Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Anthony J Crowley was a mess.

Ok, no he wasn’t. He was a super-successful publicist who specialised in helping wannabe celebrities get their 15 (and often much longer) minutes of fame. He had the penthouse office, the Mayfair apartment, his name on the VIP list of every club worth going to in London, New York and LA. At 40, he had his shit together.

He decidedly wasn’t a mess. If he hadn’t had a proper relationship for 20 years, spent most Christmas’ working from his home office and never had anything in his fridge but vodka and champagne, well, that was just a sign of success. Too busy, too in demand. Too successful.

He wasn’t called the Starmaker for nothing.

But recently, Crowley had felt… unsettled. He wasn’t dissatisfied with his perfect flat, his perfect car, his perfect job, and the perfect men he hooked up with on Grindr. Not exactly. He just had a vague feeling something wasn’t quite right. Not quite complete. It was like an itch he couldn’t locate.

A few months earlier, Crowley had been at some house party in LA, and had stumbled upon a weird psychic prophecy thing taking place by the pool. He’d stood at the back and watched at first, snorting his amusement. But because he was drunk and jet-lagged he’d let himself be nudged to sit down on the edge of a lounger. Some pretty young woman with floaty skirts and big black glasses had grabbed his hand and said, completely straight faced:

“You’ll die alone.”

Crowley had tried to laugh it off, but she kept her eyes pinned to him and squeezed his hand. It made him faulter, and his smile became lopsided. “Yeah, s’pect so.” he’d replied wryly, pulling his hand back. He’d gone to stand, but she’d grabbed his wrist again as he was half-way up. He’d lifted an eyebrow, ready to tell her the show was over, but she was unexpectedly grinning up at him.

“It’s ok though,” she’d said. “You just need to find an angel.”

He’d snorted and stalked off.

In Crowley’s line of work he’d had hundreds – thousands – of nonsense conversations with artsy types. He’d seen his share of seances, Ouija boards and spiritual enlightenments (hell, he’d invented a few himself over the years, they were effective in rehabilitating a client’s reputation after all). But for some reason, that young American woman’s words had stuck with him, even after he’d gotten back to London. It was all bullshit of course – she’d recognised him at the party and knew his reputation, that was all. The bit about an angel didn’t even make sense. But the warning he’d ‘die alone’ struck something inside him. Left him niggling at some loose thread.

He’d recently turned 40. Dying was a long way off but maybe, perhaps, he should be in a relationship by now? Someone to share things with. Otherwise, what was the point?

The problem, of course, was that he was too busy to date. He socialised all the time and doing that with someone would be easy enough. The real problem was he was too busy to get to know someone. The idea of multiple awkward meetings, trudging through hours of preliminary conversations only to find out the person on the other side of the dinner table was actually dull or irritating or just… not a good fit. Ugh! What a waste of time. That was why apps worked – straight to the good stuff, skipping all the boring chit chat. But he’d done that for years. None of the guys he’d hooked up with would be good company for a Sunday afternoon. Hell, most of them didn’t even get breakfast. Sex clearly wasn’t the only goal here. It might not, he realised, be the primary goal.

He wanted… someone of his own. Someone he could, maybe, love?

He’d finally found the itch.

Chapter Text

Aziraphale put his teacup down and wiggled in his wing-back chair with a contented sigh, holding the thick cream card in his fingers. Another job well done. This was the third wedding invitation he’d received this year, he thought with no small amount of satisfaction. Another couple he’d matched successfully, a pair of soul mates he’d nudged together.

He stood from the tea table in the corner of his office and padded across the thick carpet to his desk. He turned to the appropriate page in his diary and popped the invitation onto it – he would input the details properly later. Right now, he was expecting a new client. He pulled out his gold pocket watch. Five minutes late.

Ten minutes after that, Aziraphale had finished his tea and was sat back at his desk, putting thoughts of the no-show behind him and getting on with more pressing matters. He had the perfect date to plan, in Edinburgh no less. Not his, of course. Rather, a client who required something special to woo a charming young woman Aziraphale had introduced her to some weeks earlier.

Aziraphale Fell ran the Heavenly Matches agency. Less of a dating agency, more of a bespoke concierge service for one’s love life: he specialised in bringing wealthy, busy, queer professionals together who were looking for a serious, permanent relationship. As apps and algorithms flooded the dating market, Aziraphale’s long-established business flourished doing precisely the opposite – he offered a highly personalised, in-person service, that was both discrete and tasteful. He got to know his clients well before he’d even consider taking them on, and then offered a small number of hand-picked introductions to those who he believed would be suitable. He also planned and organised dates, coached clients in dating techniques, and offered all manner of hand-holding through the first stages of budding relationships. His success rate – measured in long term relationships, weddings and civil partnerships – was unsurpassed.

His services were in such demand among busy professionals, in fact, that he didn’t bother with anything as uncouth as advertising or creating an online presence. His clients came to him through word of mouth, and needed to meet him in person. It was for this reason that no-shows were rare – almost unheard of. But Aziraphale had no need to chase work like a salesman. He was surprised, but not terribly put out.

As if the thought summoned the errant new client, there was a buzz from the ante-office.

“Yes Muriel?”

“Your 2pm is here, Mr Fell.”

Aziraphale's mouth quirked. Muriel never normally introduced people in such a commercial way. They were no doubt making a point (in their sweetly passive-aggressive manner) of noting the time of the appointment, when it was currently thirty minutes past that.

“Ah, yes. Thankyou Muriel. Please do bring them in.”

Aziraphale stood as the thick mahogany door gave a hushed slide and a man appeared. He was tall, Aziraphale noted, Muriel looked tiny beside him. Tall and very slim, in tight black clothes and striking red hair in a high ponytail. Black sunglasses covered his eyes.

Aziraphale excelled at reading people. A cursory look at the man’s posture and clothes, the way his hands flexed at his sides (expensive manicure), the way his eyes moved around the room even behind those glasses (which had stayed on, inside). Aziraphale knew immediately the man was too busy to date, wealthy, and had decided to have someone else manage his love-life. But he was now unexpectedly intimidated by the prospect of an interview. He perhaps assumed it was an online questionnaire – something impersonal and painless. Aziraphale tried to guess which of his previous clients had passed on his details.

He smiled cordially. “Mr Crowley, I presume. Welcome, do come in. Would you like a cup of—” he thought for a moment. “Coffee? I don’t touch the stuff myself, but Muriel tells me our espresso machine is tip-top.”

“Yeah, yes.” Mr Crowley leant forward, putting out his hand. “You can just call me Crowley. Coffee would be great, thanks. Sorry I’m late I had a nightmare getting away.”

Aziraphale took his hand and gave his best calming smile. This man was a ball of energy. “Not a problem, I have no other appointments this afternoon. I’m Mr Aziraphale Fell, but do call me Aziraphale. Muriel, would you be so kind as to make a double espresso for Crowley, and a fresh pot of tea for myself? Thankyou.”

Aziraphale showed Mr Crowley – no, just Crowley – to the tea table, and watched as the man’s eyebrows raised slightly above his black lenses. He obviously assumed they would use the desk. Corporate, Aziraphale thought then, though in the arts, media perhaps? He was dressed too fashionably to be in finance or some such industry.

He lifted his notepad and fountain pen as Crowley settled into the comfortable tartan wing-back opposite his own, and Muriel came silently back into the room to place down their cups and other items onto the table.

As soon as the door clicked shut behind her Crowley said, “How’d you know I drink double espresso?”

Aziraphale chuckled. “Just a hunch. One has to be rather good at reading people in my job. Now then. I’m sure you didn’t expect to be here longer than thirty minutes, so I’ll jump straight to the disclaimer. I only take on new clients who are serious about finding a partner for a long-term relationship. I do not facilitate flings, or a casual arrangements. My clients have come to the realisation that they want to spend their lives with someone else, and a very large number go on to marry the person they have met through my introduction. To achieve this, however, they need to put in some work. There will be no tick-box questionnaire, no algorithm.” He tried to suppress a shudder. “So, Crowley, if that is not what you are looking for, then I suggest we cut our losses now.”

