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“Look at the poor love,” Mrs Sandwich said, her chin on her fist. “I miss his smile.”
“We all do,” Maggie sighed. “Ever since that monster dumped him, he’s been miserable.”
“You’re wrong,” Nina said, sitting down at the back table the three of them commandeered every afternoon for coffee and a bit of gossip. The other two women turned to look at her. “He was miserable long before Gabriel walked out. Damn but that man was a wanker.”
“Nina! Language,” Maggie said, swatting her partner, though she had a grin on her face. And she hadn’t actually said that she disagreed.
They all turned to look at Aziraphale as he sipped his tea, alone at a table by the front window. The shopkeepers in the Whickber Street neighborhood were a tight-knit group, and when Gabriel Archer, Aziraphale’s partner of nearly two years, moved out of the flat above the bookshop, everyone knew by the end of the day.
Most of Aziraphale’s neighbourhood friends had disliked Gabriel, and thought Aziraphale was well shot of him. Still, they knew that losing a partner, even one who wasn’t up to par, could leave a hole in one’s life. They tried to fill it by inviting Aziraphale to lunch or out to drinks at the pub after work. He rarely took them up on their friendly offers, no matter how much he appreciated the thoughtfulness. He simply sat in his shop, often closing early, and spent his evenings in the flat upstairs.
Quiet. Sad. And alone.
But that had been more than a year ago. Since then, Aziraphale had been on a few dates. He’d even had another boyfriend for a time, one of the local shopkeepers, though it didn’t last. And here he sat, as sad as the day Gabriel walked out.
“We ought to do something,” Mrs Sandwich said. “I’ve got a few blokes on my roster–”
“I don’t think that’s the kind of thing Aziraphale would go for,” Maggie said.
“Oh, you never know,” Nina drawled. “He’s a dark horse, our bookseller.”
They drank their coffee and plotted.
Meanwhile, at the window table, Aziraphale sipped his tea, watched the world go by, and listened to the three women discuss his love life.
He could hear every word they said.
The thing was, the women very nearly had things right. He was miserable, but not for the reasons they suspected. It was true that Gabriel had moved out, but he hadn’t dumped Aziraphale—Aziraphale had thrown him out on his arse.
The man had become insufferable, chastising Aziraphale about everything that made life worth living. Gabriel was always going on about his latest health regimen, while criticising Aziraphale for his love of fine dining and sweets. He badgered him about his lack of physical fitness, and blamed it on his love of reading—and he was a bookseller! Then he started in on his wardrobe. That really was the last straw.
It had been a different story in the beginning. Back then, Gabriel had been in hot pursuit of Aziraphale, and hadn’t stopped until he’d gotten him into bed. It was a quick romance, full of flowers and candlelit dinners. Within six months they were living together. That was when it all changed.
Suddenly, Aziraphale’s body, the one Gabriel hadn’t been able to keep his hands off of, was deemed “too soft.” Fancy dinners and boxes of chocolates were verboten, Gabriel declaring them unhealthy, full of fat and carbohydrates. As for sex, Gabriel began treating it as just another fitness activity. He would vigorously work toward his goal and, after he achieved it, would roll off Aziraphale, smack him on the arse, and say something like, “good job!” before jumping out of bed and heading to the shower.
Finally, Aziraphale couldn’t take it anymore. One morning, when Gabriel began rutting against him in pursuit of a quick round of what would certainly be unsatisfying sex, Aziraphale got out of bed, explained to Gabriel he had until noon to pack up and get out, or he would find himself being escorted out by the local constabulary.
The look of shock on the man’s face made all of the shouting worth it.
Unfortunately, since then, things hadn’t improved. He’d had a few dates that had gone nowhere, and one lackluster relationship with Tim Brown, the carpet salesman up the road. Aziraphale should have known better than to get involved with Tim. Looking back, Aziraphale knew that the man’s moustache should have been a red flag. But against his better judgment, he took Tim up on his offer to meet for coffee. Coffee turned into dinner, and somehow dinner turned into a quick fuck when Tim walked Aziraphale home. Not worth the trouble, really, but need’s must, Aziraphale told himself.
Because he was lonely.
