What I feel- I shouldn't show you,
So when you're around I won't;
I know I've no right to feel it-
But it doesn't mean I don't.
A few days later, Crowley finds himself once again stepping through the door of A.Z .[1] Fell & Company. He is not called upon as he has been before; this is a social visit, to be certain, but he also is in the business of finding a copy of Aldo Leopold's A Sand County Almanac . The soft chime of the bell above the entrance announces his arrival, and the bookshop seems to hum with tranquil normalcy- almost too normal, in Crowley's opinion when it comes to Mr. Fell. It is neither the chaotic aftermath of a prophecy nor the quiet intimacy of a private dinner; instead, it is the everyday charm of a bookshop in its normal operating hours[2].
The shelves, adorned with ancient leather-bound tomes and meticulously organized volumes, stretch towards the ceiling, creating a labyrinth of literary treasures. Soft beams of sunlight filter through the dusty windows, casting a warm glow on the polished wooden floor. The air permeates with the comforting scent of aged paper and polished mahogany, inviting visitors to lose themselves in the world of literature.[3]
As Crowley ventures deeper into the bookshop, he notes that there is nobody actively perusing the shelves. The occasional creak of floorboards beneath his feet echoes through the quiet space, adding to the serene ambiance. The proprietor of this literary haven sits at his desk[4]. A black feather quill in hand, he bends over a leather-bound journal, the rhythmic scratching of the quill against paper filling the open floor plan.
It takes a few minutes of Crowley staring at Aziraphale's writing before he clears his throat. Aziraphale looks up, his eyes brightening with recognition and a warm smile gracing his features.
"Crowley, my dear! What brings you in today?" he asks as he adjusts the small circular (highly unnecessary) spectacles on the bridge of his nose, setting the quill aside and gesturing to the array of books surrounding him.
"Angel," Crowley greets with a mock bow, a playful smirk gracing his lips. He strolls toward the desk, eyes flickering over the curated chaos of books around him. "I'm on the hunt for Leopold's Sand County Almanac[5]. You wouldn't happen to have a copy lying around, would ya?"
Aziraphale's eyes twinkle with a mix of amusement and the satisfaction of a well-stocked collection. "Do I have A Sand County Almanac ? What a question! Indeed, I do, my dear. And, I believe it is an original, signed by Leopold himself. Right this way." He gracefully rises from his desk, leading Crowley through the maze of shelves. Crowley follows closely behind, his gaze fixating on the back of Aziraphale's head. In comparison to, what he supposed, was the constructed memory on Halloween night as he drove away, the man's hair was more blonde and less curly than it is now.
As they reach a section dedicated to nature and conservation, Aziraphale expertly plucks a slightly weathered copy of A Sand County Almanac from its place. The book's spine bears the marks of time, and its pages whisper of countless hands that have turned them in search of knowledge or inspiration, perhaps even hope. A little bit down the way, Crowley spies an original of Silent Spring by Rachel Carson and gingerly takes it from the shelf as well.
"You have original publishings... of both of these?" Crowley asks as he takes Leopold's book from Aziraphale's hands.
"Oh, well of course! Almost all of my books here are originals. Few copies, naturally."
"That's ngk..." He furrows his brows as he looks down at the books again. "Marvelous. Well, thank ya. How, how much?"
Aziraphale chuckles, his eyes glinting with mirth. "Nonsense! 'How much', please. They're yours."[6]
"You must be joking! Ngk.. I can't just take these from you!"
"Consider it an early Christmas gift, then," Aziraphale shrugs, trying to hide his overwhelming joy at Crowley as he clutches the books in his hands.[7]
Crowley's eyes gleam with appreciation as he leaves through the pages, the scent of aged paper mingling with the anticipation of unearthing hidden truths. "You always manage to surprise me, angel. This is a real find. Thank you."
Aziraphale beams, his eyes betraying a depth of emotion that transcends more than mere appreciation. "Well, my dear, it's the people who make it so. Now, will you be staying for a while? A cup of tea, perhaps?"