Crowley’s eyebrows were somewhere near his dark red hairline.

Chapter Text

This was the weirdest goddamn dating agency Crowley had ever seen. Ok, so he’d never actually seen a dating agency before – hadn’t that whole industry died out when websites and apps came along? Put in your info, get a match, blah blah?

He’d nearly fallen off his chair when he’d called the mysterious number and a chirpy voice on the line had said - no, he actually had to visit, in person, to be interviewed by Mr Fell himself, before he’d be ‘considered’ as a client. Wasn’t he paying them, for Someone’s sake? A not insubstantial amount of money at that.

He had only called because Nina had given him a thick ivory business card that just read “Aziraphale Fell” with a phone number underneath in embossed gold. On the other side, just a golden line drawing of a pair of wings. No email, no website, not even a bloody company name. Nina had been with Maggie for six years now though, and he knew of no more disgustingly happy queer couple than them. She’d been the first person he’d asked about finding someone dateable, as he’d vaguely remembered the story that she’d met Maggie through a dating agency.

When Crowley had puzzled the problem of wanting a relationship, but not go through all the rigamarole of finding the right person, he thought, why not outsource? He outsourced lots of things he didn’t have time for. Someone else ironed his shirts, didn’t they? Maybe there was a professional out there who could "find me somebody to love", as Freddie Mercury had put it. So he’d approached Nina, and she’d handed over the card with a coy smile. She’d held on to it as he’s gone to take it from her though. “Trust the process, Crowley.” She’d said. “You have to want to do this properly.”

Crowley had sneered at her and tugged the card from her hand. What was that supposed to mean anyway? Of course he wanted to do this properly, otherwise he’d still be using Grindr.

He was second-guessing that decision now, though, as he sat opposite some eccentric professor-type, with fluffy hair and a tartan bowtie that actually matched his chairs. There was no way this posh dandelion was going to be able to help him navigate the gay dating scene.

Aziraphale peered at him over gold rimmed spectacles perched on the end of that ridiculous tipped up nose. He had his pen poised in the air. An actual honest-to-God fountain pen. Crowley wasn’t sure he even still owned a biro. He glanced at the antique desk across Aziraphale’s office for confirmation. Yep, no laptop. No electronics of any kind, in fact. My God, was that a letter opener? Antique furniture, bookshelves (so many books, what was that about?), a carpet thick enough to sleep on. The smell of bergamot and wood polish in the air. Expensive and tasteful. Jesus Christ, was this some secret society he was about to join?

He realised Aziraphale was still waiting for an answer, with an eyebrow quirked, following his opening warning about looking for a proper relationship.

“Uh… yeah? I mean… yes. I’m not looking for a casual arrangement. Serious, me.”

Aziraphale’s expression immediately cleared into the sunniest smile Crowley had ever seen. It lit his whole face – the whole room – and Crowley fought his instinct to smile back.

“Splendid! Now, Muriel did tell me your pronouns were he/him, but I do like to check before we begin.”

At Crowley’s confirmation – since when did a guy in a three-piece suit and gold rimmed spectacles ask about pronouns? – Aziraphale continued with another smile. “Wonderful. Let me briefly outline the process. I’ll take some basic details now, but then I’ll need to get to know you a little more. I find three meetings, informal interviews if you will, give me enough to work with. Once we’ve completed these, I will then curate a selection of candidates that I believe will prove to be a good match for you. You can agree to meet them or not, as you wish. I can also arrange these dates on your behalf – some of my clients would rather not have their secretaries or personal assistants privy to their personal lives.”

Crowley took a sip of coffee – it was really good. Expensive, like everything else in Aziraphale's office. “Sounds painless enough. What if they don’t want to meet me?”

“I only present candidates to you who have already agreed to meet you.” Aziraphale reassured.

“Oh, right. And… do you have lots of clients then?”

Aziraphale’s eyes twinkled. “More than you would imagine, my dear.” He held his pen against his pad and leaned in. “Right then, let’s begin with the preliminaries. First off – may I enquire about the sunglasses?”

Crowley sat in the back of a black cab heading to his next meeting and tapped out a message to Nina.

>>Crowley>> just left some secret office above a Soho bookshop. WTH did you get me into?

>>Nina>> Oh you went to see Aziraphale then?

>>Crowley>> u didn’t warn me some bloke dressed like my granddad would ask me if I topped

>>Nina>> he did NOT ask you that

>>Crowley>> bloody almost. I didn’t have “talking about my sex life with a guy in a bowtie” on my thursday bingo

>>Nina>> Aziraphale’s a gem. won’t have a bad word said about him. and he’s brilliant at what he does. U know he’s God Father to half the posh kids in London?

>>Crowley>> come on

>>Nina>> who do u think introd Ligur to Hastur?

>>Crowley>> u’re shitting me

>>Nine>> Nope. he officiated their renewal of vows last year. take him seriously.

Crowley put his phone back in his pocket and blew out a breath. Hastur and Ligur, bloody hell. Media magnate and film producer, they owned half the Shard and were London’s queer power couple. They had been clients of the cuddly blonde with a fountain pen?

He had exaggerated to Nina a bit, but it was true he’d found the process alarmingly intimate as Aziraphale had calmly asked him about the sort of men he found attractive, and whether a lack of regular sex would be a deal breaker for him. Ugh. He felt his face heat up just recalling how he’d stuttered and made “ngk” sounds as Aziraphale had asked so politely and pleasantly, as if he were asking how the traffic had been getting across town.

He hoped the next interviews (three? Wouldn’t he be bloody dating Aziraphale at that point?) weren’t as uncomfortable as the first one.

Chapter Text

A few days later, Aziraphale had liaised with Adam, Crowley’s young, over-achieving PA, and had managed to get an “afternoon tea” at Aziraphale’s office into his diary for the following week.

Crowley had had a few of those staged afternoon teas at the Savoy and the Dorchester before, where tiny petit-fours were presented on a tiered stand, tea leaves were poured through a strainer and tasted like compost, and you left a few hundred quid poorer. Crowley was a coffee-while-walking forget to eat kind of guy, so he already wasn’t looking forward to it.

He perched at the tea table in Aziraphale’s office again, back straight and making sure to answer in proper sentences. But after a pot of very good coffee, some prawn sandwiches and a warm scone, Crowley found himself slouched in the comfortable wing-back telling Aziraphale about his “die alone” prophecy from the weird American brunette.

“What a morbid thing to tell someone! And a complete stranger at that?” Aziraphale patted his mouth with his napkin and tutted. “Would you like a shortbread? Perhaps another scone?”

“Yeah I know! Never met her before and she just grabbed me. No I’m stuffed, thanks. I’m a sucker for a prawn sandwich.”

Aziraphale’s eyes twinkled. “Yes I conversed with your PA. I am a professional, you know.”

Crowley snorted and realised he had started to quite like the man. He was warm and polite, but that little bit of snark was particularly charming. He went on: “So I didn’t think anything of it, she said something about finding an angel? All nonsense. But well, I’m not getting any younger. And the fact I don’t have… someone… had sort of been niggling at me for a while.”

“Perhaps it wasn’t nonsense then,” Aziraphale said kindly. “If it got you thinking and brought you here.”

Crowley gave a non-committal “hmm” and took another sip of coffee.

“And do you know, it’s rather funny. I’m actually named after an angel. Religious upbringing. That’s why I named the place ‘Heavenly Matches’. A match made in heaven, and all that.”

“Really? Huh.” Crowley grinned. “What a coincidence. That'd explain the wings on your business card then. Oooh can I call you angel?” Shit. Was he flirting?