After a few weeks, he and Tim had gotten into a routine that felt increasingly like a rut. Tim very efficiently scheduled sex for Wednesday evenings, the day his shop was the least busy, and therefore the day he felt most amorous. Every week, after a very predictable takeaway curry and an episode of Antiques Roadshow, Tim would slide his arm around Aziraphale’s shoulder, brush his moustache over Aziraphale’s lips, and kiss him with his curry breath.
His moves, if they could be called that, were just as predictable, and when Tim reached his satisfaction, never noticing if Aziraphale had reached his or not, he would quickly dress, say goodnight, and return to his flat. He never stayed over, never contacted Aziraphale through the week, and if they happened meet on the street, Tim greeted Aziraphale as “Mr Fell,” and walked on by.
The relationship, if one could call it that, ended quickly. Thank someone for small favors.
Now, listening to the women from the neighbourhood plotting, Aziraphale wasn’t terribly disturbed. He only hoped they might have more luck arranging his love life than he’d had thus far. Things hadn’t worked out very well, and he wasn’t getting any younger.
If he could put in a request, he would ask that they find him someone who was looking for a reciprocal relationship, a man who wanted a true partnership. Aziraphale was aware of his faults, but he knew he had assets, too.
He thought that he was physically attractive, in his own way. Possibly a bit soft, but some people liked that. He had a kind face, lovely hair (he was a bit vain about his curls), and pretty blue eyes. It wasn’t only that he thought so; he’d been told so by previous lovers and other admirers. As a person, he was kind and loving. He had a good sense of humor, but could also be a bit of a bastard.
What it all came down to, he supposed, was that he wanted to share his life with someone. He wanted a lover, yes, but he also wanted a partner who was also his best friend.
Was this too much to ask? He was starting to think so. But one could hope.
Aziraphale sighed. As he took his cup to the counter to be retrieved by the barista, he turned to the trio of shopkeepers in the corner and waved goodbye. Then he walked across the road to his bookshop where he would spend another afternoon.
Sad. Quiet. And alone.
Months passed and the weather warmed up. One sunny afternoon, Aziraphale noticed a new face in the neighbourhood. And what a face it was. Aziraphale was honest enough to admit, at least to himself, that it wasn’t the man’s face that captured his attention as much as it was the way he moved—all slinky hips and swagger. He was… alluring.
The stranger was dressed all in black despite the heat—tight denim jeans, black t-shirt, and, if Aziraphale wasn’t mistaken, a waistcoat originally meant for a woman. He wasn’t one to designate clothing as “male” or “female”; he only noticed because of the cut and the sides on which the buttons were placed. It was a lovely outfit, and suited the man perfectly, offsetting wavy auburn hair that flowed down to the middle of his back. His eyes were hidden from view behind dark lenses, but he had a strong, aquiline nose and sharp cheekbones. Lithe and lean, he was a vision, and Aziraphale struggled to pull his eyes away.
Not one to gossip himself, Aziraphale knew that sooner or later he would hear something through the grapevine; he needed only bide his time. For now, he could stand by the window and wait for the lovely ginger to walk by as he wandered the neighbourhood. After watching for a day or two, Aziraphale noticed that the man left Mrs Sandwich’s establishment every afternoon.
Ah, that would explain it, then.
He remembered a few weeks ago overhearing Nina say to Maggie that Donna—that is, Mrs Sandwich—had been adding to her roster of young men. It would make sense that such a beautiful man, though not young—he had to be about the same age as Aziraphale, potentially in his early forties—would cater to the whims of men, and possibly women, who would frequent the local bawdy house. And while Aziraphale had never had the pleasure of being entertained by such a one as he, the idea that he could, for the right price, spend a few hours with the ginger became something of an obsession.
He’d been contemplating doing just that, watching the man for not even a week, gathering his courage to go and speak with Mrs Sandwich about how to accomplish such an endeavour, when something completely unexpected happened.
The ginger came to him.
On a completely ordinary Friday afternoon, while he was balancing the books and feeling out of sorts, the shop bell rang and in strode the object of Aziraphale’s obsession. He looked around the shop with an admiring eye, then spotted Aziraphale at his desk and smiled.
“Hello. You must be Aziraphale.”
