Chapter Text
The night in the bookstore was, as always, peaceful. Outside, the city slept beneath a cloudy sky, and inside, only the ticking of the wall clock, the hiss of the wind against the glass, and occasionally, the purring of Jim, the gray cat who had claimed Aziraphale’s reading chair, could be heard.
The owner of that sanctuary of books had just poured himself a cup of tea when a crash made him jump. A dry, unmistakable sound—porcelain and wood breaking on the floor below.
“Oh, Jim…” he murmured, pursing his lips in annoyance. The little cat had the unhealthy habit of leaping onto the shelves as if they were cliffs, knocking down volumes that Aziraphale had carefully arranged. He had forgiven him before when he ruined a leather-bound edition of Dickens, and even smiled resignedly when another day he sent a Charlotte Brontë tome crashing to the floor. But if he now dared to get clever with his precious Austens, there would be no mercy.
But then the noise changed. It was not a playful cat’s knock, but the unmistakable creak of furniture being dragged and footsteps. Nervous footsteps of someone who shouldn’t be there.
The bookseller felt a shiver run down his neck. He turned slowly toward the kitchen, and his hands went straight for the most formidable weapon within reach—the cast-iron pan of Grandma McFell (may God have her brutally honest soul in glory). He lifted it with both hands and took a deep breath.
With stealthy steps, he descended the spiral staircase, careful not to let the steps creak under his weight. As soon as he set foot on the century-old wooden floor, he heard the noises again. From the shadows, he made out a figure, hunched over the shelves, pawing through books as if searching for something valuable.
Aziraphale narrowed his eyes. A thief in his bookstore! In his sanctuary! That was intolerable. He slipped behind the staircase, clutching the pan to his chest, and crept close enough to see the intruder from behind. Tall, slender, with a messy mop of hair glinting in the moonlight, dressed entirely in black, the clothes so tight he seemed painted on.
And beside him, on the desk, lay the posthumous remains of his invaluable gramophone (more sentimental than functional), shattered into at least three different pieces. That ignited a blaze of anger in Aziraphale’s chest.
He didn’t think twice. He raised the pan with all the force he could muster and brought it down on the stranger’s head.
“Avaunt! You foul demon!”
The blow rang out like a bell, followed by a muffled groan.
“Ngk!”
The thief collapsed immediately, hitting the floor with a clumsy crash like a poorly tied sack of potatoes. A couple of books flew from his hands and landed nearby.
Aziraphale, panting, heart hammering, looked down at the body at his feet.
“Oh, heavens…” he murmured nervously. “Did I… kill him?”
He bent down cautiously, checking the stranger’s vital signs.
No, he was breathing. Loudly, too. The intruder’s red hair was tousled over the tiles, and his profile… well, he had to admit, it was devilishly attractive for a criminal. What a waste.
Aziraphale swallowed and wiped his sweaty forehead.
“All right…” he told himself, mostly to give himself courage. “If someone breaks into my bookstore, I can’t just leave them here, free. I have to… tie him up, yes, that. Tie him up until he wakes and the authorities arrive.”
He needed to neutralize the sexy, unconscious, elongated threat lying on the floor of his bookstore.
And he remembered, with a sudden blush, those illustrations he had seen weeks earlier in a book of dubious origin. They showed human bodies wrapped in ropes in artistic patterns, almost like living paintings. Aziraphale didn’t understand the context, didn’t even know if there was one, but they had seemed beautiful, and he had even practiced some of the knots at home, like someone learning to copy ancient calligraphy without being able to read it.
Now, with the unconscious intruder before him, he thought it might come in handy. After all, he wouldn’t be spending the entire night lying on the floor with his eyes closed just… being pretty.
He got to work, fetching some ropes from storage and dragging the redhead onto the soft carpet beneath the chandelier. With surprising skill, he began wrapping his wrists, arms, and legs, admiring the symmetry of the patterns across the stranger’s firm chest (which he, of course, did not admit was attractive nor that he enjoyed the touch).
With each loop, he felt a little less afraid and a little more proud of his work.
When he finished, the stranger was secured in a crossed-rope pattern across his chest, firm yet elegant. Aziraphale stepped back, observing him with a blush of satisfaction he couldn’t hide.
“Oh, yes… very nice. Very secure.”
The redhead groaned again, beginning to wake. Aziraphale jumped, running to his desk for his weapon, clutching the pan to his chest as if he might still need it.
The intruder’s golden eyes slowly opened, and the first word he uttered was a hoarse whine.