Aziraphale chuckled bashfully and went slightly pink. Shit.

“You may if you wish. My name is rather a mouthful. Some of my clients have called me a guardian angel, I don’t mind that. I must put my foot down at Fairy Godfather though.”

Crowley put his head back and laughed, glad Aziraphale had saved them from things getting weird. He went to readjust his glasses, then realised he wasn’t wearing them.

Crowley was surprised when the hour was up, double checking his heavy watch when Aziraphale declared the session over. He was equally surprised, when Aziraphale suggested next time they go for brunch, that he was actually looking forward to it.

That hadn’t been an interview, he thought on his way back to the office. It had been a chat, a really nice one at that. In spite of the formal beginnings, Aziraphale’s assured manner and dry sense of humour had put Crowley at ease. The confident, brash persona Crowley slipped on like armour when handling his clients never got an airing. Under Aziraphale's twinkly eyes and indulgent chuckles Crowley went from awkward to “I can tell this man all the embarrassing stuff and have a good laugh about it” in the space of an hour. By some miracle he'd bypassed all the bullshit he usually went through before making a real friend.

Crowley hoped that was a good omen for his own dates. The easy familiarity he’d started to develop with Aziraphale, without having to keep up appearances, was exactly what he was looking for in a partner, wasn’t it?

A week later he walked to the Scandinavian bakery near his office, scanned the room and spotted a mass of white-blonde curls obscured by a menu. He dropped straight into the chair opposite Aziraphale and grinned at him as he looked up. “I’m not late am I?”

“No my dear, right on time.” Aziraphale gave him his patented twinkly smile and they dived straight into conversation about how Crowley’s week at work was going, stopping only to order cinnamon buns and open sandwiches.

It was while he had paused to shove half a smoked salmon on rye into his mouth that Crowley realised they had talked a lot about his work, his work colleagues, his working from home and then his flat… but had barely talked about Aziraphale. He said as much, and Aziraphale laughed.

“Did you forget this is part of the interview process, Crowley?”

“Um…” Crowley wiped his mouth on his napkin.

“We’re here to talk about you, not me. I need to get to know you better so I can match you with the right person.”

“Oh yeah, I suppose. Just feels… a bit one-sided I guess.”

“If this was a date, I’d wholeheartedly agree.” Aziraphale chuckled. “Don’t do this with the clients I set you up with. That’s free advice.”

Crowley grinned. “Gotcha.”

“Now then, you were telling me about how you won your first client?”

The hour slipped by again, Aziraphale making their conversation feel like a natural (albeit slightly one-sided) chat rather than a Q and A session. Aziraphale would give an opinion or titbit of information to allow Crowley to share his thoughts in return, rarely asking a direct question. The snippets Aziraphale did share, though, were fascinating. He was clearly very well educated, very well bred (a completely different background to Crowley), but readily laughed at himself and put on no airs and graces. To Crowley’s delight, there was the occasional hint that Aziraphale was also just a little bit of a bastard.

Crowley had to stop himself a few times from saying “enough about me, what about you?”, remembering Aziraphale wasn’t his friend, this wasn’t a casual brunch date, they weren’t getting to know one-another. Which was a shame, really. Crowley watched as Aziraphale hummed and wiggled his shoulders in the most adorable way when he ate something he enjoyed. Aziraphale, Crowley realised, was entirely unselfconscious and comfortable in his own skin, a subtle confidence which Crowley found rather compelling.

A week after their brunch date (no, interview), they met for the third and final time at a bar near Crowley’s Mayfair flat. Over sherry (Crowley teased Aziraphale for that) and whiskey, they began talking and laughing as one hour turned into two, bickering amiably over their thoughts on music and literature, films and TV. Crowley found himself dying on hills he hadn’t given any thought to before, just to provoke Aziraphale’s outrage and waspish replies. At one point Crowley said something provocative about Jane Austen and Aziraphale (completely unironically) put his hand to his chest and gasped, clutching invisible pearls. Crowley threw his head back and cackled uncontrollably.

“Oh you fiend!” Aziraphale chortled. “You’re doing this on purpose!”

“Ok maybe a bit.”

“I shall be making a stern note in my file, dear boy. Honestly. Besmirching Jane’s good name.”

“I'm just saying, Angel, I think she must have had a secret other life, you know? It can't all have been sighing out of windows and waiting to be asked to dance.”

“Well say what you like, if it weren’t for Emma I wouldn’t be sitting with you now.”

“What, really? You decided to become a match maker because of Emma?" Crowley hooted. "Of course! She was so good at it.”

“Ah! so you have read Austen, then.”

“Of course I have! Are you accusing me of baseless besmirching?”

Aziraphale raised an eyebrow at that and Crowley answered him with an unselfconscious grin, letting all of his teeth show.

“Well,” Aziraphale went on, “In any case, ‘It's such a happiness when good people get together’ just struck a chord with me. I had a hard time finding people…. Like me when I was growing up, so once I had a circle of friends at university I introduced people to one another all the time. I didn’t think I could actually make a business of it until I left. It was either that, or run the bookshop downstairs.”

“Wait, you own the bookshop underneath your office?”

“Yes my dear, didn’t you see the family name over the door? I inherited the whole building. I’m not very good at selling books, so I leave that side of things to a manager and concentrate on the upstairs.”

Aziraphale cleared his throat then and took a sip of his sherry, perhaps noticing he’d started sharing more about his own background than he’d intended. But Crowley just had more questions – what did Aziraphale study at university? How and when did he inherit a substantial chunk of real estate in Zone 1? How do you start a “match making” business anyway? Was he “matched” himself? Aziraphale answered good naturedly but after an all too brief detour into his life, they segued into the fraught territory of film adaptations, and Crowley had thoughts to share.

As the evening wore on, Crowley tried to remember Aziraphale was making a mental note of everything he said. He really did. But this was their third meeting, and he'd become so comfortable with the man that after a few whiskeys, Crowley found himself opening up about the difficult relationship he had with his parents, and admitting things he hadn’t really said out loud before. He made people famous for a living, but he hated the idea of being well known himself. He didn’t actually like the music his biggest clients were known for. He rather enjoyed growing potted plants on his balcony.

He stumbled over his words a bit when he caught himself admitting some of these particularly uncool truths. But Aziraphale – ever the professional conversationalist - would lean forward conspiratorially and share something that would put Crowley at ease and lighten the mood.

“I once cared for a succulent for a year before I realised it was artificial. I did wonder why it looked so hale and healthy, I’ve killed every other plant I’ve ever owned.”

His little asides often had Crowley choking on his drink and wiping tears from his eyes.

Beneath the fluffy, old fashioned exterior, Aziraphale was clever and funny, kind and acidic. Crowley couldn't remember the last time he'd had such a good night.

Chapter Text

Aziraphale looked over his hand-written notes in the A J Crowley file, spreading the separate sheets out across his desk and brandishing his highlighter. To his right, a small stack of client files ready to be cross-referenced as possible matches.

The three meetings had gone very well. As was standard practice, Aziraphale hosted the first over tea and cake in his office, the second at brunch near Crowley’s office to assess how he acted in “work” mode, and the last after work, where Aziraphale got to see Crowley in the evening and with a few drinks. This helped provide a more rounded picture of Crowley’s personality. He never took notes at these meetings – having someone scribble while you spoke tended to ruin the mood somewhat – so he came back to his office after each session and wrote four or five sides of information and impressions while everything was still fresh in his mind.

He had to admit that he had enjoyed himself immensely. This part of his job was never a chore (going for meals and drinks with lots of interesting new people was the main perk of the job, if anything) but meeting with Crowley had been particularly pleasant. Crowley was just lovely. Charming, really. Once you got past the reserve and awkwardness (expected from someone who hadn’t dated very much) he was fabulous company. Aziraphale hadn’t laughed so much in ages, and he’d been in this game long enough to recognise natural rapport when he saw it.