“I am.” Aziraphale got up and walked towards him slowly, afraid if he moved too fast the man might disappear, like an apparition. “How may I help you?”
“Just stopped by to introduce myself,” the man said casually. “My boss sent me over. She thought we might hit it off.” Aziraphale could have sworn the man blushed when he said this, but that had to be a trick of the light. No man who did what he did for a living could possibly be shy about introducing himself. “I’m Crowley.”
“Nice to meet you, Crowley. Would you care to sit down?”
Oh, my stars. Had those busybodies decided to take things into their own hands? Was Aziraphale supposed to proposition him? Should they head back over to the brothel, or possibly upstairs to his flat? How did this even work? It was as if his every fantasy had come true, and yet now that this was happening, Aziraphale couldn’t fathom what he was supposed to do.
“I like your shop,” Crowley said, looking around. “Very cosy. Old-fashioned.” Aziraphale’s back stiffened at that, and Crowley noticed. He reached out and put a hand on Aziraphale’s arm. The touch burned, traveling to places it had no right to travel. “No, hey. I meant that in a nice way. I like old-fashioned. Makes it special, right? Can’t walk into any shop and buy something old-fashioned, you know?”
Aziraphale did know, and he felt the same way. That’s why he collected first editions, and restored damaged books. It’s why he collected antiques and wore vintage clothes. It was like Crowley said—these things were one of a kind, and all of them were special. Having them made Aziraphale feel special too.
“Just so,” Aziraphale said with a shy smile.
“Yeah,” Crowley said. “‘S why I noticed you, over at Nina’s. The way you dress, it’s a little old-fashioned, but in a good way. A, um, great way.” Crowley ducked his head, and suddenly seemed less sure of himself. He wasn’t very suave for a gigolo, and somehow that made Aziraphale like him even more.
“You, um, noticed me?” Aziraphale asked.
“Oh, yeah. I saw you a couple times, when you went over in the afternoon? Got Earl Grey and Eccles cakes one time, camomile and a lemon drizzle the other.”
“And you remember?” Aziraphale’s head felt light. How was it that this absolute vision of a man had remembered what he ordered at a coffee shop? Or was that part of the service? Observe small things about a client, keep them in mind, flatter them? That must be it. Still, it felt nice to have someone take the time to even bother.
“Well,” Crowley drawled, “it’s not like I remember every order from everyone, but when I see someone I’m interested in–” He cut himself off and looked away shyly.
Aziraphale giggled. Crowley had to be the silliest man he’d ever met. It’s not as if Aziraphale had any experience with men in his line of work, but he was well read, he’d seen movies and plays. He assumed these sorts of men were suave and much more aggressive than Crowley appeared to be.
Oh. But maybe…
Maybe Mrs Sandwich and Nina, and probably Maggie too—those three were often in cahoots—had told Crowley to act reticent and shy around Aziraphale. It’s quite possible they had coached him, told him not to come on too strong. That would be just like them, to watch out for Aziraphale. How sweet. And it did make him like Crowley more, watching him behave this way.
With Crowley acting so unsure—and he was acting—Aziraphale felt brave enough to take charge. Under normal circumstances, Aziraphale knew he would never behave so boldly, but because none of this was real (because he knew that Crowley was getting paid by someone, whether his friends were gifting him the man’s favours or he was going to pick up the tab himself at the end of the night), he felt he could, what do they say? Oh, yes. He could go off script.
“Crowley, if it makes you feel any less shy, I will admit that I have noticed you around the neighbourhood and I have, um, admired you from afar,” Aziraphale said.
A pretty blush coloured Crowley’s cheeks, and Aziraphale felt it was no trick of the light this time. What an excellent actor. And it did encourage him to continue.
“What would you say to having dinner with me? Tonight, if you’re free.”
Crowley looked, for lack of a better word, stunned. “Yeah? I mean, yes, I would be happy to go to dinner with you.”
“Excellent,” Aziraphale said. “Would you like me to pick you up, or–”
“No, that’s all right. I’ll come by here, after you close. If that’s okay.”
"Of course," Aziraphale agreed.
