s posture deflating a little, he ignores it. What did Crowley expect, anyway? He made his first impression years ago. The Nebula…
Aziraphale closes his mental door on that image. Not easy, when one imagines the heavy portcullis of a castle.
As he walks away, he has a dandy idea on how he could get more ‘in character’ as a bachelor gentleman. Oh, how clever of him.
He miracles an Effort for himself.