He'd even drunk a little too much at their last meeting and had started to talk about his own life, slipping into easy companionship and forgetting what he had been there to do. That hadn’t happened before. His notes after that meeting were wonky and effusive (he’d even used exclamation marks). They just served to remind him how much fun he’d had.

This made Aziraphale’s job easy, of course. He didn’t foresee having any problem finding Crowley the perfect match – he could think of half a dozen clients who would be thrilled to date him. He smiled down at the photo of the man himself, pinned to the front of the brown card file on his desk. All angular lines and smirk. And of course those pale eyes. It had been a delight when Crowley had dispatched with the dark glasses to reveal expressive whiskey coloured eyes. Aziraphale noted Crowley would always arrive to their interviews wearing them, but immediately pull them off once he’d sat down.

In another life (one where he didn’t know he was distinctly not what Crowley was looking for in a man, and where he wasn’t being paid to find his Mr Right) Aziraphale would have been rather taken with the redhead himself. As it was, he simply tried not to be unusually effusive when describing Crowley to potential matches that afternoon. Crowley was objectively very handsome, and funny, and sweet. Aziraphale didn’t need to add his own personal infatuation to the mix.

Chapter Text

Crowley had met Aziraphale for drinks on Friday, then spent the weekend feeling antsy. Even tending to his hangover on Saturday morning wasn’t enough to keep him occupied. He didn’t feel like browsing Grindr (not now he’d decided to give this relationship thing a whirl), and he wasn’t spoilt for choice when it came to friends he could take for a quiet dinner. A result of twenty years socialising for work purposes, he knew thousands of people, but very few well enough to call up on a whim and invite out for a bite to eat.

More than once, he thought of Aziraphale. His three dates – not dates, for Someone’s sake, informal interviews – had brought it home to Crowley how much he enjoyed just sitting and chatting with someone who he could relax with. He hardly ever did that. And that was all dating was (at least to start off with) wasn’t it?

Crowley wondered whether this whole dating thing was going to be as difficult as he’d feared. He’d met Aziraphale, a perfect stranger, in very "date like" settings. And they were able to chat happily for ages. There were no awkward pauses, no misunderstandings, and they’d set themselves off into fits of giggles more than once. And that was despite the fact he and Aziraphale clearly had nothing in common, and weren’t interested in each other in that way. It gave him high hopes that real dates, with the men Aziraphale picked for him, would be just as good - no, better – because they would be his type and have the same background and interests.

Crowley imagined the future he’d described over brunch a couple of weeks earlier. Wouldn’t it be great to have someone who he could hang out with when he wasn’t working? A companion for dinner, drinks, theatre trips (the funny ones), the opening of Kew Gardens? (that had been Aziraphale’s suggestion, the clever bastard, as Crowley now realised he’d identified Crowley’s secret interests a week before he’d drunkenly admitted to them). And when he came home, someone to watch TV with, cook with? Aziraphale was very fond of crepes, apparently, and Crowley could imagine getting up and sharing kitchen space with a partner to make something like that for breakfast.

Instead of that, Crowley spent the weekend kicking around his flat alone. He worked, scolded his plants, watched TV in his pyjama bottoms, and waited restlessly for Aziraphale’s call. Now he’d set the ball rolling, he wanted to start the whole dating business as soon as possible. Meeting with Aziraphale had shown him that the gap in his life he’d barely been aware of was actually a black hole – big enough that it had just swallowed his whole weekend. The sooner he found the right person to fill it, the better.

He didn’t have to wait long. On Monday, as he strolled through the lobby towards his office, Adam appeared from the ether to hand him his coffee and paperwork. On the top of the pile was a post-it which just said:

Aziraphale

Crowley waved the note in his fingers. “What’s this? Have you forgotten how to take messages?”

Adam ignored him. “He called first thing. I know you have his number and how many other Aziraphale's do you know? He asked you call him ‘at your earliest convenience’.”

Crowley pulled a face at his assistant - who was realy very good, despite the attitude - and kicked his office door shut behind him. He pulled his mobile from his pocket before he’d even turned on his laptop.

After exchanging pleasantries with Muriel, Aziraphale’s perky assistant, he'd been put through to Aziraphale. It turned out he'd had a much more interesting weekend than Crowley, visiting an antique book auction. Crowley was stunned by the astronomical price of the rare books Aziraphale was telling him about, and he'd kicked his feet up onto his desk to quiz him further. But after a while Aziraphale stopped abruptly mid-anecdote and gave a huff of amusement. "Well we seem to have gotten onto quite a tangent, my dear. You know it's a risky endevour getting me talking about books. So to business. I’ve got a selection of clients who would be delighted to meet you, I’d like to share my top three recommendations.”

Crowley was slightly embarrassed for assuming he'd just called for a catch up. “That was quick!” he said instead.

“I knew it would be. You’re quite the catch. The hard part will be choosing between them.”

Crowley laughed and swung his legs over the arm of his chair. “You flatter me Angel. I hope you didn’t talk me up too much.”

He heard Aziraphale’s musical chuckle down the line. “I just gave an honest appraisal of your good qualities, my dear. Your photo alone did a lot of the leg-work.”

Crowley felt his cheeks get warm and was glad Aziraphale couldn’t see him. A forty year old blushing? How ridiculous.

“Well then, um… what next?”

“I’ll send you their details, just let me know if you’d like me to follow up with any.”

Crowley wondered how Aziraphale would send details – carrier pigeon? But not 10 minutes after they'd said goodbye he had an email from Muriel, who fortunately had been introduced to the 21st century. Three men’s profiles in an attachment – Aziraphale’s top three recommendations. And they were all... perfect, actually. They had corporate backgrounds, were busy like him, looking for something more stable. They liked doing the same things, even went to the same restaurants, and all three were objectively hot. Crowley was impressed - this was why Aziraphale's services were in demand.

After dithering and feeling spoilt for choice, Crowley finally chose Joshua Dagon. A publicist like Crowley, but specialising in athletes (plenty to talk about, but no professional overlap - Aziraphale was bloody good at this, Crowley thought) and emailed Muriel to let them know. Crowley figured if he was going for peek laziness with his love life he might as well go all out, and have Aziraphale arrange a date for him and Josh too. Before he knew it, Aziraphale had managed to work miracles and collate two busy diaries, getting him and Josh in the same place at the same time – a Sushi bar in Covent Garden- by the end of the week.

And Josh was lovely, really. They had lots in common (they both liked sushi), knew lots of the same people. They had even been to the same exhibition recently and had much the same opinions on it. They both had a laugh about how weird their first meeting with Aziraphale had been. “Honestly I thought I was being recruited for MI6 or something,” Josh gasped, wiping his eyes as Crowley (using his sunglasses as a prop) did his impression of Aziraphale looking at him over his spectacles. “There isn’t even a sign on the door on the road, is there. That should’ve been a red flag.”

They’d clearly both been a bit nervous at the start of dinner so had gone hard on the saké – by the time they’d finished eating and stumbled out into the crowded pavements of Covent Garden, Crowley was tipsy enough to lean into Josh’s kiss outside the tube station. And it was… nice.

Once Crowley had gotten back to his flat, though, he knew he’d decline a second date. Aziraphale asked his clients to provide feedback after first meetings, and arrange any second dates with him. After that, clients were left to make arrangements on their own. So Crowley was expecting Aziraphale’s call when it came through on Saturday afternoon.

“Hello Crowley, I didn’t wake you did I?”

“It’s nearly two in the afternoon, Angel. I’m not a teenager.”

“Well I thought I’d let you sleep off the saké.”

“How did you… Have you spoken to Josh then?”