Because of course Crowley wanted to maintain the illusion of this being an actual date, and meeting at the bawdy house wouldn’t work for that. Aziraphale was more than happy to play along, so they agreed on a time, and Crowley was on his way. Aziraphale watched as he walked over to Give Me Coffee. A while later, he came out with a takeaway tray of coffees and headed back to the brothel.
How kind, Aziraphale thought, taking afternoon tea to his coworkers. He is terribly thoughtful. Aziraphale sighed, wishing this wasn’t simply a game. But he would have Crowley all to himself tonight, and that was more than he’d had in a very long time.
When Crowley arrived that evening, Aziraphale noticed he’d changed. His hair was pulled up into a half knot, swept off his lovely face, but it still hung down his back in waves. He was wearing a silky burgundy blouse, tucked into tight black trousers and unbuttoned to show off a sprinkling of cinnamon freckles. His black boots had two-inch heels, giving him an attractive height advantage over Aziraphale—not to mention the incredible things it was doing to his arse. Needless to say, Aziraphale was proud to take his arm as they stepped onto the pavement.
“I’ve made reservations at my favourite Italian bistro,” Aziraphale said. “I hope that’s all right.” He hugged Crowley’s arm and drew him near. He was allowed. He (or someone) was paying for the privilege.
He felt Crowley shiver.
“Ngk.” Aziraphale heard him swallow, then try again. “Yes, that sounds wonderful. Thank you for asking. And for arranging such a nice evening out.”
They soon arrived at the restaurant, and the host led them to an intimate table in the back. He pulled Crowley’s chair out for him, then sat next to him. Sitting this close, he could smell Crowley’s smoky, spicy cologne, and it was intoxicating.
Aziraphale ordered wine and an appetizer, then turned to his companion.
“Do you do this often?”
“What? Go out to dinner?”
“Um, yes, I guess so?” Aziraphale’s question was really about if Crowley often went to dinner with his clients, but he supposed not talking about that was part of the illusion.
“No, not really. I haven’t dated in a long time,” Crowley said.
Oh, this is the game they’re playing: pretending this is a real date.
“What about you?” Crowley asked. “I imagine your dance card is quite full.” He smiled into his wine glass as he looked over it at Aziraphale.
Aziraphale chuckled darkly. “Hardly,” he said. “I’ve rather given up on dating. That’s likely why my friends set us up.”
Crowley looked bemused. “Did they?”
“I’m sorry, what?”
“Did they? Set us up? I only said my boss told me to get on over there and introduce myself.”
“Well, that was enough to set things in motion, don’t you think? I mean, look at you. You’re gorgeous,” Aziraphale said.
Crowley did blush at that. Even the dim lights of the restaurant couldn’t hide it. He took a long drink of his wine and looked at a spot over Aziraphale’s shoulder, seemingly at a loss as to what he might say next. Luckily, their food arrived about that time, and conversation gave way to plates being set before them and wine glasses being refilled.
Aziraphale took the first bite of his entrée, which was, as always, delightful. He closed his eyes and savoured the pasta with tomato sauce rich with basil, garlic, olive oil, and cheese. When he opened his eyes, Crowley was staring at him.
“I’m sorry,” Aziraphale said. “I’ve been told I enjoy my food a little too much.” Now it was his turn to blush, and he dabbed at his mouth with his napkin and put his fork on his plate.
“No, please. My apologies,” Crowley said. “You seemed… enraptured. I was simply enjoying the look on your face. You looked so happy. Why would anyone want to take that away from you?”
Aziraphale’s chest felt warm. What he wouldn’t give for this to be real, for Crowley to honestly care about him, for them to build a relationship. But since that wasn’t possible, he would enjoy this one night, when a beautiful man made him feel cherished and cared for.
Crowley was a wonderful conversationalist. They discussed books and music, and while their tastes weren’t aligned, they still enjoyed debating the merits of different genres and time periods. They did have similar tastes in art, and talked about their favourite artists and museums. Crowley was telling him about a recent visit to one museum when he said something that rather startled Aziraphale.
“We should visit the Tate Modern together,” Crowley said. “I’d really like to get your take on the latest exhibition.”