Crowley considers the offer, the corners of his lips curling into a thoughtful smile. "Tea sounds lovely. And, who knows, maybe we can unearth some more literary treasures while we're at it."[8]
As they make their way back to the cozy nook, Aziraphale conjures a sense of timelessness, a blend of past and present converging in the heart of A.Z. Fell And Company. With the tea poured, the sunlight drifting in from the late Autumn Day, there is a sense of etherealness that Crowley has never felt before until that exact moment. The conversation flows seamlessly, each topic a tributary that leads them through the river of literature and shared history. After their first cup of tea, Crowley decides to linger, taking the opportunity to explore the bookshop with a more deliberate curiosity. As his eyes scan the shelves filled with ancient volumes and forgotten tales, an odd sense of déjà vu settles over him, as if the leather-bound tomes whispered familiar secrets[9].
Among the eclectic mix, a particularly weathered copy of Milton's Paradise Lost beckons Crowley. Its pages resonate with the echoes of cosmic conflicts, a narrative that holds a peculiar fascination for him as of late with his visions.
A bit farther down, a series of leather-bound journals catches Crowley's eye. He plucks a few from their shelf. Each one is of the same type of leather no matter the eras discussed, and the handwriting is consistent and never changing. They are filled with meticulous notes on various centuries and very niche inventions[10], each entry an intimate glimpse into one man's experiences and observations throughout the centuries- but how could that be? He thinks as he progresses through brief glimpses at each book. It must be fictional . These journals, like a living chronicle, speak of a journey through time and the evolution of an understanding of humanity[11].
While Crowley explores, Aziraphale, with his characteristic finesse, places a record on the turntable. The melodic strains of Rachmaninoff's Op. 34 No. 14 [12] fill the air, the music weaving through the shelves like a timeless melody. The violin and cello notes resonate with the ancient wisdom contained within the books, creating a harmonious, almost saddening backdrop to Crowley's exploration.
With Nebula away on a sleepover after school[13], the bookshop feels quieter than when he visited last, and soon Crowley finds himself seated at a small table in a cozy nook, across from Aziraphale. Aziraphale pours a second cup of tea for them both as the hours begin to pass by, the fragrant steam rising and mingling with the comforting aroma of the library. He leans back in the plush chair, cradling his cup, and regards Crowley with a warm smile.
"Have you found anything of interest?" Aziraphale inquires, a twinkle in his eyes as he glances out the window they sit by. On the windowsill are a few of Nebula's cacti thriving in the wintry light, but Crowley's old plants are nowhere to be seen.[14]
Crowley, flipping through the pages of the almanac, looks up with a sly grin. "Your collection is always full of surprises, angel. I did come across a peculiar collection. It was a series of beige leather-bound journals. All of them are written by hand but don't have titles and no signatures. Any idea?"
Aziraphale's eyes sparkle with curiosity as he considers Crowley's description of the mysterious beige leather-bound journals[15]. He sets down his teacup, leaning forward with an air of intrigue.
"A beige leather collection, you say? Ah, those are quite special I'm sure, but I can't recall at this moment," Aziraphale explains. "Did you read them?"
"I skimmed a few," Crowley begins as he turns a page, "But it seemed like a collection of memories over thousands of years, and I figured it must be fiction. No author lives that long."
A silence overcomes them for a time as Aziraphale reminisces and Crowley continues his reading. Before long, three hours have passed and Aziraphale finds himself with the brilliant idea of keeping Crowley for dinner.
Aziraphale, with a subtle cough to break the silence that has settled between them, clears his throat. "Well, my dear Crowley, seeing as we've spent the afternoon, perhaps you'd care to join me for dinner?"
Crowley looks up from his book, now more than half-read, and grins. "Dinner? I suppose I could be persuaded. What's on the menu, angel?"
Aziraphale, with a gentle smile, replies, "Oh, nothing too extravagant. Perhaps a delightful Coq au Vin and a chocolate mousse for dessert?"