Aziraphale chuckled “Not yet. You're both the type to have a tipple to get over your nerves. Anyway my dear, how did it go?”

“Oh er… fine. Yeah. He was… nice.”

“Oh! That’s good.”

“Nyeehhh… nice is a four letter word, Angel.”

“I don’t follow.”

“Don’t get me wrong, he’s…” Crowley struggled for a word that wasn’t “nice” – “Great. Really. But we agreed on everything.”

“You wanted someone you ‘saw eye to eye with’” Aziraphale was quoting Crowley back to himself and he pulled a face at his plants.

“Can we adjust that slightly then? things in common, but also like to be challenged a bit?”

“Challenged?”

“Yeah. You know. Being able to discuss different ideas and opinions. Learn new things. Josh and I were just too similar. There was no room for debate on anything. Seriously, it felt like that bit in American Psycho where Patrick Bateman gets mistaken for the other corporate guys because they all look the same and do the same things.”

“Are you talking about the book or the film?”

“Oh please don’t start with you film adaptation snobbery this early in the day.”

“It’s nearly two in the afternoon, Crowley, you’re not a teenager.” Aziraphale parroted back dryly.

Crowley grinned into the phone, then sighed, "I’m sorry, Angel. There was just no chemistry there. Nice guy just not… ngyyhh..”

“It’s perfectly alright, dear, there’s no need to apologise.”

“He was perfect on paper. That’s why I went for him. Honestly, you’re definitely on the right track.”

“I quite understand. I’ll let Mr Dagon know. Now, in the light of your feedback, I would suggest you next look at Eric Harper. Muriel should have sent you his details on Monday.”

Chapter Text

Crowley had a headache and they hadn’t even finished their mains. He’d spent over an hour trying to get a conversation going with Eric, and had just about given up.

Once again – the man looked great on paper. A head of design at a publishing agency, Crowley thought he’d be arty and creative and interesting. Aziraphale had told him they had quite different backgrounds, so would have much to discuss, but Eric was laid back enough for it not to cause any real friction. It turned out Eric was so laid back he was horizontal.

Eric was a vegan. Aziraphale had sent them to a cantina with extensive plant-based options and (no doubt thinking of Crowley) a whiskey tasting bar. But when the waiter brought out their meals and had somehow managed to mess up Eric’s order by putting cheese on the onion tartlet, Eric had just shrugged and picked it off. Why did that irritate Crowley so much? He usually hated people who made a scene in restaurants.

Crowley assumed his meat-eating ways would at least cause some debate between them – he’d never met a vegan who hadn’t tried to convert him – but Eric had just shrugged again and used some platitude about everyone being different.

Thing was, Crowley wasn’t naturally argumentative. But Eric’s infuriatingly unruffled attitude made Crowley want to be perverse for the sake of it. He started with gentle teasing like he might with Aziraphale. It seemed to go over Eric's head. He gradually escalated (through desperation for a reaction, or perhaps boredom) to picking fights, but the man just couldn't be baited.

At one point Crowley thought perhaps he wasn’t being fair on the man. Lord knew he was a ball of over-worked energy a lot of the time, perhaps someone as calm as Eric would be a good foil for him? But as the dinner dragged to a close, Crowley felt like he’d scream if he saw those (admittedly broad and attractive) shoulders shrug one more time and offer up a vague, monosyllabic answer.

He said as much to Aziraphale when they spoke on the phone the next day.

“Yes he did say you seemed a little…. combative.” Aziraphale replied lightly.

Crowley whined. “I’m sorry! He just brought out the worst in me.”

“How do you mean?”

“I mean.... I tried to provoke him. Just a bit!" he added as he heard Aziraphale take a breath down the line, no doubt to tell him off. "He just didn't get cross about anything! Even things he should have done. Ok Imagine you’re in a restaurant and you order something with no cheese. And when the food comes out, it’s covered in cheese. What do you do?”

“I like cheese.”

“I know you do Angel. This is hypothetical.”

“Well I’d send it back, obviously.”

“Obviously.” Crowley mimicked. “Eric just picked it off. He’s vegan for Someone’s sake! He didn’t want to make a fuss.”

“Not making a fuss can be an amiable quality.”

“Ok new requirement then. I want someone fussy.”

“I distinctly recall you accused me of being 'pernickety' when I asked for a clean glass at the bar the other week.”

“Well you are pernickety!”

“I have standards! In any case – you did not say it in a way that implied ‘fussy’ was a good quality.”

“Nyyuuhhh! See? It’s me. I’m impossible to please. And an argumentative bastard apparently.”

“Pish posh. You were perfectly lovely when we went out.”

“Yes Mr Dating Professional everyone’s their best with you.” Crowley sighed. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to be…. I thought this would be easier.”

“It’s ok, Crowley. We’re looking for marriage material here, not a… a… ‘hookup’. I’d be surprised if the first or second person you met was your Mr Right.”

Crowley smirked at the way Aziraphale said 'hookup' so primly and listened to the swooshing of paper down the line. It was true both Josh and Eric would have been definite hookup material. In spite of Crowley telling Aziraphale there had been no chemistry with Josh, he hadn't meant of the physical type. Even Eric, as bland as he was, was undeniably hot. Crowley would have happily spent a night with either of them and forgotten them before breakfast.

Aziraphale spoke again, “I’m looking at your notes. Now then. You said want someone you have things in common with - but you’ve discovered you don’t want someone exactly like you. You want someone who isn’t complicated, I think that was the word you used, but we’ve found you don’t want someone who’s entirely straightforward or too laid back. Am I correct?”

“Yeaaahh I guess. Am I looking for someone who doesn’t exist?”

“Absolutely not, my dear. You’re simply refining the parameters of your search. It’s very common for people who haven’t dated very much.”

“Now you make me sound like some inexperienced—” he was interrupted by Aziraphale’s delicate snort, which he quickly masked with a cough.

“I heard that.”

“Apologies my dear, I drank my tea too quickly.”

“You don’t drink tea at your desk, you’re too worried about cups marking the patina.” Crowley narrowed his eyes and grinned into the phone, knowing he'd caught Aziraphale out.

“How do you know I’m at my desk?”

“Because you use a bloody chorded landline. Just admit you were laughing because you think I’m a slut.”

Crowley heard a gasp down the line and couldn’t hold back his answering hoot of laughter.

“There’s no need to be vulgar, Crowley.”

“Ha! You were laughing though. Some dating guru you are, slut-shaming your clients.”

“I’m… I would never…”

Crowley felt his smile turn fond as he reassured the man flailing on the other end of the line. “S’alright Angel. Was just teasing you. Still, I think we’ve worked out I have great taste on Grindr, not so much with dating.”

He heard Aziraphale sigh. “You really are a menace sometimes. Look, some of my clients have been married for twenty years, but went through a dozen candidates before they found the right one.”

“A dozen? Bloody hell. That’s a lot of dinners.”

“I’m sure it won’t be that long, my dear. We’re definitely getting closer to a match, I’m certain of it. And what’s a few more dates if it leads to a lifetime with your soul mate?”

“Well when you put it like that. Not sure I believe in soul mates though.”

“You will when you meet him. I’ll find you the right man, Crowley. Trust me.”

“I do.”

Chapter Text

Aziraphale looked down at the contents of the A J Crowley file scattered across his desk. His hand-written notes were now covered with red pen amendments, additions in the margins, and crossings-out. Aziraphale knew he’d been on the right track with his top three picks – but after feedback from all parties from the first two dates, he was reluctant to send Crowley on a date with the third candidate he’d originally selected.

He puzzled over why his matches weren’t matching. This did happen occasionally, and client requirements were adjusted over time, of course. But Crowley’s original idea of a perfect partner was so very different from what he was now saying he liked and sought in a man.