Aziraphale could feel his eyebrows scrunching together. What was he to say to something like that? Should he pretend to accept the invitation, as if they would go on a date sometime in the future? While he was thinking over this dilemma, Crowley began rescinding the offer.
“Or, no. I mean, of course if you would rather not… I’m sure you are quite busy most of the time.”
What was going on? Why was Crowley acting so flustered? Surely he didn’t expect Aziraphale to agree to something so preposterous. Aziraphale was about to ask what Crowley was playing at when the server came and asked if they would like dessert.
“No, I rather think not,” Aziraphale found himself saying. He had decided when they arrived that he would like to get Crowley home and get what he was paying for, so to speak. “Is that all right, Crowley? Might we head back to my flat for a nightcap?”
Crowley smiled and nodded, and so they headed out. This time, they held hands on their walk, and Aziraphale couldn’t have been happier. While he knew in his heart this wasn’t a date, he was having such a wonderful time that he simply couldn’t find it within himself to care.
When they arrived at the bookshop, he let them in the back way, and they wandered up the staircase to his flat. Once inside, they slipped off their shoes and made their way to the kitchen.
“Your home is lovely,” Crowley said quietly. “I like how cosy it is. It’s very you.”
Aziraphale smiled. He hoped Crowley would keep up the illusion of being on a date for the rest of the evening. It was making him feel much less nervous than he would be otherwise.
“Would you like a drink? We could have a glass of wine.”
Crowley agreed, and Aziraphale got them each a glass, then took Crowley’s hand and led him to the sofa. They sat very close, and Aziraphale slipped an arm around his waist.
“Is this all right?”
“Yes,” Crowley said. He’d taken his dark glasses off much earlier, and sitting this close to him Aziraphale could see his eyes were a very dark amber, just this side of brown, sprinkled with flecks of green and gold. Absolutely gorgeous. He could also see the constellation of freckles spread across Crowley’s cheeks and nose, and suddenly he knew he was going to kiss him.
Aziraphale leaned in and pressed their lips together. Crowley’s were soft and dry, and when he opened his mouth in a small, startled gasp, Aziraphale gently pressed his advantage and slid his tongue inside Crowley’s hot mouth. He tasted like wine and something dark and tempting. Aziraphale pulled him close with the arm wrapped around his waist, and placed a hand on Crowley’s jaw, tilting his head to one side as their kiss went on and on, their tongues gently touching and exploring.
Aziraphale could feel Crowley’s chest rising and falling rapidly, his hands slowly wrapping Aziraphale in an embrace. Crowley sighed as he pressed against him, taking him fully into his arms, and began nipping and kissing Aziraphale’s jaw and neck.
“Oh, angel,”Crowley whispered. “What are you doing to me?”
Aziraphale chuckled. “I think I should ask you what you plan to do to me,” he said. “You’re the professional.”
Crowley went still in his arms, then moved away. He scrambled to the end of the sofa, crossed his arms over his chest, and glared at Aziraphale.
“What did you say?”
“I’m sorry. Was I not to mention that?” Aziraphale asked.
“Mention what, exactly?”
“That you are a, um, gigolo?”
“A what?!” Crowley squawked, jumping up from the sofa, hands on his hips, glowering at Aziraphale.
If looks could kill, Azriaphale thought.
Crowley stood there shaking, not saying a word, and the two of them stared at one another until Crowley turned and stormed over to the alcove where they had left their shoes. He angrily grabbed his boots and tried to shove his feet into them without much luck.
Aziraphale’s blood ran cold. He’d obviously gotten this all wrong. But how? He distinctly remembered Crowley telling him that his boss sent him over to introduce himself because she thought the two of them would hit it off.
“Crowley, stop. I think there has been a terrible misunderstanding.”
“You think?” Crowley said, his face streaked with tears. He mumbled something that sounded very much like, “Thought I was a rent boy.”
Aziraphale’s heart broke.
“Please, tell me one thing,” Aziraphale pleaded. “Who is your boss?”
“Nina, of course. Started working at Give Me Coffee last week.”
Oh, fuck.