“…What the fuck…?”
Aziraphale, still clutching the pan, stepped away from the immobilized body and went straight to the telephone on the wall. With trembling hands he began to dial the emergency number, murmuring a string of phrases to himself.
“This is the right thing… yes, the right thing. Call the authorities, let them take care of this… this miscreant.”
“Authorities?”
The hoarse voice made him start.
The bookseller spun around abruptly. The redhead had opened his eyes fully and was looking at him with a mix of bewilderment and annoyance. He tried to move, but the ropes held him perfectly bound to the chair.
“What the hell did you do to me?” he spat, writhing. “Why on earth am I tied up like a Japanese prostitute?!”
Aziraphale nearly dropped the receiver. His face flamed furious red.
“Excuse me?! A bit of gratitude — if it weren’t for me you’d be lying unconscious on the floor right now!”
“Well, I’d rather be unconscious than… this!” he protested, the cords pulling tight across his chest and arms. “This is shibari!”
The bookseller blinked, confused.
“Shi… what?”
The redhead snorted, a crooked smile on his lips.
“Japanese knots. An erotic practice. The kind that’s used to… you know, get someone aroused. Pretty ties, but ultimately, bondage.”
Aziraphale’s eyes widened, then squeezed shut in indignation.
“Oh, heavens! What an outrage! I… I didn’t… they just looked like artistic knots… curious illustrations in a book on cultural collections.”
“Sure,” the thief raised an eyebrow, his voice dripping with irony. “And it just so happens you also had perfect ropes on hand, just in case.”
“I did not!” Aziraphale retorted, red as a tomato, hand to his chest. “I had… packing twine. It’s soft because my stock is delicate — I was prepared like any responsible bookstore owner. And the book is purely academic!”
The redhead gave a dark, throaty laugh that made Aziraphale’s knees tremble though he would never admit it. Then he sighed and, with a mischievous glint, added:
“Don’t take offense, actually… I like it…” The unnecessary wink was too attractive for Aziraphale’s fragile composure. “By the way… my name’s Crowley.”
The name hung in the air, and Aziraphale couldn’t help but notice it.
“Well, Mr. Crowley,” he said, trying to sound firm though his striped dressing gown and pink rabbit slippers robbed him of authority, “this is a disaster. I’ll have to untie you and call the police immediately... And I’m Aziraphale… nice to meet you... I guess”
Crowley arched his brows, tilting his head slowly, appraising. His eyes shamelessly roved over the pale cotton pajamas, the soft golden nest of curls, the flushed chubby cheeks, the adorable pout of full lips, and the way the robe was cinched too tightly at the waist. He smiled insolently.
“Well… it’s not every day I get arrested by a sexy porn-stud professor stereotype in pajamas. I must admit you’ve got… charm, angel.”
Aziraphale choked on his breath.
“I am not! That’s beside the point!”
“On the contrary.” Crowley tipped his head, the gloom emphasizing the feline curve of his smile. “I like to know who ties me up with such enthusiasm.”
The bookseller put his hands to his head, dismayed. He ignored the thief’s tone — Crowley — and how apparently accustomed he was to this kind of treatment… in far more sinful contexts.
“You broke into my bookstore, my sacred place! And worst of all… you destroyed my gramophone! An artifact from 1910, a collector’s piece, irreplaceable.”
Crowley dropped his gaze awkwardly, his voice losing its mocking edge for a moment.
“That wasn’t my intention… Look, I wasn’t here to cause harm. I just needed a few things I could sell…”
“Was finding a decent job not an option?”
“They just fired me, my office went bankrupt, and I’ve been living off my savings for months — which I no longer have because I’ve spent most of it paying for my pup’s treatment.”
“You have a puppy?” Aziraphale said, moved; there was something in Crowley’s tone, in his beautiful golden eyes, that left no room for doubt. He’d just caught the man stealing his precious books, and yet he believed him.
“Bentley. My only friend. The vet said she needs medication, but I can’t afford it. I thought about giving her up for adoption, but no one wants a sick puppy. If I hand her over like that, she’ll be put down. I— I have a photo in my wallet… if you could—”
“Oh yes, of course,” Aziraphale exclaimed, approaching the thief and taking from his snug back pocket a wallet and the photograph of a beautiful six-month-old mongrel pup: bright eyes, black furr, tongue lolling, utterly adorable.
Aziraphale looked at him skeptically, but in the thief’s golden eyes he found only sincere vulnerability.
With a resigned sigh, Aziraphale returned the receiver to its cradle.