Crowley leans back, feigning nonchalance as his honey eyes look Aziraphale up and down subtly. "Sounds heavenly, angel. I don't know my way around the artistry of cuisine, but I have had my fair share of peeling vegetables and preparin' things. Would ya care for help?"
Aziraphale, slightly taken aback but secretly delighted, "Well, I suppose I could use an extra set of hands. But I must warn you, my dear, my kitchen is rather... temperamental.[16]"
Crowley salutes with a smirk. "Aye, aye Captain."
- -
It is safe to say that Aziraphale uses quite a few miracles during the duo's shared time in the kitchen. From a mis-measured amount of wine in the gravy to the wrong temperature for the chicken, Aziraphale makes sure nothing is left to human error. He wants this evening to be perfect. He has a plan brewing in the back of his mind; he does not want to pressure this new Crowley into trying to remember what they once were to each other, but he grows ever more desperate in trying to regain ground and control. As they settle their plates onto a table surrounded by, if one were to look closely, only Romantic novels, Aziraphale offers the same fine vintage they have always shared, a fine black cherry cabernet.
The deep red liquid catches the soft glow of the antique lamps as it fills the two glasses. Dinner, carefully prepared and unhurried, arrives as a delectable spread that suggests more than culinary expertise. The air between them hums with a quiet intimacy, a dance of glances and shared laughter.
Aziraphale, savoring a bite of risotto, smiles appreciatively. "I must say, your company is the perfect complement this evening."
Crowley, swirling the wine in his glass, raises an eyebrow. "Flattery, angel? I thought that was more my department."
Aziraphale chuckles, a playful glint in his eyes. "Well, sometimes a change of pace is quite refreshing, don't you think?"
The atmosphere shifts, the laughter lingering in the air like a shared secret. And as the dessert-a heavenly chocolate mousse sprinkled with powdered sugar and a strawberry-makes its entrance, Crowley's gaze lingers a moment longer on Aziraphale.
"You know, Mr. Fell," Crowley begins, his tone dipping into a more intimate register, "there's something about you that's quite... ngk, ineffable ."
Aziraphale, feeling the weight of Crowley's gaze, focuses his eyes intensely on the mousse, frozen in place[17]. "Ineffable, you say? Coming from a... well, you , that's quite the compliment."
Crowley, his foot subtly nudging against Aziraphale's leg under the table, grins, his cheeks buzzing with a soft red flush from the wine. "Compliments are just the beginning, Angel. I could think of a few more ineffable things to explore together."
Aziraphale, caught off guard by Crowley's unabashed flirting, blinks in surprise. The intensity of Crowley's gaze and the subtle nudge of his foot beneath the table leaves Aziraphale momentarily at a loss for words. He shifts uncomfortably in his chair, his gaze flickering between Crowley and the untouched chocolate mousse before him.
"Ineffable... things?" Aziraphale stammers, a blush tinting his cheeks. He clears his throat, attempting to regain his composure. "Well, my dear, I must say, you have an uncanny way of... expressing yourself."
Crowley's grin widens, and he takes a sip of his wine, watching Aziraphale with a playful glint in his eyes in the process of doing so. "Expressing myself is a specialty of mine, Angel. Especially when it comes to matters of... mutual interest."
Aziraphale, still grappling with the unexpected turn in the conversation, manages a weak smile. " Mutual interest? Well, l-let's not get ahead of ourselves."
Crowley laughs a low, sultry sound. "Oh, Aziraphale," He sighs as he leans back, retracting his foot from the angel's leg and sipping his wine. With not a word more, he digs into the mousse.
"What did you just say?" Aziraphale finally makes the eye contact he was avoiding. Crowley, with a spoonful of mousse in his mouth, looks at the white-haired man with crooked brows.
"Wha-"
"You said my name."
"Of course, your name is Aziraphale."
"I never told you that. You've known me as Adam Fell."
"I- what do you mean? Your name is Aziraphale. You just go by Adam." Crowley chews slowly, swallowing his bite.