Aziraphale slowly approached his fleeing date—and he was a date, a real date—with his hands out in front of him, as if he was trying to calm a wild animal. He had fucked things up so badly that he knew there was very little hope of salvaging the situation, but he had to try. Crowley was the best thing that had happened to him in… well, forever. And this had all been real. From the minute Crowley had walked into the bookshop, offering him compliments and shy smiles, it hadn’t been a dream at all, it had been a dream come true.
“Crowley, I’m so sorry,” Aziraphale began.
“Oh, fuck off.”
“You see, I’ve not had much luck with men–”
“I can’t imagine why,” Crowley said with a sneer, all the while trying to pull on his boots. Finally, he sat on the floor to make the task easier.
“Darling, please, let me try to explain.”
It had to be the darling that did it, because suddenly Crowley gave up on the boots. He looked at Aziraphale from his seat on the floor, his tear-streaked face sad and confused.
“I suppose you can try,” he sniffed. “Good luck with that.”
Aziraphale knew he had one chance, but where should he begin? The beginning, he supposed. He took a deep breath and started.
“Mrs Sandwich has been offering to set me up with one of her young men for simply ages,” Aziraphale said. “What was I to think when I started seeing you around the neighbourhood? You are.. well, you’re lovely enough to be one of hers, you know.” At this Crowley ducked his head, but Aziraphale saw the small smile on his lips. “So when you dropped by the bookshop and said your boss sent you over to meet me, I simply thought… Well, you can imagine what I thought.”
Aziraphale noticed Crowley was listening, and he seemed a bit more calm, so he hurried to continue.
“You were so charming, so sweet and shy when you came into the shop today,” Aziraphale said. “And when you left, you went to Give Me Coffee and then headed straight to the bawdy house. I apologize, but that's when I drew my conclusions.”
“I was taking a coffee order over to Mrs Sandwich, you numpty,” Crowley said in his defense. "For fuck's sake."
Aziraphale gave Crowley a wan smile and shook his head. “I see that now. I also see that I am an idiot.”
Crowley sat on the floor, looking at his feet. He had still only managed to slip on one of his boots. After long minutes of silence, he looked up at Aziraphale.
“You thought I was only nice to you because I was being paid?” he asked. “Why would you think that, angel?”
“I told you. I haven’t had the best of luck with men.” Aziraphale reached out a tentative hand, and when Crowley didn’t pull away, he tucked a stray curl behind his ear. “I was so enchanted by you, I knew it couldn’t be real.”
“Oh, it’s real all right,” Crowley growled, tugging off his boot and standing up, then offering Aziraphale his hand. He led them back to the sofa. “Who treated you so badly, angel? Because I can take care of them. Well, not personally. But I know a guy…”
Aziraphale laughed, then quieted, looking at his trembling hands before asking, “Why do you call me angel?”
“I guess it’s how I see you," Crowley admitted. "I’ve been watching you in the neighbourhood, and you’re very kind. You always have a smile for others, even when you don’t have one for yourself.” Crowley looked down at where their hands rested side by side on the sofa and intertwined their fingers. “The first day I worked at Nina’s, I watched you walk over. You looked so sad, when you were on the road, but the minute you opened the door, you put on a smile for everyone inside. Stole my heart.”
“You saw me?” Aziraphale asked. “Why didn’t I see you? Where have you been hiding?”
“I mostly work in the back, unless I’m making deliveries. I’m Nina’s new baker.”
“So you’re the one making my treats every day.”
“I am. ‘S how I know what you’ve ordered most days. Like I said, I’ve been watching you.” Crowley stopped, then started again quickly. “But not in like, a creepy way! I’m not a stalker!”
Aziraphale laughed and pulled him into his arms. “I never thought you were a stalker, darling.”
“No, I guess not,” Crowley whispered into Aziraphale’s ear. “You thought I was a gigolo.”
Three months later
Aziraphale was having his favourite dream, the one where a beautiful ginger was making love to him, telling him how special he was, how cherished. He snuggled into the duvet, smiling, refusing to open his eyes. It was too perfect.
“Wake up, sleepy head,” Crowley said as he burst into the room, laughing as pulled the duvet off Aziraphale, shaking his snow-covered hair onto him. He threw his head back in delight, laughing while Aziraphale screeched in indignation, then began stripping, which shut Aziraphale right up.