“I’m sorry about your situation, truly… but it’s no excuse. You broke into my bookshop, you smashed my gramophone, and you made a mess. That’s not made right with a few apologies.”
Crowley lifted his chin and, this time, spoke with a surprisingly serious tone:
“Then let me fix what I’ve done. I’ll repair your… megaphone.”
“Gramophone…”
“Yes, that’s what I said, and… I’ll clean this bookstore from top to bottom and put it in order. If I do that, will you let me go without the police?”
Aziraphale pursed his lips.
“I’m not convinced that will be enough.”
That was when Crowley tilted his smile, returning to that feline, daring air that seemed to fill the room. His eyes trained on him, on the pajamas, on the blush spreading across his cheeks.
“Oh, come on…” he murmured, low and husky. “Let me make a counteroffer, and believe me… it’ll be much more… entertaining than having me hauled off to the police.”
Aziraphale drew a deep breath, closing his eyes for a moment as if the answer were written in his own pulse. The phone was still within reach, yet it felt like an unnecessary weight. The alternative was tempting: keep everything secret, preserve his decorum, and at the same time dispense justice… in his own way.
The redhead watched him expectantly, still tied on the floor with that improvised cord. He had the expression of a trapped fox who, nevertheless, kept smiling.
“So,” said Aziraphale, with a firmness that surprised even himself, “if I don’t want to call the police, what do you offer me?”
Crowley tilted his head, his smile crooked.
“Work” he answered without hesitation. “I can repair your prehistoric musical contraption, clean up what I messed, help you with whatever you need here. You can pay me or let me go… although I’d appreciate temporary work… And…”
“And…?”
“I can teach you what I know about bondage, if you like. Not as cheap entertainment, but as a pact. You command, I obey. That would be my punishment. I’ll do whatever you want and take whatever you give.”
The words fell into the room like a spilled inkwell, dense, dark and shining all at once. Aziraphale laced his fingers together, nervous, but his voice didn’t tremble when he replied.
“Are you even willing to… ‘submit’ this way?”
“Angel… between us… I’m a hopeless, hardcore submissive. I just can’t frequent those places for money anymore. But if I can save Bentley and stay out of jail, I’m completely willing…”
“You make me feel like I’m about to abuse you…”
“Not at all. If anything, the opposite… If you think I wouldn’t enjoy the company of a little treat like you… there’s a lot of me that would be delighted to show you.”
Aziraphale burned with bashful fire… He wasn’t used to such brazen flirting in his own home. Crowley had spent long minutes looking at him as if he were a feast of roast beef ribs, but saying it out loud was different.
“If I accept, it will be under my rules. You’ll do everything I say without complaint, repair the damage and have no contact with the police.”
“Deal,” Crowley nodded seriously, though the spark in his eyes revealed a wild enthusiasm, as if he were ready to begin at any moment.
“Good. Then I’d better untie you so you can start tidying up,” Aziraphale said, glancing at the old cuckoo clock on the wall; dawn was only minutes away and the sky was already light. “We could have breakfast first.”
“Or you could leave me in these beautiful knots and start with the fun part, and save the tedious stuff for later…” Crowley said with a lascivious look. “For now, I need your safeword.”
“What’s that?” said Aziraphale, straightening with the bearing of a judge delivering a sentence.
“If at any moment this gets too much, you say it and everything stops instantly. We both need one.” The redhead didn’t hesitate. “Mine’s ‘Apple’…” he said, his lips curling into a playful smile. “Easy to remember, and I like them… they look like your sweet cheeks.”
Aziraphale nodded solemnly and looked him straight in the eye.
“And what will mine be?” he asked.
Crowley studied him for a few seconds, his sharp smile softening into something gentler, almost reverent. And then he said it, with a certainty that disarmed the bookseller:
“Something that doesn’t belong in the context and is easy for you to remember…”
“Then ‘Ineffable.’ My word will be ‘ineffable.’”
Aziraphale swallowed hard, unsettled by the unexpected tenderness of the choice. He turned away, pretending to check the state of the room so as not to show the blush rising in his cheeks.
Finally, he made a decision and knelt in front of Crowley as one might seal an invisible contract.
“Then it’s decided,” he said solemnly. “You’ll repair the megaphone, ¡I mean gramophone! clean the bookshop and teach me… about this.”
Crowley nodded, bowing in an improvised reverence despite still being tied.
“So it shall be, angel. I’ll show you how I should be properly punished… You might even like it…”