Josh Dagon had been surprised Crowley hadn’t wanted a second date – he’d said they’d gotten on well, they had lots to talk about, lots in common. Aziraphale had been equally baffled when he’d tried to explain to Josh Crowley’s lack of enthusiasm. Eric Harper, on the other hand, hadn’t wanted a second date – Crowley had been ‘picky and argumentative’, he’d said, and Aziraphale struggled squaring Eric’s impression of Crowley with his own. Crowley was perfectly charming, he’d told Eric, though on reflection, was quite partial to teasing. When he’d tried to explain to Eric that teasing (for some people) was a form of flirting, Eric hadn’t really understood. Admittedly, Aziraphale had previously written “has a rather simple sense of humour” in Eric’s file, but he hadn’t originally considered this to be a major obstacle when matching him with Crowley.

What was he missing? Aziraphale rose from his desk and paced his office, pausing to look down at the foot traffic of Whickber street from his window. Perhaps the nerves of a real date were uncovering some of Crowley’s personality traits that Aziraphale simply hadn’t seen? No, that didn’t seem right. Aziraphale was experienced enough to take such things into account – Crowley wouldn’t have been that different. Even when thrown into an unfamiliar situation he was still funny and charming and… Good Lord.

Aziraphale put his hand to his mouth and frowned. Was his own affection for Crowley blinding him to the man’s so-called faults? Was he biased in exaggerating his good qualities, and inadvertently picking the wrong men for him? Or perhaps he had he been too effusive in his description, and led Josh and Eric into believing Crowley was something he wasn’t? Could it be his fault that his natural matchmaking talent had deserted him with Crowley, of all clients? Or was it simply, as he'd first assumed, that Crowley was experiencing a very steep learning curve as he began to date seriously for the first time?

Aziraphale couldn’t be certain that he wasn’t playing at least some a part in this problem, and that was alarming. It would be highly unprofessional if he’d done a disservice to Crowley - not to mention Mr Dagon and Mr Harper, who were also his clients and needed just as much consideration.

Aziraphale tugged at bottom of his waistcoat. This would never do. His next selection would be made with the utmost care and objectivity. He was a professional, after all. Any infatuation or… whatever these feelings were for Crowley were entirely irrelevant.

Aziraphale turned from the window and made his way to the walk-in cupboard behind his desk where files of clients lined the wall. He disliked filing cabinets and preferred his shelves, even if Muriel happened to call it his library of lonely hearts. He ran his finger along the alphabetised spines until he found the one he was after.

Aziraphale sat at his desk and lifted his trusty highlighter. Before he began, however, he put the photo of Luke Morningstar next to Crowley’s. They made a dashing couple, Aziraphale thought. Both striking in their own ways, physically compatible. Luke was tall dark and handsome - exactly Crowley’s type. Not short blonde and round. He tutted at his own foolishness and flipped open Luke's file, popping his glasses onto his nose.

Aziraphale had hesitated to include Luke in his first three recommendations. He was now able to admit to himself (with a new sense of clear eyed self-recrimination), that he had done so because he'd felt a little protective of Crowley. Luke was quite the personality. He was in finance, and he was successful and competitive. He didn’t particularly like the fact he’d had to turn to Aziraphale to “fix” his love life, as he put it. He was confident and bold, sometimes a little predatory. He also had little regard for positions of authority and could be blasé about rules. But perhaps this was what Crowley was looking for? Perhaps Josh and Eric had been a little too pleasant, too middle of the road. It had been Aziraphale’s fault to assume those men would be compatible with Crowley’s own brand of charm, the thoughtfulness he kept hidden behind his grouchy exterior. Crowley was clearly seeking something more challenging, even if he hadn’t realised it himself.

But it was Aziraphale’s job to deduce such things when his clients weren’t able to - and it was high time he did his job.

Chapter Text

Luke was perfect on paper. But after Josh and Eric, that made Crowley nervous. They met at a high-end fusion place Aziraphale had arranged for them, ordered drinks at the bar and talked over their menus, and it started to dawn on Crowley that the man actually was perfect, in real life.

Luke was hot, busy, rich – those were a given, and yes Crowley realised how spoilt he was having Aziraphale hand pick the top bachelors in London for him. But he was also confident, funny, interesting, and argued amiably with Crowley when they disagreed on something. He ticked all the boxes. Did he mention hot? The man didn’t have a black hair out of place and Crowley could have sliced their ciabatta on his jaw.

Crowley felt vaguely intimidated. He tried to channel Aziraphale’s energy – confident and relaxed with someone unfamiliar. When that failed, he pretended he was actually with Aziraphale, where he could be comfortable and funny and himself. But bloody hell it was tough not to perform like he would in front of a big work client. Their waitress stuttered and blushed through their order and Crowley felt a wry sort of kinship with her. He tried not to throw his leg over the arm of the chair or say something nonsensical. He must have been doing something right though, as Luke kept holding eye contact a beat too long.

At one point between courses, Crowley had a weird impulse to talk to Aziraphale - his hand even closed around his phone in his jacket pocket. He couldn't work out if he wanted to tell Aziraphale the date was going well so he would be pleased, or if he wanted reassurance that he was doing it right.

“So, what do you think of Aziraphale?” Luke asked suddenly then, as if he could read Crowley's mind. Crowley couldn't stop himself smiling, even though he was slightly startled at having the object of his thoughts brought into conversation.

“He’s great.”

“Oh yes, he’d brilliant at what he does.” Luke agreed. “I swear than man works miracles getting tables at Dabbous.”

“I also meant like, he’s great. Really kind. But also hilarious.”

Luke snorted, “Yeah he makes me laugh with all his odd habits. He’s pretty eccentric. Actually make that a lot eccentic. Did you know he commissioned his own family tartan?”

“Huh? you mean on the chairs? and the—”

“Bowties, yeah! And the picnic set.”

“How did you see Aziraphale’s picnic set?!”

Luke burst into laughter, “I hope that’s not a euphemism. Anyway that's a long story - he took me on a 'practice date', after my first couple of matches thought I moved too fast."

Crowley didn't bother with the 'too fast' comment - he was waylaid by hearing that Aziraphale took his clients on actual dates.

"What's a 'practice date'?"

"Oh," Luke made a vague gesture with his arm and leant back in his chair. Crowley registered how the muscles in his shoulders moved under his black silk shirt. "Another one of the services he offers. You just go out and pretend like it's a real date, carry on conversations like you're dating rather than the interviews you have at the start."

Aziraphale and Luke went on a date. Did Aziraphale tell Luke all about himself? Did they flirt? Something about that made Crowley uncomfortable, but he couldn't work out what. Luke was still talking though, so he didn't have time to unpack it any further.

"He took me on a picnic, complete with tartan set, to explain the finer points of romance. Seriously damaged my cred." Luke laughed and Crowley managed what he hoped was a natural looking smile. "I told him I couldn't pretend like it was a date as I'd never go on a date with someone like him, but he just told me to imagine I was with someone more my type. Then he gave me feedback about my conversation and body language while we were sitting there, which was kinda weird." Luke shrugged before he added reluctantly, "I guess it... did help though. He know's what he's doing. He's just really odd. I mean, who has a bespoke tartan picnic set?"

“I just think he’s kind of… quirky.” Crowley tried not to sound too defensive, but the attraction he'd felt towards the objectively hot man sitting opposite him cooled at the dismissive way he spoke about Aziraphale.

“Hmm. Maybe that’s a nicer was of saying eccentric." Luke gave him a winning smile. "And you can forgive a lot when he’s so good at his job, right? He matched us, after all.”

Crowley was about to argue that there was nothing to "forgive", but Luke held his gaze for another long moment and put his hand over Crowley's where it rested on the table. The conversation moved on.

Luke was flirty and charming for the rest of the dinner, and was sharp enough for Crowley to understand why Aziraphale had suggested him as a match. Crowley thought he could if not fall for Luke, then possibly saunter downwards.