He’d just finished his morning shift at Give Me Coffee, baking the treats Aziraphale enjoyed throughout the day. And if he’d slipped a few into his pockets on the way out and had them waiting, warm, in the kitchen for Aziraphale’s breakfast? That was between Crowley and his angel.
“Are you coming back to bed, darling?” Aziraphale asked, thinking about the dream he’d been having and hoping it might be coming true. It had happened many times before, after all.
“Happy to, but if I do, I promise you won’t be getting any sleep,” Crowley warned. “Gotta earn my rent, don’t I?”
Aziraphale groaned and pulled the duvet over his head. From beneath it he said, “You are never going to let that go, are you?”
“Nope,” Crowley chuckled.
Since their first date, which had almost been their last, Crowley had never let Aziraphale forget that he’d thought Crowley had been sent over by Mrs Sandwich to seduce him.
For money.
The next day over breakfast, Crowley had said, “For fuck’s sake, angel, can’t a man simply want to shag you without you thinking he has to be paid for the privilege?” Aziraphale had been both flattered and mortified.
And so, at every opportunity, Crowley teased him about the misunderstanding. He also made sure Aziraphale understood everything else that had been going on that had contributed to the confusion.
It turned out Crowley hadn’t wanted Aziraphale to pick him up before their date because he was renting the flat above Tim Brown’s carpet shop. Tim had spent the entire week vacillating between telling Crowley that Aziraphale was his “main squeeze,” so hands off and, when it seemed that wasn’t going to work, letting him know that Aziraphale was a “lousy fuck” and he shouldn’t waste his time.
In addition, Crowley admitted that he did, indeed, spend a good deal of time at the brothel, but only as an errand boy for Nina. Mrs Sandwich had tried to recruit him, but when he made it clear his goods weren’t for sale, she had joined in with Nina and Maggie, all of them suggesting he stop by the bookshop and introduce himself to that “terribly attractive but quite lonely Mr Fell.” Eventually, he took them up on the suggestion, and he was very glad he did.
After that first fight, they had kissed and made up, but that didn’t mean Crowley was ever going to let Aziraphale forget what had happened. In fact, he jokingly referred to himself as Aziraphale’s “rent boy,” going so far as to pay his share of the rent in goods and services. As a baker, the goods were pastries, obviously. As his lover, his services were rendered in the bedroom. It didn’t matter that Aziraphale insisted there was no need for Crowley to pay rent, seeing as how Aziraphale owned the building. Crowley told him it was his pleasure to pay what he owed.
“Let’s get you naked,” Crowley said as he slid under the duvet. “It’s the first of the month, and the rent’s due.”
“Stop, you ridiculous man.” Aziraphale tried to sound stern, but he had a smile on his face and he was giggling as he unbuttoned his pyjama top.
“Nope, never going to stop,” Crowley said. “I continue to be obligated to pay my share of the rent on the first of every month. And trust me, it’s my pleasure.”
They were laughing as they started kissing, but then Crowley pulled back, just enough to look into Aziraphale’s eyes.
“I want you to know that while I might tease, loving you is not an obligation, it’s an honor,” Crowley said. “I wake up every morning and thank whoever brought us together that I have another day to show you how much I love you.” He kissed Aziraphale—slowly, softly, sweetly. Then he climbed over him and placed his arms on either side of Aziraphale, grinning while pinning him to the bed, all seriousness gone. “Now, let’s get down to business. I’ve never been late with my rent, and I don’t intend to start today.”
“Silly man,” Aziraphale said fondly as Crowley kissed him. “I’m sure you’re quite caught up on your rent.”
“Can’t be too careful,” Crowley mumbled as he sucked a bruise on his angel’s neck. “Don’t want to lose my lease.”
“Oh, I’m sure your lease is… oh, darling… quite secure.”
They giggled and tumbled about in the bed they shared, but soon no words were spoken. It was clear all of the pretending, all of the playacting, had been tossed aside. This was real, as real as Aziraphale had wanted it to be from the moment he had first spotted Crowley walking on Whickber Street. As real as he had hoped things could be when they were on that first date. As real as any true love story had ever been. And it was his. With Crowley. Who was not his rent boy, but his very heart.