Aziraphale, mouth open in shock and confusion, wishes he could call or pull upon a pause in time- wait a second , he thinks, and with a snap of his fingers, time in the bookshop comes to a halt[18]. Aziraphale sits frozen in the suspended moment, the soft glow of the bookshop dimming by the temporal pause he invoked. The silence hangs heavy, broken only by the sound of the angel's own heart thudding inside his chest. His eyes fixate on Crowley, who remains mid-chew, a spoonful of mousse hovering near his lips.
Taking a cautious lean-in closer, Aziraphale inspects Crowley's face as if searching for some clue in the frozen lines of his expression. He tries to wrap his mind around the revelation that Crowley, despite his apparent memory loss, somehow knows his true name.
"Good grief, Crowley," Aziraphale mutters to himself, "How on Earth did you know my name? You've been calling me Adam Fell all this time, and now you just casually switch to Aziraphale?"
He stands and circles Crowley, studying the demon from every angle, hoping for a flicker of recognition or a hint of mischief that might explain. Crowley, however, remains caught in the temporal stasis, blissfully unaware of the scrutiny.
Aziraphale sighs, running a hand through his hair, causing a disruption in his curl pattern that is alternative to his usual well-kept state and messier. "This is madness. If you truly know my name, how did you forget everything else? What kind of selective amnesia is this? I.. I could.."
Aziraphale's frustration simmers beneath the surface, bubbling into a more palpable anger. His usually neat curls now reflect the disarray of his incoherent thoughts, mirroring the chaos within. He stops in front of Crowley, staring into the frozen humanity of the demon's eyes.
"How dare they?" Aziraphale mutters under his breath, his voice carrying a mix of anger and protectiveness. "How dare Gabriel and the others play with your memories like this, Crowley? They have no right to twist and tamper with something so fundamental. By God, when I get my hands on them-"
Aziraphale paces back and forth, a furrow etching itself onto his forehead. He casts a lingering glare toward the heavens as if daring the celestial beings responsible for Crowley's predicament to reveal themselves.
"They thought they could erase you, erase us . Well, I won't stand for it," Aziraphale declares, his resolve strengthening. "It's not just your memories they've stolen; it's the very essence of who you are, who you were to me. And by doing so, they've taken a piece of me as well."
In his bubbling anger, Aziraphale's protective instincts kick in. He turns back to Crowley, his expression softening, a mix of compassion and frustration in his eyes. "What do I do? You are there. I can see it! I can feel it... I can feel you ." With a determined glint in his eyes, Aziraphale extends a hand towards Crowley, as if reaching across the frozen expanse of time to bridge the gap that Heaven had callously created. Then, with the gentleness of a lover, he traces Crowley's cheek and pushes a loose strand of his auburn hair behind his ear.
As Aziraphale contemplates the frozen scene before him, the answers seem to elude him, leaving him suspended in a frozen reality with questions swirling in his mind. With another snap of his fingers, as he sits down with recollection, he releases time from its standstill, letting the world around him resume its course.
Crowley blinks, the mousse making its way to his mouth. "Oh, what was that, Angel? Lost track of time for a moment."
Aziraphale, reeling from the unanswered questions, can only manage a strained smile. "Yes, just a momentary lapse. Let's... let's finish our dinner, shall we?"
The rest of the meal is taken in relative silence in the bookshop, both of the men in their heads about what has just unfolded. Crowley, perhaps boldened by such a finely aged wine, is unashamed and proud of his advances with a newfound crush of sorts. However, he is also more acutely aware of how he might be hurting his relationship with Aziraphale considering his resemblance to someone else the man knew. He glances at Aziraphale, who seems lost in thought and decides to break the silence.
"So," Crowley begins, his tone casual, "you knew another Crowley, right? The one from your history and... well, me?"
Aziraphale, swirling the last remnants of wine in his glass[19], nods thoughtfully, "Indeed."
"And this previous version you knew, what was he like? I mean, I'm assuming he wasn't as charming as I am now."
Aziraphale chuckles, a touch of panicked nostalgia in his eyes. "Well, he had his brand of charm, my dear. A bit more serpent-like, if you catch my drift. Mischievous, irreverent, a total pain at times, if I'm honest. But.. it occurs to me now that he loved me very much."