They shared a cab back to Mayfair and Luke snogged him in the back. Crowley kept repeating the words he’s perfect, he’s a match, this is it over and over in his head. But when they arrived at Luke's place, he invited Crowley to come up. Time seemed to stand still. Crowley was looking at himself, and Luke, and saw their future in front of him. It was the one he'd imagined - two busy lives, sharing leisure interests in their time off. Matching suits and expensive kitchenware. But something about it was off. It was like it was in black and white, not colour. Luke might make crepes for breakfast with him, but he wouldn't sit at their breakfast bar and hum and wiggle his appreciation when he ate them. Luke might enjoy having plants in the flat, but he wouldn't play good cop when Crowley snapped at them to grow better. They would have a Keurig machine, but there wouldn't be a teapot.

With a weird sort of disconnect, Crowley opened his mouth and declined Luke’s offer, citing an early appointment the next day. It was the easiest lie he'd ever told. But then Luke broke Aziraphale’s rule and asked Crowley for second date, right there in the taxi. Crowley hadn't expected it. He agreed. A knee-jerk reaction. But the car had barely pulled away from the curb before he was calling Aziraphale’s number in a panic.

Only when there was no answer did he realise it was nearly 11pm. Shit.

Chapter Text

“Is he in?” Crowley asked Muriel breathlessly as he strode into Aziraphale’s ante-room at just past 9 the next morning.

Muriel looked up in surprise. “Mr Crowley! You don’t have an appointment?”

“No I.. I really need to speak to Az.. Mr Fell.”

“Hmmm.” Muriel stifled a smile and lifted her phone. Crowley got the impression this wasn’t the first time a singleton in crisis had turned up unannounced seeking Aziraphale’s help.

“Yes, Mr Fell. Mr Crowley is here. No, he doesn’t have an appointment. Mmhmm. Yes.”

Crowley squirmed.

Muriel put the receiver down as the door behind her opened and Aziraphale stepped out. “Crowley! This is a surprise. Do come in my dear. Muriel? Tea and coffee, please. The usual.”

Crowley sighed with relief at the sight of soft blonde hair and a velveteen waist coat. He breathed in the comforting smell of wood polish and tea mixed with Aziraphale’s familiar cologne, and the tension that had built up during his perfect date with perfect Luke fell from his shoulders. The door had barely clicked shut behind them when Crowley had pulled his sunglasses off. “I fucked up.”

Aziraphale raised an eyebrow and gestured towards the tea table. “After you.”

Aziraphale sat, his hands folded in his lap expectantly, while Crowley threw himself into the wingback on the other side and groaned.

“I admit I hadn’t expected to hear from you this early on a Saturday.” Aziraphale prompted, when Crowley had just sat askew in the chair for a few minutes without saying a word. Muriel had been and gone and the smell of good coffee and Earl Grey wafted up at them.

Crowley flopped forward and set his forehead on the table with a clunk. A teaspoon rattled in a saucer.

“Is something the matter?” Aziraphale asked gently. Crowley could hear Aziraphale was trying hard not to be amused by his theatrics. Crowley grunted in reply.

“Did your date with Luke not go well?”

“Went great.”

“Wonderful. Would you like me to…. see if Luke wants to see you again…?” Aziraphale’s voice rose at the end as he tried to hazard where the problem was, while looking at the top of Crowley’s head.

Crowley lolled himself backwards. “He asked already. Said yes.”

“Oh! That’s marvellous!” Aziraphale gave a pleased wiggle. “I can’t say I’m surprised. Though Luke is one of my least well-behaved clients. He knows full well I negotiate first and second dates.” He tutted good-naturedly, but his eyebrows pulled together as he took in Crowley’s despondent expression. “I’m sorry but… I can’t gather from what you’ve said where the problem is.”

“It’s Luke!” Crowley waved his arm. “He’s perfect.”

Aziraphale beamed, but it soon started to dim as his eyes travelled over Crowley’s face. “And that’s not… good?”

“No! I mean.. yes! gah!” Crowley closed his eyes and pinched the top of his nose.

“If he’s perfect—” Aziraphale began, but Crowley cut him off with an exasperated:

“Exactly!”

“Exactly!” Aziraphale agreed. Then frowned. “What does your exactly mean, exactly? I feel like your exactly and my exactly are different exactlys.”

Crowley stared up at the ceiling, looking for inspiration in the plasterwork around the cornices. Eventually, he muttered, “I mean…. He’s too perfect. Too… funny. Too confident. Too handsome. Too put together. He doesn’t have any… like…" Crowley thought back to his conversation with Luke the night before, ."..quirks to him.”

“Quirks.”

Crowley looked back down. “Yeah, y’know, little things that make a person unusual. Luke was interesting and everything… but…” Crowley looked at Aziraphale’s puzzled face and went for a different tack. “You wiggle your shoulders when you’re pleased about something.”

Aziraphale blinked and puffed himself up slightly. “And you’re incapable of sitting in a chair normally. What of it?”

“Thass’ m’point!” Crowley gestured to his foot where it was hanging over the arm of the tartan chair. “Luke doesn’t have any of those things. Those are the things that make people... special.”

“Or intensely irritating.” Aziraphale countered reasonably. “And besides, Luke might have quirks. For all we know he might sleep in his socks.”

“That would be instant dismissal.”

“Well obviously. The point is you’ve only had one dinner with the man. Perhaps his quirks are yet to be revealed.”

Crowley ignored Aziraphale's magic-show jazz hands when he said 'revealed'.

“Angel, I could name three of your quirks within ten minutes of meeting you. I spent a whole evening with Luke. He’s… quirkless.”

“That isn’t a word.”

“It’s the opposite of quirky.”

Aziraphale’s eyebrows rose as he stood. “Let me get your notes. I’m sure we didn’t discuss quirky.”

Crowley made a garbled sound and drank his coffee. This file would be the death of him. He considered suggesting they start from scratch with a new file – it could have the added bonus of three more informal interviews with Aziraphale if nothing else.

Aziraphale returned with paperwork and fountain pen in hand. “Can I ask, my dear, if you think Luke isn't quirky enough, why did you agree to a second date?”

“Because.. he put me on the spot.” Crowley said quickly, wincing into his cup. “And I thought I should. I said no when he asked me up to his flat so thought I ought to at least… y’know.” He winced again at Aziraphale’s raised eyebrows. “Like I said, I fucked up. And I know he's a real catch. This is my third try. I’m not going to get any better than Luke bloody Morningstar, investment big shot.”

“Crowley.” Aziraphale’s gentle tone had Crowley’s shoulders slumping. He had been worried his dating guru was going to be cross with him, or worse, disappointed. But of course he wasn’t. He radiated compassion and Crowley soaked in it like a warmth bath, sliding down further in his chair and trying not to pout too much.

“My dear. We’ve already discussed this. There is no correct timeline for this process, you don’t have a limited number of tries. You keep looking until you find your soul mate. And you certainly shouldn’t agree to a date just because you feel obliged.” He tutted. “This is why I insist on brokering second dates. Rule breaking aside, however, I really did think Luke was going to be a good fit for you.” Crowley watched as Aziraphale opened the dreaded file, notes on what Crowley had said he was looking for in a man coming back to haunt him. Aziraphale continued:

“When we first met and we talked about what you were looking for in a man, and the future you envisaged. Do you recall? You said you’d want to be with someone like you, with a similar background and interests. Someone who liked doing the same things as you, who was laid back, not complicated..”

“Yep. Sounds about right.” Crowley sighed, already knowing where Aziraphale was going with this.