Crowley raises an eyebrow. "That so?" There is a brief silence as Crowley takes in the rest of his glass of wine.
Aziraphale smiles, but it is almost dampened by a hidden depression. "Yes, quite so. I must admit, there were moments of genuine connection, but he had his demons to wrestle with, quite literally. And... well," Aziraphale purses his lips softly as he sets his wine glass on the table, "I was an idiot. To put it simply."
There's a vulnerability in the angel's admission, a raw honesty that permeates the spaces between them. The weight of centuries worth of memories, both cherished and painful, press upon Aziraphale's shoulders.
"An idiot? You?" Crowley remarks, his voice sharpening with disbelief. "Well, you're certainly not the first to make questionable choices, angel."
Aziraphale chuckles, a bittersweet sound. "No, I suppose not. But I let him go, Crowley. I let him fall from my grasp, thinking it was the right thing to do. And now, you're here, a different version, different memories, but you are the spitting image of him, and I can't help but wonder if I made a mistake if it's all my fault."
Crowley's gaze softens, his usual swagger giving way to a genuine concern. "Aziraphale, we can't change the past. And, for what it's worth, I'm not him. Not exactly, anyway. I'm me, right here, right now."
Aziraphale nods, a mix of gratitude and regret in his eyes with grit teeth. "You're right, my dear. It's just that... the echoes of the past are sometimes too loud to ignore. Demons have a way of grasping hearts and never letting go."
Crowley's gaze sharpens a flicker of curiosity in his eyes. "Demons? What do you mean?"
Aziraphale takes a deep breath, deciding it is time to tread carefully. "..Crowley was a demon. Fallen angel, they all mean the same in the end, I find."
Crowley's expression shifts from curiosity to bewilderment. "A Demon ? But that's... I mean, that doesn't make sense."
Aziraphale sighs, realizing the weight of what he is about to reveal, but a last call, a last resort. "He was. We were partners, inseparable. But there were forces far stronger than us, and there was no room for anything but that."
Crowley's eyes widen, "Aziraphale... but that's impossible. Demons and angels aren't real, they're metaphors for, ngk, well, good n' evil."
Aziraphale studies Crowley's reaction, the disbelief etched across his face. It's a delicate dance, revealing truths that are impossible in the framework of a seemingly ordinary world.
"I understand it's a lot to take in, " Aziraphale sighs softly, "But the reality is more intricate than the narratives humans have crafted. Angels and demons, we were real entities with our own struggles and choices."
Crowley leans forward, running a hand through his hair as if trying to make sense of the revelation that itches in the back of his mind. "So, you're saying I'm a fallen angel? And we? You were, are an angel? And I don't remember you because....?"
"Because Heaven wiped your memory as a punishment. I believe it was likely Archangel Gabriel who delivered such a punishment," Aziraphale explains solemnly. As he names Gabriel, Crowley's eyes seem to shift rapidly as if an animal is trying to claw out from within. The honeyed brown iris shifts into a magma-like vibrancy and the pupil shrinks and elongates into thin slits before bulging back out into a normal pupil.
Crowley's sudden transformation startles Aziraphale. He watches, a mix of concern and curiosity, as Crowley's eyes shift in a way that defies any logical explanation.
"Good Lord, Crowley, are you alright?" Aziraphale asks, reaching for his hand.
Crowley blinks, the strange transformation in his eyes fading away as quickly as it had come. He looks at Aziraphale with a hint of bewilderment. "I... I don't know what that was. Something felt off for a moment. Did you see something?"
Aziraphale furrows his brow, still holding Crowley's hand. "N-no. I saw nothing, you just looked... Frozen." The lie rolls off his tongue like a foreign language.
Crowley tilts his head, a skeptical expression crossing his face. "Frozen? That's odd. It felt like... like I was somewhere else for a moment like I couldn't quite remember who I am."
"Perhaps it's just the wine, dear. I'm sure there's nothing to worry about!"