“Hmm. And then you met Joshua Dagon and Eric Harper, and we adjusted the brief. You wanted someone not exactly like you.” Aziraphale had his head down as he read the notes on his lap, and Crowley was distracted by how the morning light coming through the window made his curls shine. He didn’t feel like talking about his inability to find the right man anymore, and wondered if Aziraphale could be tempted to a late breakfast. Aziraphale was still talking, though. “You enjoy differences, you like debate but not looking for someone combative… you want straightforward but not bland.. confident but not boorish, challenging…”

Crowley caught up with what Aziraphale was saying and winced again. “You’re painting a picture of Luke, aren’t you.”

Aziraphale finally looked up. “Well, yes. He has all of this in spades.”

“He’s just… not right.” There. Crowley had said it out loud, and felt baffled and relieved in equal measure.

Aziraphale took a sip of his tea and made thoughtful “hmm” sounds. “Is there a lack of physical chemistry? Luke is rather good looking, but it doesn’t always follow—”

Crowley waved his hand “Meh yeah he’s hot. My type I guess.” His eyes lingered on Aziraphale and drew the (very large) physical differences between the two men. There was a squirmy feeling in his stomach that had started to become uncomfortable, but he couldn’t work out why. Aziraphale was unaware of the scrutiny, his blue-grey-hazel what colour were they anyway? eyes fixed in the middle distance as he ruminated.

“Have you considered,” he said eventually, “that what you think is your type, isn’t your type at all?”

“Err… I don’t follow.”

“Well. After the first two candidates I selected for you didn’t fit the bill, I adjusted my choice based on your feedback. Luke is already quite a departure from what you first described as your ideal man a few weeks ago. And yet you seem to have moved the goalposts once again,” Aziraphale lifted a hand at Crowley’s whine, “and that is perfectly within your prerogative, my dear. I have given a lot of consideration--” Crowley watched as Aziraphale seemed to be choosing words carefully. “--to what might be behind this problem. I thought it might be down to my... down to me, but now I think perhaps we need to go back to basics." Aziraphale gestured at the open file. "Have you ever had a partner with these qualities? Do you actually get on with people like this, as friends, colleagues, old boyfriends?”

Crowley let out a few consonants, which Aziraphale rightly interpreted to mean not exactly. He gave a thoughtful nod and went on:

“I think, my dear, that you may have described someone you assumed you would like. Perhaps even someone other people would expect you to like. And then when you experience them ‘in the wild’ as it were, you’re realising you don’t. Like them, that is.”

“Well if I don’t know what I like how the bloody hell am I, or you, actually, supposed to find the man for me?”

“Well, you, we, can improve your chances of finding the right person by looking in the right ballpark, as it were. But there will always be an element of the unexpected, which you’ll uncover through trial and error. It’s not a science. You can’t put a set of numbers into some ‘app’ and get the right answer. Love is just…. ineffable. There’s no algorithm for that.”

Crowley quirked an eyebrow. “Ineffable.”

“Yes, it means…”

“I know what it means, Angel. I’ve just never heard anyone use it in a sentence. Though I’ve never heard anyone use ‘tickety-boo’ either. Or ‘smashing’. Or ‘scrumptious’, for that matter.”

“Well I’ve never heard anyone use 'ngk' to mean 40 different things, but here we are.” Aziraphale replied snippily, and Crowley grinned back at him.

“Ok.” Aziraphale took a deep breath, which he did whenever Crowley was testing his patience. It made Crowley’s grin only spread wider. “Let’s try this. Close your eyes. Go on.”

Crowley rolled his eyes first to lodge complaint, then shut them obediently.

Aziraphale continued: “Imagine… a romantic dinner table. You’ve had good conversation, it’s been easy, natural, you’ve been yourself. You’ve bickered – I mean, debated things – amiably, been a bit silly. You've laughed - or rather, been 'charmed' by eachother's quirks. You’ve finished off the wine, and now you’re going home, together, because you live together. Tomorrow you’ll make breakfast together, and have a lazy morning. Now. Open your eyes. Who do you see?”

“You.”

Aziraphale scoffed. “You fiend, I don’t mean literally. I mean in your mind’s eye. Who do you see sitting opposite you as your future partner?”

Crowley had said it without thinking, but it had flicked a switch in his head.

He took in the gentle, soft, twinkly eyed blond looking at him expectantly. The man he had nothing in common with. He didn’t like blondes. He didn’t like bitchy. He didn’t like fussy. He didn’t even like quirky. But he really, really liked Aziraphale.

“You.” He said again, tipping his head slightly as he looked – properly looked – at the depth of colour in Aziraphale’s eyes, how the blonde eyelashes swept over his cheeks as he began to blush. How the top lip tipped up in sympathy with the tip of his nose. He was gorgeous.

“It's you, Angel."

Aziraphale's eyebrows pulled together. "I don't follow."

"Our three... interview things were the best dates i've ever had. The ones that came after didn't even come close. The men didn't come close. All the feedback..." Crowley rubbed the back of his neck and smiled wryly. "I've just been looking for you."

Aziraphale's eyes were almost perfectly round, a deer in headlights. The blue was shining in his very pink face. He opened and shut his mouth before he stood abruptly, tugging at the bottom of his waistcoat. “I… um… well.” He turned and walked back to his desk, putting Crowley's file down and hovering there, keeping his back to the tea-table. “That’s rather….”

"Ineffable?" Crowley suggested, then winced as he saw Aziraphale's back straighten slightly. Ah, shit. Now he’d bloody done it. Aziraphale had served up three stellar bachelors on a plate, and Crowley had gone and fallen for the waiter, so to speak. But Aziraphale wasn’t on offer. He never had been. And now he’d embarrassed the man by opening his mouth and blurting it all out before engaging his brain.

This must happen a lot, though, Crowley thought as he sighed internally. Aziraphale was charming, sophisticated, interesting, and boosted people’s confidence for a living. Of course his clients would be smitten. He was a bloody catch. It was just a mystery why it’d taken Crowley three amazing dates (followed by three disastrous ones) to realise it.

Aziraphale was still standing with his back to him. Crowley pulled himself out the wingback with a muffled groan, taking a step towards Aziraphale and opening his mouth to apologise. But Aziraphale turned at the noise and lifted a hand. Crowley snapped his mouth shut.

“Would you… that is…” Aziraphale cleared his throat and seemed to draw himself up. He folded his hands in front of his waistcoat and held Crowley's gaze. “Crowley. I would be honoured if you would have dinner with me. This evening, if your diary permits.”

Crowley felt time stop again. He saw himself, and Aziraphale, and a future he'd never imagined. Two busy lives, adjusting their diaries to have quality time together. A cluttered kitchen and too many books. Aziraphale wiggling and sighing over crepes at the breakfast bar, tutting over Crowley's manners. Mornings at Kew gardens and afternoons book shopping. Tartan accessories spoiling Crowley's black on black aesthetic. Bickering over what to watch on TV and sleeping late. It was perfect. Or, rather like Aziraphale himself. Perfectly imperfect.

Aziraphale was still looking at him, his eyes filled with a tender vulnerability Crowley hadn't seen before, and it made something twist in his chest.

“Yes. Yes, I’d love to.”

The smile on Aziraphale's face appeared like a sunrise, a full twinkle and dimple affair that lit the room and made Crowley’s aching heart trip over itself and set off at a gallop.

"Marvelous" Aziraphale murmured. Crowley couldn't help grinning back.

After far too long a pause where the two men simply beamed at one another, Aziraphale cleared his throat. “Could I tempt you... to oysters at the Ritz?"

Crowley raised an eyebrow. “It's Saturday, can we get in without a reservation?”

"I believe a table for two has just miraculously become free.” Aziraphale looked down and straightened his cuff, aiming for casual. Then he noticed Crowley's eyes narrow suspiciously at him. "Well, the maître d' is a personal friend.” He muttered by way of explanation, with a conspiratorial wink.

Crowley hooted with laughter, and, after only a moment's hesitation, reached for Aziraphale's hand. “Of course he is Angel. Of course his is.”