"Right. I... I should head home now, I think."
"I'll drive you, and take the bus back," Aziraphale offers a warm smile as he squeezes Crowley's wrist. Crowley nods.
"Thank you, Aziraphale... you're a good man- absolutely bonkers, but a good man," Crowley chides with a playful tone as he nods and stands up from the table.
Aziraphale is wounded, internally, torn between the fact he saw Crowley's real eyes shine through for himself and the fact that his vessel cannot recall reality. But, he is insistent on letting the present Crowley rest, even if it meant his own pain. They both stand up, and Aziraphale leads the way to the door. As they step outside, the cool night air greets them, carrying the distant sounds of the city.
The Bentley waits patiently, its sleek form a stark contrast to the quaint bookshop. Aziraphale unlocks the car, and Crowley slides into the passenger seat with a bit of a wobble. The engine roars to life as they pull away from the curb.
As they drive through the dimly lit streets, the atmosphere inside the car mixes quiet contemplation and unspoken tension. Aziraphale occasionally steals eager, concerned glances at Crowley, observing the subtle furrow in his brow and the distant look in his eyes.
"Are you sure you're alright?" Aziraphale finally asks, breaking the silence. "I mean, aside from the odd moment earlier."
Crowley sighs shakily, running a hand through his hair. "I'll be fine, Angel. Just need some sleep..."
Aziraphale nods understandingly, guiding the Bentley through the familiar route. His hands tighten around the wheel, wanting to get into the demon's head and pull out the part of him that is resisting exposing how he truly felt. They reach Meelan's within a few more minutes, and Aziraphale parks the car. Crowley hesitates before getting out, his gaze lingering on Aziraphale. "Thanks for dinner and, well, everything, Aziraphale. I appreciate it."
Crowley's eyes, half-lidded and laden with confusion and longing, meet Aziraphale's intense gaze[20]. Crowley hesitates at the car door, and Aziraphale, fueled by a yearning that surpasses the boundaries of mere friendship, reaches out and gently grasps Crowley's arm. He turns back, his gaze locking with Aziraphale's, and in that charged moment, something profound shifts in the magnetism.
"Remember me, won't you?" Aziraphale whispers, his voice carrying the weight of a plea, an invitation to traverse the realms of forgotten history. But Crowley, caught in the undertow of emotions and the lingering taste of wine, responds not with words but with action.
Leaning back into the car swiftly and without restraint, Crowley presses his lips against Aziraphale's, a moment of raw vulnerability and desire. The kiss, fueled by a fusion of past recollections and present longing, holds within it the essence of a story untold and a connection reforged. For a suspended breath, they linger in that intimate space, the night around them holding its breath as if acknowledging the gravity of what has transpired. Crowley's hand, almost of its own volition, cupped Aziraphale's cheek, fingers brushing over the softness of an angel's skin.
And as Crowley pulls away, a hint of realization flickers in his gaze. It is a kiss laden with questions, an unspoken inquiry that hangs[21], waiting for answers that lay dormant in the recesses of the ether. When Crowley pulls away, Aziraphale brings his hand to his lips, his eyes wide with shock.[22]
With a nod, Crowley exits the car, and Aziraphale watches as he disappears into the building, his eyes stinging with tears of frustration[23]. The engine's hum becomes the only sound in the quiet parking lot before Aziraphale finally cuts the engine and makes it to the bus stop. As he sits in the back of the bus navigating through the dimly lit streets, Aziraphale cannot seem to shake the sense of anticipation, the lingering taste of that unexpected kiss- sweetness, softness, the dallying flavor of chocolate and wine.[24]
The journey back to the bookshop feels longer than usual, the streets illuminated by the soft glow of streetlights casting shadows on the path ahead. Aziraphale's thoughts are a maelstrom of emotions, a mixture of hope and trepidation of what is to come, of what he is to do. When he finally arrives at A.Z. Fell and Company, the bookshop is silent in the night; Nebula is gone, and it's as if Aziraphale has been transported back in time to the first day without Crowley in his life.
The feelings he harbors in his heart are more than he could comprehend, more than he could fathom. His emotions are unworthy of their existence; after all, why should he feel this way when he is the one to blame?
[footnotes! for easier access, read on AO3!]
1. It is a personal headcanon that his middle "name" is Zacariah in honor of Jedidiah-idiah-idiah.
2. Not that the bookshop had ever sold a single copy in its entire establishment history.
3. A really nice Barnes & Noble, but add his "new cologne" he retrieved from his barber. That...he hasn't been to in a few years. We love a longer-haired Aziraphale.
4. How is he so into his writing that he did not care to even glance at the front door when the bell chimed?! That feather doesn't just happen to be black, it was most certainly a Christmas gift a few years ago from a certain demon.
5. For my fellow wildlife conservationists and biology degrees; A Sound County Almanac is a book published in '49 by the ecologist and forester Aldo Leopold who practically created the foundations for the ideas of land ethic in the United States. It particularly highlights the importance of conserving predators such as wolves as they play vital ecological roles in many communities. A favorite quote; "Man always kills the thing he loves."
6. It's not selling. He has a reputation to uphold, after all.
7. There's gift-giving and a savior complex, folks, and Aziraphale eats that up like they are the most wonderful Crepe Suzettes he has ever tasted.
8. It would be at this moment for Aziraphale to wink at his newfound companion, but there is something in the idea that there was once a time where Crowley already knew all of the books on Aziraphale's shelves that saddens his heart. Especially the Jane Austen novels; when Crowley had initially read through them, he was absolutely baffled considering she was such a distinct figure in crime and robber- an absolute Dark Horse in the world of literacy!
9. Particularly, in this moment, Crowley gazes down a long stretch of shelves between more books and the fireplace and living room. There is a red and gold loveseat between two antique lamps, and he swears, to the very soul he harbors, that he has sat there with his back against the wall, holding a glass of wine, and for some reason.. Making... dolphin noises?
10. Some of the inventions he notices are the Gutenberg Press (1450), the stapler (McGill 1866), and magic from Dedi (2700 BC) in Egypt.
11. The last finished journal ends in 1967 where a recount of Aziraphale's interaction in the Bentley is written. But did Crowley bother to read the ending? No, of course he didn't.
12. https://youtu.be/b0FpMjsBerY
13. Oh, to have a parent who had no restrictions on sleep-overs at that age.
14. His plants, thriving, find a home upstairs on the second floor of the bookshop in Aziraphale's bedroom. The angel tried not to go back up there unless he was watering the plants; he had never been one to sleep, and ever since his first time sleeping for months on end during his mourning process, he never wanted to sleep again. Dreams, he found, are treacherous things that torment the soul by presenting the dreamer with their greatest desires and wishes. But, at the same time, those dreams offered Aziraphale something, no, someone, nobody else could (not even God). And this, he knew, would not do, not when he had a daughter to care for.
15. This man knows damn well that these books are his journals, his own story, and a story of their "us."
16. Cue in the several times Aziraphale has burnt his biscuits, absolutely destroyed pots and pans from overheating, and caused grease fires.
17. He absolutely believes that Crowley is back in this moment, and it both terrifies and excites him. If he looks at him right now, will the magic be lost?
18. Remember that time in the Bastille? Well, Aziraphale learned a thing or two while eating those crepes with Crowley, and my, it comes in handy.
19. Shortly after his reply, he reaches under the table and pulls out another bottle of the same wine, wanting to drown himself out with the alcohol.
20. An absolutely carnal yet indecipherable gaze.
21. What just happened? Why did I do that? Did I just kiss him? Fuck me.
22. Don't leave. Do it again, please. Come back.
23. The worst of it all? Aziraphale knows that this human version of Crowley would not remember his actions in the morning.
24. It wasn't just a simple gesture; it was a bridge between the past and the present, a tentative exploration of what might be, what would have been. That taste of chocolate and wine, it was somehow more bitter than depressing than the lack of song in Berkeley Square.